Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

  Good times.

  “Isn’t that so, Fiona?” said Mrs. Mann.

  “Quite so,” I replied with no idea as to what I was agreeing.

  Angus returned from the temporary house and slipped into his seat at the table. Mrs. Mann got up to prepare his plate, and he dug in with enthusiasm and a hearty appetite.

  “Are you going to tell us what prompted this tardiness?” I asked. Not that any of us, particularly me, kept to a rigid schedule. Still, I did try to maintain some standards.

  “I was helping Miss Jennings. It’s grand seeing things through a photographer’s eyes.” Still gripping his fork, he held his hands in a square in front of his face and studied me. I swatted at them.

  “She has the photograph she took at the Savoy to show you. I think you’ll be pleased. She’s going to drop by this evening.”

  “I hope she’s not going to become a nuisance. Everyone,” I included the Manns in that statement, “becomes a positive fool when a camera shows up. I don’t know why anyone bothered to invent the dratted thing in the first place.”

  “I’m going to make an appointment,” Mrs. Mann said. “I’d like a photograph of Jürgen and me to send to my family back east. To show them how well we’re prospering.”

  Mr. Mann grunted his disapproval. I had no doubt he’d be spick and span when the time came.

  “She’s going to take some pictures down at the waterfront,” Angus said. “We were scouting out locations today. That’s a technical term, Mother, meaning looking for good places to photograph. Perhaps she could photograph the shop.”

  “Not proper,” Mr. Mann said around a mouthful of corned beef and cabbage. “A lady going into dance halls. Men’s homes. Places of business. Not proper.”

  “It’s a new world, dear.” Mrs. Mann beamed at me. “Why look at Fiona. A businesswoman!”

  That Mrs. Mann herself was a woman of business, running a boarding house and a busy laundry, probably hadn’t occurred to her husband.

  I dabbed my lips with my napkin. “I must go and dress.” I began to get to my feet but stopped as Angus slapped his forehead. “Oh, no. I forgot.”

  “What did you forget?”

  “My theory about the man who died, Mother. What I told you this morning. I meant to tell Corporal Sterling when I saw him earlier. I guess I was confused about what he said to Miss Jennings.”

  “What did he say to Miss Jennings?”

  My son’s eyes slid away from my face. “Uh … uh … I don’t remember.”

  “Angus, what did Corporal Sterling say to Miss Jennings that was so shocking you forgot about a man murdered almost in front of you?”

  He gave me a sickly smile. “Nothing important, Mother. He offered to accompany her some evenings, one evening I mean, to the dance halls. Not the Savoy, the other ones. The other one. One of the other ones. To help her with her photography business. As part of his job. Yes, that’s it. To give her a police escort.” He shovelled cabbage into his mouth so fast he began to choke.

  I went to my room to dress for the evening. I had no claim on Corporal Sterling, none whatsoever. I had suspected he was fond of me, but really, that wasn’t a unique experience. I had offered him nothing in the way of encouragement. I thought we were friends. Yes, friends. We were friends. If Richard wanted to court Miss Jennings, who was after all a most attractive unattached woman, I would be happy for him. For the both of them. Very happy.

  I ripped the length of fake pearls off my neck and threw them across the room.

  14

  Richard Sterling was finishing up some paperwork in the detachment office when Angus MacGillivray knocked on the door.

  Sterling leaned back and rubbed his eyes, happy at the interruption. Paperwork never had been his strong suit.

  Angus stood stiffly in front of the desk. Almost at attention. Sterling hid a grin.

  “You have something to report, Mr. MacGillivray?”

  “Gee, how’d you know that?”

  “Policeman’s intuition. Take a seat.”

  “I had an idea, about the man. The one who was murdered.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Angus explained his theory that the man might not have been saying his mother’s name, but telling her his. Or even the name of his attacker.

  It was a good point, and Sterling kicked himself for not thinking of it himself. Mrs. MacGillivray had assumed the man — Jim Stewart — was addressing her. Sterling had not stopped to consider that her assumption might not have been correct.

  “Smart thinking, Angus. But we know he wasn’t telling your mother his name. We found him. Jim Stewart. Mean anything to you?”

  Angus thought. “No. Common enough name, I guess.”

  “He might have been naming someone else, though. His attacker. The name of his boyhood dog. Men say strange things, so I’ve been told, when they’re about to die.” Sterling gestured to the pile of papers on his desk. “This can wait until tomorrow. I like your idea, Angus.”

  The boy sat a bit straighter in his chair.

  “Jim Stewart’s a common name, as you said, but MacGillivray isn’t. I don’t think I ever met a MacGillivray until I met you and your mother. Do you know of any others?”

  “I’ve never met a MacGillivray either. My mother says it’s a well-known name in Scotland. MacGillivrays fought at Culloden.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It was a really big battle. In 1745. The real king of Scotland was some guy named James, but the English had taken over Scotland and sent King James into exile to France. When James’s son Charles, who they called Bonnie Prince Charlie, and his army tried to retake Scotland, the people rose up to throw out the English. It was a terrible battle; my mother says they remember it in Scotland to this day. The English soldiers won and they destroyed the Highland clans.”

