Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

  “Real name, as he was in a rush to inform us, is Roland Montague-Smythe. Major, British Army.”

  Ray blew out a puff of air.

  “Major Montague-Smythe is here on Her Majesty’s business, looking into rumours of dissent in the territory.”

  “There are always rumours of dissent,” I said. “Gossip and complaining are the life blood of this town. No one means anything by it.”

  “Some do,” Richard said. “Look at Gerry Sullivan and his pathetic remnants of the Fenian so-called Brotherhood. I suspect that might have been some inspiration to Stewart. The Fenians planned to capture Canada and hand it back to Britain in exchange for Ireland. As you may know, that was a prime inspiration for the creation of the Dominion back in sixty-seven. I guess the Fenians didn’t notice, or think it mattered, that Canada is no longer a British possession. Same plan for Scotland? Perhaps. Angus, what are you wanting to say?”

  “Count Nicky. He’s … uh … planning to march a Russian army into Dawson to capture it and trade it to the Americans in exchange for Alaska, which he’ll call New Russia, with him as the head.”

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  “He told Miss Jennings and Mr. Donovan. I was there.”

  “You didn’t think to inform the authorities?”

  “Miss Jennings told me not to. She said she’d give him a letter to the president and he’d be on his way with no harm done.”

  “Miss Jennings again,” I said. “Angus, you can’t keep things secret simply because that woman tells you to. It’s none of her business, anyway.”

  “Actually,” Richard said, “in a way it is. She’s here to keep an unobtrusive eye on potential American discontent. With the specific intention of keeping a lid on it. With trouble brewing in the Philippines, the U.S. government has no interest in a bunch of Americans agitating for taking the Yukon. Not at this time, at any rate.”

  “You’re telling us that Miss Jennings is …”

  “An American spy. The photographer cover gave her ample excuse to wander around town. Taking pictures of the fort, the police, the waterfront. I’ve known that all along.” Richard looked into my face. “I was instructed to … uh … become friends with her. Inspector Starnes wanted to be kept privately appraised of her movements. Eleanor will be leaving the territory tomorrow. Better make sure you get wages owed, Angus.”

  “Is anyone in this place who’s what they seem?” Ray asked.

  “John Turner isn’t,” Angus said.

  “No. John Turner is a Mountie. What we call a plainclothes detective, Angus. His job’s to keep an eye on troublemakers.”

  “You knew this?”

  Richard shook his head. “No. I assumed he was a general layabout like so many others. He was, in fact, also interested in Count Nicky and his rather strange plans. The count, Turner told me, is the one person in all this who is precisely what he says he is. A Russian aristocrat who has some muddled idea of installing a group of serfs in Alaska in a sort of democracy. He, of course, plans to be head of that democracy. He doesn’t entirely understand the concept.”

  “Lunacy,” I said.

  “Madness certainly. But madness unchecked can have a way of bringing about unexpected consequences. Nicky has enough money to buy influence.”

  “Rather a clever idea on Eleanor’s part,” I said, grudgingly. “It’ll take him a couple of months to make his way to Washington and be refused admittance to the White House. By then he might well be distracted by another brilliant idea.”

  “We can only hope. John Turner, as part of his cover, played the obnoxious gambler. I think, Fiona, when you next see him you’ll find him more amiable.”

  “Turner was watching Miss Jennings, also,” Angus said. “He must have suspected her of being more than she appeared.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Uh … just a guess. What will happen to Roland? Will there be a trial?”

  “Probably not, I’m sorry to say. He’ll be sent home with a flea in his superiors’ ear. He’ll claim he acted to protect the country and no one will want the details to become public.”

  “I must admit,” I said slowly, “that I can’t be too sorry to see Roland let off. Yes, he tried to kill you, Ray, but he didn’t, did he? He saved me from that runaway horse, and was injured in the process. You have your suspicions about that, Richard. I can see it in your face. That wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  “No. We arrested one of Joey LeBlanc’s enforcers for knocking around a girl badly enough to put her in the hospital. He let us know, before receiving his blue ticket, that Joey had a way of trying to deal with her enemies. He didn’t come out and say it, but it was implied that he saw the opportunity and took it in expectation of a nice reward if you’d been injured. Roland was probably watching you, Fiona — he suspected you of being a secret Scottish agitator, remember — and intervened instinctively when he saw the impending accident.”

  “Gerry Sullivan?” I asked, filing away the information about Joey LeBlanc. I’d deal with her, in my own way and my own time.

