by Vicki Delany
The next time I walked through the saloon, Colleen’s father was no longer at his post.
When I carried the money bag upstairs at the end of the night (otherwise known as 6:00 a.m.), I was highly satisfied with the weight of it.
* * *
“I have a new job, Mother,” Angus said the following morning. He’d come to my room to wish me a good day. I was sitting at what passed for my dressing table attempting to arrange my hair in front of what passed for my mirror. Difficult to do without the services of a lady’s maid. I thought of Miss Jennings’ tight plaits and shuddered. “Hold this, will you, Angus.” He gripped a length of hair and I shoved a pin through it. It was highly unlikely any of the boys at Angus’s former school would ever in their lives help a lady with her hair. Angus was learning a great many things young gentlemen of his class were not expected to learn. I didn’t always know if that was a good thing.
I studded the mess of hair in the mirror. Today would definitely be a day for a good hat.
“I have a new job, Mother,” he said.
“Pass me the cream hat, will you, dear. Hold the pins ready. A new job? You have responsibilities to Mr. Mann.”
“I’ll work in the shop in the morning. In the afternoon,” in the mirror, I saw him puff up his chest with pride, “I will be a photographic assistant.”
“Miss Jennings?”
“Yup. She needs someone to carry her equipment when she leaves the studio and to show her around town and introduce her to people. I’ll be able to learn from her. Being a photographer would be a splendid occupation. Don’t you think so, Mother?”
Hardly. More like a fancy tradesman. I did not say so. I’d learned never to pour cold water on Angus’s enthusiasm. It usually served only to stoke the flames. If I may, again, mix my metaphors.
“Have you heard anything further about the police investigation? Into the sudden demise of that unfortunate gentleman on Tuesday?” I studied my reflection. It would do.
“They’re showing the photograph of him, taken post-mortem, around town. That’s all I know. Perhaps I’ll stop by the detachment later, try to find out.”
“It’s none of your business. Stay out of it.”
“Of course it’s our business, Mother. The man died in your arms.”
“Saying my name, yes I know, but …”
“Saying your name …”
“I told you that.”
“What if he wasn’t saying your name?”
“I know what I heard, Angus.”
“What if he was telling you his name?”
“What?”
“You naturally assumed he said MacGillivray, addressing you. But suppose he wasn’t.” Angus’s voice began to rise in excitement. His words tripped all over themselves in their haste to be heard. “Suppose that was his name, and he was trying to tell you it, so he wouldn’t go an unmarked grave. Oh, my gosh, Mother. Suppose that wasn’t his name either, but the name of his attacker. With his last breath, he was giving you a clue! I have to get to Corporal Sterling right away.”
“Calm down, dear. There are no other people by the name of MacGillivray in town.”
“You don’t know everyone, Mother, although you think you do. If he, this other MacGillivray, didn’t frequent the dance halls you’d have no reason to hear of him.” Angus stroked his chin in thought. “He might be a relation of ours.”
“Humph. If he is any relation of mine … I mean, of your father, he’s unlikely to be a cold-blooded killer.”
“Which brings us back to my original thought. He was telling you his name. Because he had been searching for us!”
Oh, dear. This was getting rather out of hand. “Surely not, Angus. If he were searching for us, I am not exactly difficult to locate.” I threw cold water onto his enthusiasm. “He could have walked through the doors of the Savoy at any time and announced himself.” I stood up. “Time to be off. Mr. Mann doesn’t like you to be late.” I presented my cheek for a kiss.
My son ignored me. “He was on the way to the Savoy, Mother, when he was set upon by ruffians. I have to tell the police right away. Mr. Mann always says it’s okay if I miss work on police business.”
He dashed out the door. I had, predictably, stoked the flames. “Now,” I said to myself in the mirror, “you’ve gone and done it.”