  “I saw something about that in a book Stewart had among his possessions. Men in kilts with swords against solders with firearms.”

  Angus nodded.

  “Why does your mother know so much about it? I thought she was English, although her married name’s Scottish.”

  “I guess my father told her. He was a proud Scotsman. Well, I think he was a proud Scotsman. My mother doesn’t talk about him much.” Angus fell silent. Richard Sterling couldn’t remember a day he and his father weren’t at loggerheads. He assumed his father was still alive because his sisters hadn’t written to say he’d died.

  Hard on a boy, though, never to know his father.

  Hard on a woman, to raise a boy to be a man — a good man — without his father. Particularly in a rough-and-tumble town like this one, where prostitutes plied their trade openly, the gambling halls were open day and night, and the liquor never stopped flowing.

  “Did you ask your mother if any other MacGillivrays are in Dawson?”

  “She said no one she’s heard of.”

  Half the men in town wanted to get into Fiona MacGillivray’s favour. If anyone could claim to be a long-lost relative of her late husband, chances were he’d be quick enough to come forward.

  “I guess I haven’t helped much then, have I, sir?”

  “You’ve helped a great deal. Reminded me not to take what witnesses assume as gospel truth for one thing.”

  Once he’d found the identity of the murdered man, Sterling had figured he’d be well on the way to apprehending the person or persons responsible. But that didn’t seem to be happening. The man didn’t have a job, not one they could find. McAllen said Stewart wasn’t known to the ladies who plied their trade in the cribs of Paradise Alley, and it was unlikely any of the higher level of prostitute would come forward to voluntarily claim a relationship.

  McKnight was pressing for an arrest. Any arrest. The citizens, he informed Sterling, were not happy at having a murderer on the loose. Sterling wasn’t happy about it either, but he refrained from telling the inspector so. McKnight wanted to see an American arrested, remind the newcomers flooding over the border exactly who was in charge here. He
stopped barely short of ordering Sterling to find a suitable American, any suitable American, to haul in front of a judge.

  “I’m going to get another copy of the man’s photograph made,” Sterling said. “You’re trotting around town after Miss Jennings, perhaps you can show the picture at the same time.”

  “That would be grand, sir. But do you think Miss Jennings would want me showing that picture — of a dead man — to her potential customers?”

  “I’ll have a word with her myself. Remind her that in the Dominion everyone is expected to co-operate with the police. Didn’t she say she was planning to go to the Savoy this evening?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sterling got to his feet. He took his hat down off the shelf.

  “Uh, sir.” Angus shifted in his seat. The boy looked most uncomfortable.

  “Angus?”

  “Do you think the Savoy’s the best place to … to uh … go in search of Miss Jennings?”

  “Why not? If she’s there.”

  “My mother’s there also.”

  “So I would expect.”

  “Sir, Miss Jennings is a nice lady and all. But … but …”

  “Spit it out, son. Is there a problem with Miss Jennings?”

  Angus jumped to his feet. “No, sir. It’s just … I thought you and my mother … someday.” He fled. The outer door slammed shut behind him.

  Sterling let out a long sigh. He could guess what Angus was thinking. He didn’t want to hurt the boy. But some things couldn’t be helped.

  He set off for the Savoy. Any opportunity to be in the company of the charming and pretty Eleanor Jennings.

  * * *

  I studied the contents of my wardrobe. Pathetic. A handful of day dresses that would never do for evening. The impractical white muslin was clean and pressed, buttons replaced, shoved to the very back. I wasn’t yet ready to wear it again.

  The red silk gown I was tired of already, I’d worn it so often. I took out a green skirt and blouse ensemble and studied it. The bodice was rather nice, although a mite loose as I’d lost weight over the long winter of near starvation. It had an abundance of sequins and the shoulders were trimmed with ribbon in a darker shade of green. I’d recently been told I should never wear green as it didn’t suit me. Tonight, it would have to do.

  Tomorrow, I would go in search of a dressmaker and order a new gown. Blue would be nice. I didn’t own much that was blue. Other people, Miss Jennings for example, might think it suitable to wear practical garb at all hours of the day or night. I did not. Having to manage without a lady’s maid since leaving Toronto, I’d had to reduce my standards somewhat and make some adjustments to my wardrobe. No hooks down the back, minimal number of buttons on the sleeves.

  Grumbling to myself I began to dress for the evening.

  I arrived at the Savoy in high dudgeon. I had politely stepped to the side of the boardwalk to allow an older woman to pass, and one of Joey LeBlanc’s wretched whores had “accidently” shoved me off. Directly into a puddle that contained, I feared, more than good Yukon mud. There had been, as I recalled, a dead dog lying in that section of the street this morning. My boot was caked in muck, the hem of my dress filthy, and I sensed a somewhat acrid odour following me as I continued on my journey.

  I was late and the musicians were coming outside as I arrived. They, except for the piano player for obvious reasons, carried their instruments. The banjo player strummed an opening cord, and the trumpeter bellowed into his trumpet. The caller cleared his throat. Men stopped their restless wandering to watch.

