Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

  “I believe she has potential. If she does a respectable job tomorrow I’ll add her to the programme.”

  Not-Murray stopped in the act of stacking clean glasses to listen in.

  Mr. Sullivan stroked his beard, deep in thought. I wasn’t going to stand here all morning waiting for him to speak. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sullivan.” I half-turned.

  “Not sure about that,” he said. “I don’t want my girl putting on airs.”

  How I hated negotiating with husbands and fathers. “There will be an increase in her wages. If she does get the spot that is.”

  His blue eyes glittered. Or it might have been the flicker from the kerosene lamp on the wall opposite. “I don’t want my girl going onto the stage. Ain’t respectable. Won’t say we can’t use the money, though.” He shook his head.

  “Be that as it may, Colleen is on the stage. I’m simply offering her an opportunity for advancement. The decision, I believe, should be left up to her. She’s old enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Not-Murray had put down the glass and wasn’t bothering to pretend he wasn’t interested in our conversation.

  “English are you?” Sullivan said, apropos of nothing.

  “Most certainly not. My late husband’s name, as you know, is MacGillivray. I myself was born in the Highlands.”

  “I guess that’s okay then,” Sullivan said. What my being English or not had to do with the employment of his daughter, I did not know. But men were always looking for excuses to do what they wanted to do in the first place. He drained his glass and handed it to Not-Murray who dutifully topped it up.

  “Colleen will be a great asset to the show,” Not-Murray said.

  I glared at him. He did not take the hint and return to his chores.

  Mr. Sullivan grunted. “Long as she doesn’t have to sing ‘God Save the Queen,’ though. I won’t have that.”

  Personally, I didn’t give a flying fig what Mr. Sullivan would have or not. “Good day,” I repeated. I headed for my office. Not-Murray followed.

  “Mrs. MacGillivray,” he cornered me at the bottom of the stairs, “is that true? You’re offering Colleen a song?”

  “If I said it, young man, then it is true.”

  He coloured. “Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean …”

  “What did you mean?”

  “That’s real smart of you. Colleen’ll do a great job. The customers like her. I’ve had a couple of fellows come in and want to meet the girl in the picture.” He pointed to the window, where our advertisement photograph was displayed.

  I studied Not-Murray. His name, I’d finally learned, was Edward. Eddie, the other employees called him. I continued to think of him as Not-Murray simply because that was how I’d first identified him. I took little interest in the male employees, which was Ray’s domain. Not-Murray, Eddie, was young, probably not much out of his teens. His face was shiny and scrubbed, his hair neatly combed, his eyes wide and clear, and his multitude of teeth were in good condition.

  I hid a smile. Clearly Colleen had one admirer. “Thank you for your advice.”

  The door flew open and a pack of men stumbled in. Long-haired, wild-eyed, foul-smelling, they had the look of desperation which indicated they’d only just stumbled off the boat.

  “You had best attend to your duties,” I said to Not-Murray.

  21

  A week had passed since the killing of Jim Stewart outside the Savoy, and the investigation was going nowhere. Despite McKnight’s entreaties to find someone to blame, Sterling hadn’t been able to come up with any suspects at all. Jim Stewart had arrived in town on Saturday, found lodging in a men’s boarding house, kept himself to himself, and died in a back alley on Tuesday evening. A week was a long time in Dawson. In seven days a substantial portion of the town’s population turned over, businesses rose to great prominence and crumbled to insignificance, shops and bars changed hands, fortunes were found and squandered.

  The person who’d murdered Stewart was most likely long gone. No doubt he, or they, had planned on robbing the man and things had taken a wrong turn. Shocked by what they’d done, they would have been on the next boat out. With no telephone or telegraph at his disposal, Sterling had no way of contacting the departing boats even if he did have a suspect.

  Still, he’d keep looking, keep asking questions.

  Fiona MacGillivray knew more than she was saying, and he couldn’t imagine why. But she was a woman in control of herself, and if she didn’t want to talk then she wouldn’t. Angus, however, was another matter.

