by Vicki Delany
He walked to the side of the store, very uncomfortable but trying to look as if he were cool and casual and looking for something to buy.
Men’s voices came through the window.
“What are you up to, Donohue? You put yourself right in the picture. I was surprised the inspector didn’t arrest you on the spot. Can’t remember what you were doing yesterday afternoon!”
“You have to believe me. She was standing there listening to every word. What could I say?”
“Who was standing where?”
Angus started to move away from the window. He didn’t like the way the woman’s cat-like eyes watched him. And from what he could see of her merchandise, there wasn’t anything he’d be interested in buying. Unless the good stuff was kept behind the curtain that blocked off half of the room. But one word caught his attention.
“Fiona. Why the hell did McKnight let her stay?”
“It was her office.”
“Do you let women listen in on all your interrogations? Not much of a police force, if you ask me.”
“That was hardly an interrogation. More like a friendly chat. If you have something to say, Donohue, say it. Otherwise you’re wasting my time.”
“I couldn’t tell you where I was yesterday afternoon, not in front of her.”
“Donohue,” Sterling said in a low, warning voice.
“I spent Sunday afternoon with Cracking Kate.”
“What!”
“You heard me. Cracking Kate. In her place. I got there about eleven. I…uh…fell asleep. Woke up around three. Then I…uh…left around four.”
Angus didn’t know anyone named Kate. Seemed strange that Mr. Donohue would spend the afternoon sleeping in a woman’s rooms. In Toronto or Vancouver, her reputation would have been ruined permanently. But things were different in Dawson. He leaned closer to the window.
“You idiot. You’re telling me you frequented Cracking Kate’s crib. She’s one of Joey LeGrand’s whores. Are you a fool?”
“It’s none of your business what I do, Sterling. I’m telling you now ’cause I could hardly say that in front of Fiona, could I?”
The cigar-store woman also edged closer to the window. If her ears could have perked up, like a dog’s, they would have. She saw Angus watching her and touched her index finger to her painted lips.
Sterling’s laugh was mean, ugly, the like of which Angus had never heard from the Mountie before. “You’re right about that. Fiona finds out you’re putting money into Joey LeGrand’s pockets, you’ll be lucky to leave town with your scalp, never mind other more private body parts. You fool.
I’ve half a mind to tell Fiona myself: Joey’s women have got to be the worst-treated whores in Dawson. If you don’t have the pox, you will soon.”
“I don’t need your approval, Sterling,” Donohue growled. “I’m telling you where I was on Sunday between the hours of noon and three. Like your inspector asked.”
“Someone has to talk to Kate.”
“She’ll remember me. Isn’t every man pays for three hours of sleep time. You won’t tell Fiona? This is police business only?”
“I won’t tell Fiona. But I have to tell Inspector McKnight. What he does with the information is out of my hands.”
“Look, Sterling, it was the first time I’d visited her. I had a rough couple of days. Seeing Ireland…”
“Save it for your priest.”
The woman had wiggled her slender body beside Angus, so that both of them were pressed up against the wall. She snorted.
“Shush,” Angus whispered.
“Angus, where are you?” Sterling yelled. He ran into the cigar store as Angus and the woman stumbled all over themselves to reach the centre of the room. Angus admired the merchandise. The woman wiped a speck of dust off the counter top.
“What are you doing here?” Sterling shouted.
“Looking for a gift, sir. For Mr. Walker.”
Sterling grabbed Angus by the arm and almost jerked him off his feet. “I catch you in a place like this again, I’ll have your hide, boy.”
He looked at the woman. She placed the countertop between them. Behind the rouged cheeks, her face had faded to a pasty white.
“You allow this boy, or any other underage lad, across the step again, I’ll have you on charges for corrupting the morals of a minor. Do you hear me, Greta!”
“Yes, sir, Constable Sterling, sir. I weren’t doin’ nothing. He wandered in all on his own. Me and the boy, we was lookin’ at the cigars. Tha’s all.”