  I plastered a radiant smile onto my face and sailed through the doors. No matter what sort of foul mood I might be in, the sight of my place — my own empire — never failed to lift my heart. The saloon was packed and Ray and his men were fully occupied pouring drinks and weighing gold dust. Patrons streamed through the doors into the back, heading for the dance hall. A good many of them wouldn’t manage to make it all the way and would end up spending the evening in the gambling room, dropping money into our coffers.

  Eleanor Jennings had arrived before me. She stood against the wall beside the water barrel, surrounded by men. The musicians finished and strode back into the building, heading for their places at the side of the stage. They would play a brief song to warm up the audience. The audience, many of whom came every night, didn’t need warming up, but I thought we needed some sort of an introduction to the evening’s festivities.

  “There you are, Fiona,” Miss Jennings said, catching sight of me and breaking away from her circle of admirers. “May I call you Fiona?”

  I considered saying no, but decided there was no need to antagonize the woman. These North Americans could be scandalously informal at times.

  As was her dress. Anyone might take her for a percentage girl were it not for the way her eyes were always moving, showing an interest in everything around her. For a moment I found myself almost liking her, thinking perhaps we could be friends.

  I remembered Angus telling me Richard Sterling was paying attention to her. Not that I minded in any way if Corporal Sterling found a lady attractive. Absolutely none of my business. It lessened my regard for Miss Jennings to discover that she, like all the others, was only in Dawson to find a man to marry.

  That was it. We could not be friends if I did not respect her.

  I smiled at the lady. “My son tells me he had a most enjoyable day being your assistant.”

  “Angus is a remarkable young man. Intelligent, capable, and also kind. You must be very proud.”

  Perhaps we could be friends after all.

  “I’m here to ask a favour of you, Fiona. But first, I thought you’d like to see the photographs I took.”

  She carried a large flat leather case. The assembled men pressed forward to get a better look. Eleanor pulled two sheets of stiff paper out of the bag. I found myself leaning closer also.

  The photograph was a mite dark, but still excellent. Irene looked enticing, and the contrast with the innocent-looking young Colleen was striking. The other dancers almost faded into the background, yet they were still there, functioning as accessories, props. A little something for those who weren’t lucky enough to get a turn on the dance floor with the main attraction.

  “This is absolutely splendid!” I said, not even trying to hide my enthusiasm. “It will make a perfect advertisement. Ray! Ray, do come and have a look at this.” The men sifted aside to create a narrow corridor so Ray could squeeze through. Count Nicky, in his immaculate suit, clinging to his glass of whisky, managed to follow before the gap again snapped closed.

  “That is good,” my partner said. “Irene looks …” He was simply lost for words. Not that Ray ever had many to spare in any event.

  “You took another picture?” I asked.

  She showed it to me, saying, “Not quite as good, I fear.”

  It was an adequate portrait, but nothing as special as the first. “May I keep these?” I asked.

  She nodded. “If you approve, I’ll print a few more, which you can hang in various places around town. I’ll charge my regular fee. The negatives belong to me.”

  I didn’t know what negatives were, but they didn’t sound worth much. “The girls will be very pleased. You might get some further business out of this, Miss Jennings.”

  “Please, call me Eleanor.”

  “Eleanor.”

  She looked at the crowd of men, straining to get a glimpse of the photograph. “I’ll be available in the mornings for private appointments. Should any of you gentlemen wish a portrait to send to your loved ones, you will find my rates very reasonable.”

  More than one of the onlookers told his friend he was thinking of doing so.

  “Bar’s still open,” Ray reminded the audience. “Sounds like the show’s starting.”

  The men began to drift away. Empty glasses needed filling and seats awaited them in the dance hall, from where came a roar of laughter. I hoped the audience was laughing at the antics of Roland the Ma
gnificent, not because some drunk had cracked his head open trying to mount the stage. Count Nicky bowed stiffly to us and made his way to the gambling tables.

  “I’ll develop the pictures tomorrow,” Eleanor said to me. “They’ll be ready for someone to pick up on Sunday.”

  I shook my head. “Monday. No one will risk a fine or worse by going to your place of business on Sunday.”

  She lifted one eyebrow. “The law’s that strict?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “This really is a foreign country.”

  “You said you need a favour?” The majority of our audience had departed leaving us with some semblance of privacy.

  “I’d like to meet Inspector McKnight. I understand he comes here some evenings to watch the show.”

  “He does. Why do you want to meet him?”

  “I’ve a mind to photograph the fort and the men. I suspect I need official permission.”

  I lifted my hand and snapped my fingers. Joe Hamilton hustled over.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Is Inspector McKnight in the audience tonight, Joe?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he is. Front row centre, like usual.”

  “Thank you.” Joe beamed at me with the usual scent of rotting meat emitting from his mouth before heading back to his duties.

  “The show will go on until midnight,” I said to Eleanor. “The inspector doesn’t usually stay until the end, but he might on occasion. I’ll alert you to him when he leaves, but I won’t interrupt the show. You’re welcome to find a seat yourself, although the company might be a bit too close for comfort.” Some of the men, I didn’t need to say, did not always conform to strict standards of hygiene. I’d sometimes been unfortunate enough to observe fleas leaping from one unwashed head to another.