I not been married to Angus’s father. His name had not been MacGillivray. That was my parents’ name. I was proud to give my son the name of my own father, whom I had adored — Angus MacGillivray. To the best of my knowledge, Angus’s father was not dead. Although if I ever caught up with him he would wish he was. I had loved Angus’s father — tall, blond, blue-eyed, heart-breakingly handsome — deeply and passionately. He told me he loved me equally.
He abandoned me the moment he found out I was in the family way.
Good enough to seduce, but not good enough to marry.
I felt a stab of pain and glanced down. I’d picked up an excess hat pin and stuck it into the flesh of my index finger. A single drop of bright red blood appeared. I sucked it away.
I never thought it would hurt if I strung Angus a story about his father and our wedding and the tragic demise of my great love only a few short months later and then his heartless family throwing me and my sweet wee babe into the streets.
I didn’t think, as my beloved boy began to turn into a man, I would ever be confronted by the web of lies I’d woven. We were far from England and everyone who had known me back then. If this man, the man who’d died, indeed was looking for me, either because my name was MacGillivray or because his was — or perhaps both — might the truth come out?
Nonsense. I arranged a tendril of hair to fall lightly across my neck. My father was an only child. Even on Skye I had no MacGillivray relatives. No one would be searching for me, or finding me, all these years later.
The man had died with my name on his lips, no doubt only because he recognized me as the well-known owner of the Savoy. No other reason.
Why then had he said Culloden?
12
“Yup, that’s the man. I wondered where he’d gotten to.”
The woman was probably only in her twenties, but already life’s mark was stamped upon her. Her belly was huge and round and she rested her hand under it, trying to take some of the weight. Her hair was thin beneath a tattered bonnet and her dress and apron stained with dirt and grease. Black circles beneath her eyes dragged down her face. The fingers of her right hand were twisted and the skin a mass of puckered pink f lesh. Old burns.
“My man’s away at the Creeks,” she said. “I take in boarders.”
The house behind her was in no worse condition than most.
“May we come in?” Richard Sterling said.
“No need. We ain’t got a parlour and no furniture neither.”
He resigned himself to standing in the street.
Constable McAllen had located the house, by the tedious yet effective process of showing the photograph of the dead man around the docks until at last he found someone who remembered seeing him with someone whose name they knew, and that person, once located, had mentioned Mrs. Wallace’s boarding house.
“His name was Jim Stewart?” Sterling repeated what she’d said.
“Yup.”
“Did he tell you anything about himself?”
She shrugged. “I give ’em a room and two meals a day. I don’t have no call to talk to ’em.”
“He must have talked sometimes. Such as when he was having those meals. You have other boarders, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they talk amongst themselves? Did you overhear anything?”
The edges of her mouth turned up. It looked as if she’d forgotten that they could do so. “Sure they talked. About how they’re gonna make their fortune. About all the presents they’ll buy me when they come back from the Creeks.” She spat on the ground at Sterling’s feet. “My man’s gone to the Creeks. He ain’t come back with nothin’ but,” she rubbed
her belly, “more work to do.
“The man you’re interested in, he didn’t talk much at all. Listened though, he were a good listener.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She shrugged. “Seemed to be payin’ attention, is all. He had a way of putting his head to one side, so you thought he were listening to what a body had to say.”
“You talked to him then, although he didn’t say much in return.”
“Sometimes. When I were puttin’ the food on the table. Couldn’t understand much when he were talkin’ mind.”
“Why’s that?”
“He had an accent, real strong.”
“Where was this accent from?”
She shrugged once again. “England, I recon? Look Corporal, I got work to get to. Bread ain’t cookin’ itself.”
“I’m going to have to have a look at his room. Do you still have his belongings?”
“Room’s paid up till end o’ the week. I won’t be throwing his stuff out till then.” She stepped back. “Last door on the right.”