  Every Tuesday, Angus took boxing lessons from Sergeant Lancaster. Lancaster had set up a ring behind the kennels, where he instructed not only Angus but any of the younger Mounties who might be interested. Lancaster had, according to him, been a championship fighter in his youth. That may or may not be true, but he did know how to throw a punch, how to block one, and how to move his feet. Indecisive, incompetent, overweight Sergeant Lancaster wasn’t of much worth to the police these days, but he was respected for his past service and the boxing allowed him to retain some dignity, a reason to think he still had a contribution to make.

  When Sterling arrived at the makeshift ring he was surprised to see not only Angus, Lancaster, and the odd Mountie who might wander over to watch, but also Graham Donohue, Miss Jennings, and Inspector McKnight. Angus was setting up the camera equipment in a patch of dirt. Inspector McKnight observed the scene, while Miss Jennings arranged the sergeant, dressed not in his casual clothes but full dress uniform, against the rope surrounding the ring. His chest was puffed up so high Sterling feared they were in danger of getting a flying button in the eye. Lancaster had waxed his moustache to stiff points and poured about a week’s worth of oil into what remained of his hair.

  “Not much boxing today, I gather,” Sterling said to Donohue.

  “Man’s pants won’t stand the strain if he has to lean over.” Sergeant Lancaster had put on a considerable amount of weight since he’d been fitted for his dress uniform.

  “I assume you have the inspector’s permission to photograph here.”

  “Eleanor called on him yesterday. Had him melting into her little hand. She can be most persuasive.”

  At that moment the woman under discussion turned. Catching sight of Sterling she broke into a wide smile and gave him a cheerful wave. He waved back. Angus scowled.

  She went to stand behind the camera. More Mounties were gathering. Dogs barked.

  “Step forward ever so slightly, sir,” Miss Jennings called. “Lift your head a bit. No, no that’s too much. Don’t forget to breathe.”

  Lancaster stared off into the distance; his face set in lines of grim determination, his eyes resolute and focused. A general surveying his troops before battle.

  Sterling chuckled. “That instrument turns everyone into a blasted fool.”

  “Not that Lancaster needs encouragement in that department,” Donohue said. “Starnes would agree with you. McKnight told Eleanor she can take pictures of the men going about their duties, but Starnes put a stop to the idea of a full-dress parade. He said his men don’t have time for that sort of foolishness.”

  “Excellent,” Eleanor called from under her black cloth. She turned the plate around. “Now why don’t we take a shot full on? Turn and face me, sir.”

  “Anything happening with the Stewart murder?” Donohue asked.

  “Our investigation continues.”

  “Nothing, eh?”

  “Our investigation continues.”

  “Tomorrow’s my regular day to send my copy to the paper. Be nice if I could follow up the story with a satisfactory conclusion.”

  “In that case I’ll get onto it right away.”

  “Richard. This is a pleasure. I hope you’ve come to allow me to take your picture. No charge.” Eleanor Jennings had finished with Sergeant Lancaster and left Angus to gather up the gear. A couple of Mounties were examining the equipment and asking questions. Angus chatted happily, explaining how it
all worked. Lancaster remained by the rope, as if fastened into place.

  “No thank you, Eleanor. I’ve no interest in having my picture taken.” Out of the corner of his eye Sterling saw Donohue’s eyebrows rise at the use of her first name.

  “I’ve got permission to poke about the fort a bit, as long as I don’t go into any buildings. I’d enjoy your company, if you can spare the time.” She looked up at him, eyes sparkling.

  He smiled down at her. “I’d be delighted.”

  Donohue coughed. “About my offer to escort you to the Creeks?”

  “That’ll have to wait. I’ve so much I can do here.” She kept her eyes fixed on Sterling although she addressed Graham Donohue. “I hear dogs barking. Is that the kennels behind us?”

  “We use dog sleds in winter, pack dogs in summer,” Sterling said.

  “Do you have horses?”

  “A few for pulling larger wagons, but not many. Horses aren’t good in deep snow, and it’s hard to feed them over the winter.”

  “I’d love to photograph the dogs. Angus, what do you think? We could get pictures of some of the fellows working with the dogs.” The young Mounties broke into smiles and straightened their backs.

