by Vicki Delany
“Who’s saying, Graham?” I stopped and turned to face him, hands planted firmly on hips.
“Everyone.” He shrugged. “You know, people.”
“I don’t listen to idle gossip.”
“Since when? Admit it, Fiona. You live for idle gossip.” He laughed but stopped fast enough when he saw the look on my face. “Everyone is also saying that Angus is hale and hearty, although a bit sheepish.”
“In that respect, everyone is correct. What’s the matter with you, Graham? I thought you and Constable Sterling were friends.”
“Sure we are.”
“You don’t sound like a friend. You sound pleased to hear he might be coming into some misfortune.”
“Now why would you think that, Fiona, my darling? I’m simply repeating the news of the day. Like the good newspaperman I am.”
“In that case you’ll be glad to hear that I intend to ensure Constable Sterling is not reprimanded in any way over this incident. The whole thing was clearly Angus’s fault.”
Graham’s face fell. Too late, he tried to hide it by pasting on a smile.
We stepped aside to allow a pair of neatly dressed gentlemen to pass. They tipped their hats to me.
“We can’t stand here discussing this on the street.” I linked my arm through Graham’s, tossed him a flirtatious smile, and poked him lightly in the chest with my free hand. Time to drag Graham out of this strange mood that had descended upon him. “Constable Sterling is joining Angus and me for dinner. Come along. I’m sure Mrs. Mann has prepared more than enough to accommodate another hungry lad.”
“You’re having dinner with Sterling? And Angus?” He wretched free of my arm.
“Good heavens, Graham. What is the matter with you?”
“I’ve remembered an important appointment. Most critical. Pardon me, Fiona, another time perhaps. For dinner, I mean.” He almost ran, scarcely avoiding knocking the gentlemen off the boards.
I was quite fond of Graham. If I were looking to settle down with someone, which is indeed a substantial if, it had occurred to me that I could do a great deal worse than Graham Donohue. He was good-looking, not overbearingly large, intelligent, interested in everyone and everything. He had a good job and got on well, but not excessively well, with my son. And, most important of all, he simply adored me. Of course, most men do. But either they slobber all over me, like the customers at the bar, or want to rescue me from myself, like Sergeant Lancaster. Graham was happy to just be my friend.
I could think of only one reason he had turned against Richard Sterling, the policeman, and was behaving so very oddly.
Graham Donohue had killed Jack Ireland.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
As I walked home to get ready for my dinner guest, I carried on an angry inner debate. Had it been an outer debate, I might have come to blows with myself.
I have to tell Richard what I know about Graham.
Graham’s my friend. I can’t betray my friend.
It’s my duty to inform the police.
Let the police figure it out for themselves. That’s what they’re paid for.
But they don’t know Graham as I do. They might not see the signs of guilt written all over his face.
Justice isn’t achieved through facial expressions. But through evidence. Facts.
My duty.
My friend.
Jack Ireland. Does anyone really care who killed him? Do I?
No.
In the end I decided to keep quiet and see how things panned out. If the police accused someone else, I would report (betray?) Graham. Otherwise, I would stay well enough out of it.
By the time I’d made my decision, I was in no mood to entertain. But habit took over, and I slipped on a gown that was too modest for the Savoy and too delicate for walking on the duckboards through town. So unsuitable was it for any occasion in Dawson, I hadn’t worn it since leaving Vancouver. It was muslin, tiny white flowers dotting fabric of the palest blue, the colour of a Scottish sky on an early spring day, which is probably what attracted me to such an impractical garment in the first place. I brushed my hair, gathered it loosely back with a thick white ribbon and added the slightest touch of rouge to my cheeks. I chewed my lips to bring up the colour and looked at myself in the cracked mirror above the bed. I winked at my reflection as someone knocked on the door to my bedroom. “Come in.”
Angus stared at me. “Yes?”
“You look beautiful, Mother. Like a picture in a book.”
I touched his cheek.