Sterling entered, McAllen following. The house consisted of one long hallway with a series of doors leading off. No front room or parlour. No carpets, no furniture. The place smelled of bacon grease, cheap tallow candles, and unwashed clothes. The room the woman had indicated was unlocked and Sterling let himself in. No window. A small bed covered by a scrap of blanket — stinking to high heaven — was pushed up against the wall. The trunk beside it took up most of the rest of the space. A single pair of trousers hung by the suspenders to a hook on the wall.
Sterling opened the trunk. Winter clothes, bags of dried food, a few books. “I wonder where the rest of his things are. He had to have brought a lot more than this. Man can’t get into Canada without a thousand pounds of goods.”
“There are ways,” McAllen said, “of getting around the border. If you don’t have the supplies.”
“Or don’t want your arrival recorded.” Sterling picked up a book. An illustrated history of Scotland, well thumbed. It fell open to a page on the Battle of Culloden. An illustrated plate showed a kilted Highlander, strong and defiant, wearing a blue cap, carrying a sword in his right hand, a shield in his left. He faced a line of uniformed troops armed with muskets.
They’d left the door open and heard footsteps in the hall followed by a man’s voice.
Sterling stuck his head out the door. “You there, mind if I have a word.”
“Sure.” The fellow was dressed in a dark suit with a white apron tied over it. A waiter at a better restaurant, probably.
“Did you know Mr. Jim Stewart? Who had this room?”
“Seen him around. What’s he done?”
“Did he tell you much about himself? Where he’s from, where he’s working, that sort of thing.”
“Not really. I’m a waiter at the Richmond Hotel, and I take my meals at work. I don’t have much to do with the other boarders. But I did say hello a couple of times when we passed in the hall. He seemed like a nice enough fellow. What’s he done?”
“Mrs. Wallace said he had a strong accent. Do you know what kind?”
“Scotch. I’ve heard a lot worse, believe me. That bartender at the Savoy? Might as well be speaking Hindu for all anyone can understand him.”
“Did he have a job?”
“Not that he ever mentioned. Sorry, Corporal. That’s about it. We discussed the weather, and I told him a couple of the best places to visit because he was new to town. I suggested going to the Savoy one night for a drink when I got off work, but we never did. Why’d you say you’re asking about him again?”
“Thanks for your trouble,” Sterling said.
“Anytime.” The waiter went to his room and shut the door behind him.
Mrs. Wallace had disappeared.
“Seems like he kept himself to himself,” McAllen said.
“Yes, it does. But we have a name at least.” Sterling balanced the book in his hand. “And we know where he came from, although I doubt that’s worth much. If he didn’t try to make friends with the men, perhaps he was more interested in the companionship of women, if you know what I mean. Get down to Paradise Alley when the ladies are awake and start asking around.”
McAllen muffled a groan.
“Mrs. Wallace,” Sterling called. She appeared at the back door, wiping her hands on her apron. Sweat was streaming down her face, her hair was damp, and she carried a piece of kindling. She’d been working over the fire in the yard, heating water prior to doing the laundry.
“I’ll be sending someone around from the fort with a cart to take Mr. Stewart’s trunk,” Sterling said. “Evidence, I’m afraid.”
Her face fell. She’d been intending to sell the man’s belongings. “What ya going to do with ’em after? Keep it for yourselves, I suppose.”
“We’ll give anything useful to the church. They’ll know of men needing clothes and supplies.”
“I need supplies. My man could use the clothes.”
“We’ll see ourselves out. Thank you, Mrs. Wallace.”
She muttered and went back to her fire. Sterling didn’t fell particularly sorry for her. She had a roof over her head, money coming in, and a working husband. Plenty of women were a lot worse off than that. He tossed the Illustrated History of Scotland onto the bed.
“If I may, Corporal,” McAllen asked as they headed downhill back to town, “why are we pursuing this? The man was rumbled in an alley. The miscreants are bound to be long gone, hiding out or gone to the Creeks. Stewart’s name or that he was from Scotland or what fairy he used isn’t going to help us find them.” Fairy, Sterling knew, was a word for the prostitutes who plied their trade out of the cribs on the stretch of street called Paradise Alley. His father would have considered the name of the street to be pure blasphemy.