“So help me, Greta…”
“I wanted to buy something for Ray, really,” Angus wailed. He had no idea why Sterling was mad at poor Greta. She was just trying to make a living selling cigars.
“Get outside, Angus,” Sterling shouted.
Angus ran. Clearly there was more happening in Greta’s store than the selling of cigars, but right now Angus had more important things to think about: Graham Donohue. His mother’s admirer had visited a Paradise Alley whore?
Sterling caught up with him halfway down the street. “My conversation with Donohue is absolutely none of your business, Angus.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t know how much you overheard, but you won’t repeat a single word to anyone, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That was an official police conversation, Angus. Not to be repeated to anyone else. Not even your mother. Particularly not your mother.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I understand.” “I doubt that you do. But, please, don’t go into that store again. You want to get a present for Walker, I’ll take you shopping, how’s that?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Go home, Angus. You have to work at the store tomorrow, and I’ll be on my way to the Creeks. Waste of bloody time.”
“The Creeks? What are you going there for, sir?”
“Police business, Angus. I’ll be away for a couple of days. I’ll tell you about it when I get back. Now get off home.”
“Good night, sir.”
“Good night, son.”
Angus walked to Mrs. Mann’s boarding house deep in thought. Graham Donohue, his mother’s friend, paid money to a whore. And to make matters worse, if that were possible, to one of Joey LeGrand’s whores. Angus’s mother hated Joey, although he didn’t really understand why. There were plenty of whores in Dawson; you couldn’t be a boy running through the streets without knowing that. One of his friends, Billy Rodgers, bragged to all the boys that he’d had a whore. For free, Billy said, “’cause she’d wanted young meat for a change.” Billy’d puffed up his chest and strutted about like a peacock in the London zoo, and Angus hadn’t believed a word of it.
But what was going on in the cigar store, anyway, that had made Constable Sterling so mad? There hadn’t been many cigars for sale, and the few there looked to be of poor quality. The woman minding the store had been wearing a lot of rouge, and when she’d looked at Angus she had made him very, very uncomfortable.
But then again, lately, a great many women made Angus MacGillivray uncomfortable.
He’d always liked the company of women; women were nicer to be around than men and boys. Some men didn’t like women much. They called them bad names, and laughed at them, and sometimes even hurt them. But not men like Constable Sterling and Ray Walker and, he had thought, Graham Donohue.
Sometimes, Angus wondered if Mr. Donohue would ask his mother to marry him. Maybe he’d take them to live in America. Angus didn’t know what he thought about that. He loved Dawson, untamed, unpredictable; there probably wasn’t another town in the world where boys his age were as free to run as wild as they pleased. All of his life it had been Angus and his mother, only them, together. He hadn’t been entirely sure how he felt about the idea of having Graham Donohue as his father. But now he knew he didn’t want that to happen. It was late, and he was tired from working in the store, and sore from his boxing lesson, and his head hurt from thinking too much.
He decide
d to forget about it for now—he’d figure everything out someday.
Chapter Thirty
“Will you marry me, Mrs. MacGillivray? I offer you a respectable name and a father for your son.” Sergeant Lancaster fell to his knees and grabbed my hands between his. The path leading to my front door was comparatively firm, and not as mud-soaked as most of Dawson. Lancaster wouldn’t find it too difficult to get the muck out of his trousers.
He looked up at me, his eyes rimmed by years of failure and disappointment, and I didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t know what to say.” He struggled to stand, breathing heavily from the exertion. “You are the fairest, most beautiful, kindest woman I have ever met,” he stammered, too embarrassed to look into my eyes. He struggled to say my first name. “F…F…Fiona. I can’t bear to see you labouring in that dance hall for a moment longer. Why it’s only slightly more respectable than a house of ill-repute! You deserve so much better. Mrs. MacGillivray, Fiona, I ask you again: Will you do me the enormous honour of agreeing to be my wife?”
“I…I…I don’t know what to say,” I repeated.