“I’m glad you’re back, Angus.
Don’t ever frighten me again, do you hear?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Will Constable Sterling get into trouble?” My son’s face crunched up in concern, and he looked not a day more than his twelve years. He’d dressed in a clean shirt, washed his face and hands and plastered his hair to his scalp with water. As it dried, the hair was already springing up into wild tufts.
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t. Now, what do you suppose Mrs. Mann has prepared for us? It smells wonderful.”
Sterling arrived precisely on the dot of nine o’clock. Mr. Mann offered him a glass of whisky (lemonade for Angus and me). While Mrs. Mann bustled over the stove, we sat around the kitchen table, there not being anything in the way of a front room, and my private sitting room much too small to accommodate us all. The German immigrant and the Saskatchewan farm boy exchanged general chatter about how fast the town was growing, and Mr. Mann asked what the government was doing to keep the Territory in Canadian hands. Mrs. Mann laid only three places at the table, and although I insisted they join us for the meal, she pushed and prodded her husband out of the kitchen as if she were forcing a suspicious pig to market.
She served the soup, in mismatched bowls, instructed me as to how to present the roast and potatoes, pointed proudly to the freshly baked fruit pie cooling on the counter and scurried off to join her husband in their room.
The knowing look she gave me as she disappeared, full of old-world wisdom and new-world bravado, had me blushing like a schoolgirl. She’d gone to so much trouble, not because I paid her to do so, but because she thought Richard and I were courting.
“Are you all right, Mother?” Angus asked. “Your cheeks are all red.” I would have to have a serious talk with the boy about the inadvisability of drawing attention to another’s awkward moments.
“Wonderful soup,” Sterling said, digging in with enthusiasm.
“What happened, sir?” Angus asked. At least he’d waited until the Manns left the room. “You’re still in uniform.”
“And not locked up either.” Sterling tore a generous hunk off the loaf of dense brown bread and spread on liberal quantities of butter. “Haven’t had butter in a while. I told the Inspector it was all a misunderstanding, and no harm was done.”
“He accepted that?” I asked. The soup was potato and cabbage. Common enough, but with a dab of butter and a splash of milk—fresh milk—added to raise it above the ordinary.
“He said he’d been a lad once, dreaming of joining the NWMP.” Sterling looked at Angus, soup spoon hanging in the air, halfway to his mouth. “He also said he’ll allow a boy one indiscretion. But not more than one.”
I collected the empty soup bowls and served the roast, potatoes and vegetables, feeling quite domesticated as I did so. A proper wee Canadian housewife. But, like Marie Antoinette playing milkmaid at Le Petit Trianon, it was only a game.
Sterling and Angus told me about their expedition to the Creeks, and I was glad that I’d never have to go there— Dawson was dirty enough for me, thank you very much. But I was pleased to hear once again that Ray’s friend from Scotland had confirmed his account of their activities on Sunday. Angus asked about the murder investigation, and Richard said it didn’t seem to be going anywhere, but Angus was not to repeat that to anyone.
To my horror, there weren’t enough clean dishes on which to
serve the pie. We’d used the small plates for the bread. I surreptitiously wiped smeared butter and scattered breadcrumbs off the plates, attempting to hide my sloppy housekeeping behind my body. I need not have bothered. They wouldn’t have noticed if I’d brought in a bucket of sand and scoured the crockery in the middle of the table.
Conversation turned, as it usually did, to people we all knew. Sterling told us that the man who dressed as if in his dreams he wanted to be an Indian fighter, really had been an Indian fighter. But not what most of us thought of in those terms. He had been captured by Indians as a child, raised by them, and remained fiercely loyal to his adoptive family to the point of fighting alongside them against the American Army.
“Wow!” Angus said. His eyes lit up, and I suspected that the Indian Fighter would be facing a long day of storytelling some time soon.