  “When you’ve finished with that critically important business, perhaps you can find time to track down whoever killed a man on the streets in broad daylight,” Donohue muttered. Sterling let the remark pass without comment.

  “Well,” Donohue drew out the word, “some of us have work to do, so I’ll be off. Unless you need me for anything, Eleanor?”

  “Bye,” she said. “The light’s good right here. Do you think you could bring the dogs out, Richard? Oh, uh, Sergeant, you can relax now. I’m finished with you.”

  * * *

  I looked up from my ledger at a knock on the office door. I’d been so wrapped up in the numbers on the page I hadn’t heard footsteps coming my way. Graham Donohue stood in the open door, smiling.

  I put down my pen, glad of the interruption. My rear end was still tender (not to mention colourful), and I’d placed a cushion on my chair. “Good afternoon, Graham. To what do I owe the honour of this visit? You don’t often call in the afternoon.”

  He walked into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He did not take a seat. “I’ve come from the fort. Angus is there, helping Miss Jennings with her photography.”

  “He’s quite keen to learn. He’s muttering something about becoming a photographer himself.”

  “It’s good for a lad to have ambitions, Fiona. I suspect photography has a bright future. She causes quite a fuss wherever she goes, Eleanor I mean. Men fall all over themselves to stand in front of her camera.”

  “Women too. The girls here are talking about nothing else. They’re all wanting to pose.”

  “I’ve seen some of the pictures she’s done of them. They’re good. You should have your photograph taken, Fiona. Although I fear the radiance of your beauty would set the camera aflame.”

  Blatant flattery. I never tire of hearing it.

  “Richard Sterling’s showing her around,” Graham said.

  “That’s nice of him.”

  A badly sprung horsehair couch decorated in fading shades of sage and peach sits in one corner of my office. A soft oatmeal-coloured cashmere blanket is tossed over the back in the event of cool weather. Graham sat down. He sunk further than he might have expected and struggled to remain upright. He patted the place beside him, inviting me to join him. I remained behind my desk.

  “They seem quite fond of each other.”

  “Who?” I asked sharply.

  “Sterling and Eleanor. I would have thought he’d be busy, with that murder still outstanding, but a man can always find time for the things he wants to do, wouldn’t you agree, Fiona?”

  “I’m sure he was ordered to be polite,” I said, my voice sounding sharp in my own ears. “The NWMP wants to put on a friendly face to our American visitors.”

  “No one ever bothered to put on a friendly face for me.” He leaned back, crossed one ankle over his knee, and spread his arms across the back of the couch.

  “I have work to do,” I said. My shoulders were tight and I rolled them to get some relief. I had not intended the action to be a hint, but Graham was on his feet instantly. He came behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. His fingers began to move, finding all the sore stiff spots. Despite myself, I let out a contented sigh and leaned back into the pressure.

  The numbers on the page before me blurred, and the clamour of the constant passing of men, horses, and dogs on the street below and the shouts and chatter of drinkers coming from the saloon under our feet retreated. I sighed. It had been a long time indeed since I’d felt the loving touch of a man (not counting my son).

  Graham’s fingers moved up and began rubbing the back of my neck. Sheer pleasure. “You have the most beautiful hair,” he murmured. “I’d love to see it flowing free.” He threw pins onto my desk. I felt the weight of hair falling down my back. Graham ran his hands through it, massaging my scalp.

  Then his hands were on my arms and he was lifting me to my feet, turning me to face him. He is the same height as I. I looked into warm brown eyes, half-closed. His breathing came in short spirits.

  “Fiona,” he said, in a low deep voice. “Ever since the moment I first saw you …”

  I do not know what would have happened next. Fortunately I did not have to find out. We both leapt out of our skins at a sharp rap on the door. It flew open and Ray Walker stood there.

  “Fee, we need ye downstairs. There’s been an accident.” Only then did he notice Graham behind my desk, my hair in disarray, how close we were standing. “Sorry ta bother ye.”

  “You’re not interrupting anything, Ray. What’s happened?”