“Because I don’t think, although some might disagree, that this was any street brawl or attempted robbery gone wrong,” Sterling said. “This isn’t Seattle or Chicago or even Toronto or Winnipeg. I don’t know the last time a man was set upon by thugs in an alley. Nothing similar has happened since, which surely it would have if we had a thief in town. No, this was personal. And to find out why, we have to find out who this Stewart was. And why he had enemies.”
* * *
“Ray,” I said to my business partner, “do you know much about the history of Scotland?”
“What kinda question’s that?” he replied.
“Just wondering.” I fluttered my fingers in the air. Ray looked at me through narrowed eyes.
“I went to school. All Scottish children go to school, you know that, Fee.”
“Yes, but we didn’t learn much about Scotland.”
“No. I can name the Kings and Queens of England though.”
“My governess hated Scotland with a passion. Her opinion was only strengthened shortly after her arrival when she decided to venture forth because it was warm and sunny. A storm blew up in a matter of minutes. Cold, wet, drenching rain. She got lost and spent many hours wandering the barren hills.” I smiled at the memory. “The earl sent every one of the male staff out on the search. My father found her, a wet, miserable, weeping mess. She’d lost her hat. She never forgave Scotland for that. Miss Wheatley retired to her room for the remainder of the week, and Euila and I were excused attendance in the schoolroom. I don’t believe Miss Wheatley ever dared leave the house again. I miss Scotland, sometimes, Ray. The hills, the heather.”
“Your father was a servant? I always figured your parents for gentlefolk.” Trust Ray to pick out the only damaging bit in my entire story.
“I meant the male staff and the houseguests, of course.”
“All I remember o’ Scotland, Fee, was the poverty. The dirt. The hunger when my dad was out of work. The landlord at the door, and Mum making excuses for why she couldn’a pay the rent. Begging to be allowed a wee bit more time. No, I don’t miss any of it.”
Ray and I were partners. We trusted each other with our livelihood. But we were not
friends. We rarely, if ever, discussed our pasts or hopes for the future. Even during the long cold nights on the trail from Skagway to Dawson City, we talked about little other than plans for our saloon and dance hall. Even here, in Canada, we couldn’t entirely avoid the social gap. I was well-spoken, educated. He, barely literate, rough of manner and appearance.
Outside of the business, we were not confidants. I’d darn well better remember that. What was I doing, reminiscing fondly about my childhood to someone bound to know the social stratification at an earl’s country estate?
“We did,” he said, “sometimes get a teacher who told us a wee bit o’ Scottish history. Why da ye ask, Fee?”
“Have you heard of anyone in town named MacGillivray? Anyone other than Angus and me, I mean.”
He shook his head.
I’d finished doing the day’s accounts and was on my way to the bank. About ten men were in the bar, the norm considering it was not yet noon. Not-Murray was serving. I heard the roulette wheel spin: at least one customer was in the gambling room. Ray was coming in as I was heading for the door, and I asked him the question on my mind. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking all morning about Angus’s theory. That the dead man was telling me his name, not gasping out mine.
I turned to the assembled drinkers. I never could have a private conversation in this town. Everyone always leaned closer to listen in, not using any artifice to disguise their eavesdropping either.
“Have any of you gentlemen encountered such a person?”
They shrugged in unison.
“There’s a couple o’ MacDonalds,” one grizzled old sourdough said, trying to be helpful.
“A fellow name of McNamara works at the Horseshoe,” offered a man, missing the end of his nose. To frostbite, most likely, as he was also missing three fingers.
“Isn’t there a Mrs. MacDonald what owns a ladies dress shop on Front Street?”
“That’s right. And Mary McKay works for Joey Leblanc.”