“The excitement over Sam and the saving of the Vanderhaege sister soon died down,” I said, slicing thick slabs of apple pie. The scent of cinnamon rose into the air with every movement of my knife, and I breathed it in, content in my peaceful domestic setting. Apples in the Yukon in June! Truly a miracle. There wouldn’t be much, if anything, left from the money I’d given Mrs. Mann to shop for the dinner.
“Usually does,” Sterling said. “Soon as it’s replaced by something else. Good pie, this.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Collins have been all over the United States,” Angus said. “Did you know that Mr. Collins worked on a cattle ranch in Montana?”
Sterling turned to accept a dented tin mug from my hand. Our fingers met, and he jerked his hand back as if it had touched the hot stove instead. I placed the cup in front of him, feeling the heat rise into my face. The Mountie looked up at me through long, thick black lashes.
Angus chattered away. “I’d like to be a real cowboy. Don’t you think that’d be exciting? They’ve lived all over the United States. They’re from Virginia, but they travelled to Louisiana after they got married. Sam couldn’t get work there. He told me that black men took all the work, ’cause they didn’t get paid as much as a white man. Doesn’t seem fair, to anyone, does it, sir? He fell off a horse and hurt his back so he couldn’t ride any more, then they went to California.”
“Thank you for the lovely dinner, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Fiona, please.”
“Fiona.”
“I asked him why they didn’t go back to Virginia, where they had family, and Mr. Collins said that the war was on, and he didn’t want to have to take sides.”
“You must thank Mrs. Mann for the meal. Not me.”
“I will.”
“That would be hard, wouldn’t it? To be forced to take sides.”
“More tea?”
“No, thank you, Fiona. I’d better be going.”
“If you have to.”
“I do.”
He got to his feet, and I took his hat and coat down from the hook. We walked to the front door, where he stood clutching his hat in his big hands. “Thank you for a lovely evening. May I say you look particularly beautiful tonight. That’s a delightful dress.”
“Thank you.”
“Good night. Fiona.”
“Good night, Constable.”
“Richard, please.”
“Richard. Good night.”
I stood in the doorway and watched him walk up the path. He reached the road and turned to smile back at me, a shy embarrassed little smile. Then he continued down the street.
“Do you know Constable Sterling lived in Saskatchewan when he was a child?” Angus said when I returned to the kitchen. He helped himself to another generous serving of apple pie. “Saskatchewan has got to be the most boring place there is. Remember when we crossed the prairie on the train? Nothing but mile after mile of grass. I bet he was glad to get away and join the Mounties.”
“Good night, Angus. If you finish that pie, pour water into the dish so it’ll be easier for Mrs. Mann to clean tomorrow.” I’d told Ray I was going to take the entire night off, so I drifted off to my room, where I slept the whole night through without even a dream.
Chapter Forty
The next morning, as I left the Savoy to do the morning banking, I saw a familiar, and unwelcome, figure marching determinedly down the street in my direction. I fled back into the saloon, waving at Not-Murray standing behind the bar and mouthing, “I’m not here”. Skirts in one hand, bag of money in the other, I galloped up the stairs and stood on the landing, listening, trying not to breathe too loudly.
“Is Mrs. MacGillivray in her office?” Sergeant Lancaster.
“Nope.” Not-Murray.
“Sure she is,” Helen said cheerfully, walking into the saloon from the gambling hall with her mop and bucket. “I caught a glimpse of her running up the stairs. Must have forgotten something.”
I’d hoped that if I was able to avoid my suitor for long enough, he would give up the pursuit. Clearly, I wasn’t to be so lucky.
I lifted my head high and drifted elegantly back down the stairs, lugging the moneybag.
“Sergeant Lancaster, what a pleasure to see you. Unfortunately I can’t stay to talk, I must get to the bank immediately.”
“I just passed the Commerce, Mrs. MacGillivray, and folk are lined up down the street a good way. No point in you hurrying. I was hoping,” he coughed lightly and looked at Helen and Not-Murray and the handful of early drinkers, all of them watching us, “you could spare me a few moments. For a private conversation about the matter that we…ah…discussed the other day. I’m right pleased to hear your son’s back, by the way. Although if you want my opinion, Inspector Starnes should have drummed Sterling out of the force for causing you such distress.”