  “Helen’s fallen. She mighta broken something.”

  I fumbled for hair pins and followed Ray downstairs at a rapid clip.

  * * *

  One of the boards on the stage had given way as Helen was sweeping. Her right leg had fallen through. By the time I arrived, men were trying to lever her out of the hole, and she was yelling to beat the band. Not in pain, fortunately, but in sheer anger.

  “Get me out of here,” she screeched. “Save me.”

  Two fellows had her by the shoulders, tugging, another was reaching through the broken boards, pawing at her leg, while several others milled about, shouting instructions. Her skirts were pulled up past her knees, showing black stockings topped by a band of flabby white flesh. Her bucket had tipped and dark water spread across the stage.

  “Hold on,” one of the helpers, peering into the hole, called. “Her shoe’s caught on somethin’.” Hands reached in and felt about. Helen bellowed. The men at her top end continued to tug.

  “Stop pulling at her.” No one paid any attention to me. Such was the level of distress.

  I clambered up onto the stage. “Stop that,” I said to the would-be rescuers. “You’re going to rip her leg off.”

  Helen screeched all the louder. I took a moment to be thankful this hadn’t happened during a performance. With the stage full of women in various stages of undress and the room packed with wild miners, we would have had a riot on our hands.

  “Got it,” the man at her foot called. Helen yanked, and her leg came free. A gash ran down the calf, blood dripping. It mixed with the spilled cleaning water, and a pink stain formed a slow stream, leaking through the cracks between the boards.

  “Save me,” she yelled.

  “Doctor’s coming,” Ray said.

  “I can’t afford the doctor.”

  “It’s only a cut,” I said. The leg had moved as Helen did and it was not lying at a bad angle. Not broken. Not even too serious a cut, I suspected. “Lie down a moment and rest.” I knelt beside her and pushed lightly on her chest. She dropped back against the boards of the stage. “You,” I ordered the pair of legs standing nearest, “give me your jacket.”

  “Huh.”

  “For a pillow.”
I rearranged Helen’s skirts to try to conceal her legs.

  He tore his garment off, rolled it into a ball and, crouching down, lifted Helen’s head gently and tucked the jacket beneath. Gerry Sullivan.

  “Murray, run up to my office and get a blanket. There’s one on the couch.” The crowd pressed closer, everyone wanting to get a look. More down my cleavage, I suspected, than at the injured woman. “The situation seems to be under control. Thank you, gentlemen.”

  “Bar’s open,” Ray reminded them.

  One at a time the men drifted away.

  Murray came back, bearing the cashmere blanket. He handed it to me. “Can you try to get up?” I asked Helen. She nodded, and so I instructed Murray and Gerry Sullivan to support her.

  They lifted a wobbly Helen to her feet. I slipped the blanket around her shoulders. She was led to a bench and dropped heavily onto it. She was pale and her breathing ragged, but she had been able to put some small amount of weight on the leg. The bleeding had almost stopped.

  The doctor arrived.

  “The emergency’s passed,” I told him. “Although she’s somewhat shook up.”

  He took Helen’s hand and looked into her eyes.

  I left them to join Ray standing at the back of the room. “Could have been a lot worse.”

  “Aye.”

  “We’ll have to get that board replaced immediately. I’d suggest you check out the rest of them. Can’t have a dancer falling through and bringing the whole line in with her.”

  “Murray,” Ray called, “get over to that carpenter fellow and tell him we have a rush job. We’ll be paying through the nose for it,” he muttered to me in an aside.

  I did not glance at Graham Donohue as I slipped out of the room.

  22

  Richard Sterling showed Eleanor Jennings and Angus around the fort. Not that there was much to see other than a handful of wooden buildings only fractionally better constructed than most of the others in town. The outside of the men’s barracks, the mess hall, the officers’ quarters, and the offices. She wanted to see the jail, but conscious of the fact that Inspector Starnes had said she wasn’t to be allowed into any buildings, they had to stand outside and hope a prisoner would come to the window. Seeing as to how it was the middle of the day, and thus the prisoners were out chopping wood, Miss Jennings pronounced herself disappointed.