“You need time to think it over. And to speak to your son. I understand.” Sergeant Lancaster stood back. At last he looked at my face. “Take all the time you need. Fiona, my dearest. Remember that children’s opinions can be tainted; they don’t always know what’s in their best interest. I’ll be back on Wednesday for your answer.”
He turned and disappeared into the semi-darkness. Two drunks passed by, their arms about each other’s shoulders, roaring an Irish drinking song into the night, something about someone named Johnny who they hardly knew.
I had until Wednesday to think of a polite way of crushing the old man’s dreams. He had courageously offered to bed (with full church and societal approval) the most desirable woman in the North in order to save her from earning herself a fortune. He sincerely thought he was doing me a favour.
It’s a strange world we live in.
Earlier, after McKnight and Sterling had left the Savoy, leaving a residue of tension and suspicion lingering behind them, Ray had spent the rest of the night bellowing at the bartenders and croupiers as if he were an overseer at the building of the pyramids, and Pharaoh had died prematurely.
The entertainment had come to the usual rousing end; the percentage girls, who didn’t perform on the stage and wore their street clothes for dancing, moved into the crowd seeking out partners, and the performers scurried backstage to change out of their costumes.
Irene descended into the crowd with a huge smile, nodding to her throng of admirers like the Queen on the Horseguards parade.
No crocodile tears for the late Jack Ireland here.
Shortly before closing, Irene walked her dance partner up to the bar. He was properly dressed for a day of pheasant hunting in the Scottish highlands in a suit of fine Harris tweed, pants cut off at the knees, patterned socks, perfectly knotted tie.
It is exceedingly unlikely there is anywhere else in the world where one can in a single day encounter such an assortment of dress as in Dawson, Yukon Territory.
The pheasant hunter ordered a drink for himself and one for Irene. Ray stood to one side of the bar, watching, his eyes and expression dark. Irene tossed him a huge smile and, while her partner dug coins out of his pockets to pay for the drinks, she leaned over to whisper into Ray’s ear. A grin nearly split his face in two. The pheasant hunter reclaimed Irene, and quite properly (she wasn’t the most popular dance-hall girl in Dawson for nothing) she took his arm, eyes wide and moist mouth smiling. They walked through the doors to the back, leaving Ray with a stupid, happy, love-struck smile on his face.
At least someone was happy. My right shoe was digging into my little toe, and I’d laced my corset too tightly.
Finally, closing time arrived. Ray kicked out the stragglers; the bartenders tidied up their bottles; the croupiers closed the tables and stacked chips, and I saw the giggling girls out the door. Most of them had made almost as much money in drink chits in this one night as they normally did in a week.
Murder was good for business. Although not for me. I was exhausted.
“I’m leaving,” I told Ray. “I can’t stay on my feet a moment longer.” One dancer remained behind, sitting at a table in the middle of the saloon. “Do you want something, Betsy?”
“No, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Then why are you still here?” She flushed and glanced at Ray, who immediately turned to Sam and told him what to do to close up. As if Sam had started on the job this morning.
Oh, for heaven’s sake!
“Good night, Ray. Try to get some sleep,” I said, with more than a touch of malice. Nothing worse for business than relationships between the staff—and triangles were the worst of all. “You’re looking quite worn out, Betsy. I’d be happy to walk you back to your lodgings.”
She stopped rubbing at a spot on the table. “Eh?”
“I said that I’ll walk you back to your lodgings. We wouldn’t want anyone to get the idea that an employee of the Savoy was anything less than a respectable lady, now would we?”
“No, Mrs. MacGillivray.” She got to her feet as if her boots were dragging her to the bottom of the ocean. I turned my best full-wattage smile on Ray, the very one that had once had the Prince of Wales’ knickers in a knot. A great deal smarter than the Prince, Ray snarled in return. Betsy and I walked through the dark streets. Night had finally fallen on Dawson, although it would not remain for long. High above, the stars were dim, as the sun had not completely gone away. It had simply dipped its face behind the southern mountains. Although the day had been warm, the night air was sharply cool, reminding us of just how far north we were.