“Thank you for the warning, but I never wait in line at the bank. If you’ll excuse me.”
“I’ll escort you. We can talk on the way.” His brass buttons and high boots were polished to a shine the like of which I hadn’t seen since leaving Vancouver.
“Very well.” I looked over my shoulder as the sergeant hastened to hold the door. Helen grinned so broadly, I wondered if she’d deliberately set Lancaster on me. Not-Murray and the customers returned to more important matters.
“Allow me, Mrs. MacGillivray.” Lancaster reached out and tried to grab the moneybag.
I tightened my grip. “Certainly not, Sergeant. The contents of this bag are my responsibility.”
We wrestled over the bag for a few seconds until Lancaster finally realized I wasn’t about to surrender it, and if he intended to take it, he would have to flatten me. At that moment I think he also understood I wasn’t going to accept his proposal either. Colour rose into his face, his shoulders slumped, and some of the shine seemed to disappear from the buttons marching neatly down the front of his red uniform jacket.
“I’ll be on my way, Mrs. MacGillivray. My proposal stands. I hope you’ll be able to consider it one day. I…uh…I admire you very much. Good morning.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” I said to his retreating back. His disappointment had been written so boldly across his face that I felt quite guilty. It was a most unusual feeling, and one I didn’t care for. I’ve always avoided guilt.
I went to the bank. Naturally, I didn’t join the lineup outside, and I concluded my business quickly.
Inspector McKnight was leaning against a cart pulled up to the side of the street, smoking a cigar. A dog, so thin that if I were so inclined I could count every rib, sniffed without much interest at the Inspector’s boots.
“A moment of your time, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
I looked carefully at my watch, more to hide my confusion and to look important than to check the hour. I had slept so long and so well last night I wasn’t planning on going home for my usual after-bank nap.
“I won’t keep you for too long.”
“My pleasure.” I smiled prettily.
He fell into step beside me. The dog followed.
“The killing of Mr. Ireland remains the primary concern of the NWMP.”
&n
bsp; I said nothing. I hadn’t thought Inspector McKnight was accompanying me in order to pass the time of day.
“I don’t seem to be making a great deal of headway. Most murders, you may not know this, are committed by a member of the family.”
“You don’t say!” I put on my shocked-and-dismayed face.
“As Mr. Ireland had no family in Dawson, that line of investigation takes us nowhere. The next thing we do is to try and find out if the murdered man had any enemies.”
I laughed and almost tripped over the miserable dog.
“However,” McKnight said, “it would appear Mr. Ireland had nothing but enemies.”
“He wasn’t a very nice man.”
“So I understand.”
“If you have a point to make, Inspector, please make it. I’m a busy woman.” What would I do, what would I say, if he asked me about Graham? Would I have to go to jail if I lied? I couldn’t imagine myself in jail. The clothes must be simply hideous, and the food doesn’t bear thinking about. Not to mention the constant company of other women.
Ray would look after Angus, I could count on that, but who would look after Ray? I took a deep breath.
“Tell me about Irene Davidson?”
“What?”
“Irene Davidson. The dancer. She’s your most popular entertainer, I understand.”
I stopped walking. The dog also stopped. “Why are you asking about Irene?”
“I’ve been told she was involved with Ireland.” “Well, yes. But that was nothing. One night. Heavens, this is Dawson.”
“There are marriages in Dawson that don’t last much longer.”
I chuckled, assuming he had made a joke. He hadn’t. “Miss Davidson left Friday night with Jack Ireland. She came to work on Saturday bruised and sore. I’ve been told that on the Saturday night before his death, Ireland was physically abusive to her in the dance hall of the Savoy, and that you intervened and banned Ireland from your place. Is all of that correct?”