The streets were crowded, and almost every man we passed nodded or touched his hat. I acknowledged every one of them. Sometimes on the streets of Dawson I felt like a toy Angus had had as a small child—a cheap thing that he was inordinately fond of with a head at the end of a tightly-wound spring, constantly bobbing up and down.
“Do you like working at the Savoy, Betsy?”
“Why, yes, Mrs. MacGillivray. I do. I like it very much.”
“Do you like Mr. Walker, Betsy?”
“Yes, Mr. MacGillivray, he’s a fine man. Fair like. To all us girls.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Here we are, Mrs. MacGillivray. This here’s my lodgings. Thank you for walking me home.” We’d arrived at a tiny wooden house, painted white. With a cheerful red door and matching shutters, it was a good bit nicer than many.
“My pleasure,” I said. Betsy started up the walk.
“Just one thing.” She turned around. Her pale, podgy face reflected weak moonlight. “I alone hire and fire the women at the Savoy. If you want to be good friends with Mr. Walker, then you may find alternate employment.”
She blinked. “Mrs. MacGillivray, I don’t know what…”
“Mr. Walker would never dream of interfering with how I run the dance hall. Do you understand me, Betsy?” She swallowed. “Yes, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I turned and walked away, feeling Betsy’s eyes boring into my back. Doubtless she was wishing they were daggers. Stupid cow. Everyone in town knew Ray was besotted with Irene. They could sort that out themselves—and might even be on the way to doing so—as much as I might disapprove. But if Betsy were allowed to continue thinking she had a future with Ray, there would be nothing but trouble. For all of us.
She’ll thank me one day, I chuckled to myself, as I exchanged greetings with the Indian Fighter. No she won’t, she’ll hate me for the rest of her days. I nodded to Mouse O’Brien, stuffing his night’s winnings into his pocket. I really didn’t care what Betsy thought of me, now or in the future; I only wanted peace in my establishment. Irene was my best dancer. If Betsy caused trouble with Irene over Ray, she’d be on the street in a flash.
“Evening, Mrs. MacGillivray.” A man stepped out of the shadows. In London or Toronto, I w
ould have been on my guard, but Dawson was so law-abiding that I habitually wandered through the night streets with my mind halfoccupied.
But not totally.
I stepped backwards, clenched my fists, raised them slightly, and settled into a modified fighting stance—legs apart, knees bent, balancing on the balls of my feet.
“Pardon me, ma’am. I don’t wish to startle you.” He moved into the outline of yellow light spilling from the lamp in the window of a cigar store. Some of these stores were in the business of selling cigars—but for most of them it was a front for an independent prostitute.
I relaxed only slightly and dropped my arms to my sides. I would never trust a man who waits in the shadows. “Sergeant Lancaster. What can I do for you?” He moved closer, and the full strength of the lamplight illuminated his open, friendly features. I wiped my palms on my green satin skirt.
“I noticed you pass by, Mrs. MacGillivray.” He stumbled over the words. “Accompanying that… lady…to her rooms. But there appears to be no one to see you safely home. That don’t seem proper. I’d be proud to offer myself as your escort.”
It’s never a bad move to play friendly with the local constabulary. I smiled, pulling demure from the depths of my repertoire. “That is most courteous of you, Sergeant. Of course you may see me home.” I linked my arm though his. His hefty frame shivered under my touch.
We walked through the streets of Dawson in silence. On Front Street, most of the saloons and dance halls were still open, and light and laughter spilled through the doors. On the hillsides looking over the town and across the river, the occasional lamp illuminated a rough canvas tent. Beyond there was nothing but the dark, impenetrable wilderness, waiting patiently for the day when we would all of us pack up our liquor and mining implements and tents and shops and just leave.
We arrived at Mrs. Mann’s boarding house, and I said my thank-yous and attempted to pull my arm from Sergeant Lancaster’s unyielding grip. I tugged harder. And harder. I am familiar with the softer parts of the male anatomy—beginning with the instep—but before I was forced to resort to violence, he realized that his grip on my arm was most unseemly, and he released me with a murmured apology and a shuffle of big-booted feet.