  “He’ll be freed from the charge of killing Stewart, and given a blue ticket. Probably tomorrow. I have to be getting back. We’ve left Roland to stew for a bit, but Turner wants to start questioning him soon.”

  Ray struggled to get out of the clutches of the bad-springed sofa. Angus leaned over and gave him a hand. “Perhaps you should go home and rest,” he said.

  Ray laughed. “Where I come from, my lad, the night would have only just begun with a brawl like that one.”

  I refrained from mentioning that Ray was a considerable amount older than that young man punching his way through the slums of Glasgow. Instead, I checked my watch. “Getting on to midnight. Angus, go home.”

  He didn’t argue. He was lucky to be able to stay to hear Richard’s report, and he knew it.

  “I’ll walk you downstairs, Mr. Walker,” Angus said.

  They left. Angus shut the door quietly behind him.

  Richard twisted his hat in his hand. I smoothed down the fabric of my dress. “Fiona,” he said at last.

  “Yes?”

  “Miss Jennings is …” he coughed “… a lovely lady and all.”

  “That she is.” One with more depth than even I had seen.

  “But, she … I mean, I was ordered to escort her around town.”

  Not exactly an arduous duty, I managed to refrain from pointing out. “Yes.”

  He took a deep breath, threw his hat onto the desk, and crossed the room. He put his hands on my shoulders. My heart pounded. His brown eyes were liquid pools, dark and deep, in his chiselled face. He hadn’t shaved for some time and the stubble on his chin was black. Curls were forming at the back of his neck. “There is,” he said, his voice catching, “only one woman in all the world for me.”

  “And that would be…?” I whispered.

  He bent his head.

  The door crashed open. “Mrs. MacGillivray, you have to come right quick. Irene’s going to make her announcement tonight and she sent me to fetch you. She says you’ll want to hear it.” Betsy stood there, chest heaving with exertion and excitement.

  From where I stood I could hear the buzz rising from below. It was, as I’d observed, approaching midnight. Time for Irene’s big dance. Unlikely I was the only one being summoned for tonight’s command performance. Irene would want to be sure everyone had been rounded up from the bar and the gambling tables.

  “I have to be going,” Richard said. “You can tell me about this announcement tomorrow.” He scooped up his hat, plopped it on his head, and walked out the door. Betsy stood aside to let him pass. She kept her expression neutral, but I suspect I saw a malicious smirk touching the edges of her over-painted mouth.

  36

  Irene danced the dance of the seven veils with glorious abandon. The audience was in fine fettle and they accompanied the discarding of every bit of cloth with ribald enthusiasm. I stood at the back, watching, not happy. Whatever this big a
nnouncement was, I doubted it meant me any good.

  Gold rained down upon her at the conclusion. She stood on the stage, a colourful cloud of chiffon at her bare feet, beaming, accepting the adulation. She picked up some of the larger nuggets and left the other girls to run out from backstage and scoop up the rest. When the booty was gathered, Irene stepped to the front and held up her hands. The hoots that served as applause died down. The men leaned forward in their seats or where they stood. Beside me, I felt Ray stir. He was no happier than I. I put my hand on his uninjured arm and gave him an encouraging smile. He did not return it.

  A born performer, Irene stood on the stage, arms held out, waiting until every foot was still and every eye on her. Girls crowded the wings, all of them eager to hear the news.

  “I have some hard news for you,” Irene said. She paused. No one breathed. “I will be leaving the Savoy, effective tonight.”

  Men shouted, “No!”

  I groaned. “The Horseshoe, I’ll bet,” I said to Ray. “They’re losing customers every night because of that pack of mules they call dancers.” I did calculations in my head. How much more could I offer Irene to entice her to stay? Rather a cheap trick on her part, to announce to her crowd of admirers that she was leaving, preparatory to demanding an increase in pay.

  “I am,” she said, “getting married.”

  Ray choked.

  “Come on up, George, and say hi to the boys,” Irene shouted.

  The short old miner, the one I’d noticed her paying an excessive amount of attention to, lumbered onto the stage. He smiled proudly, the effect spoiled by the fact that he didn’t have a single tooth in his mouth. He stretched onto his tiptoes and planted a kiss firmly on Irene’s cheek.

  The men sat in stunned silence. I saw them exchanging glances, looking for clues as to how to react.

  I gave it to them. I didn’t want to chance another brawl breaking out. I applauded, while gritting my teeth. Ray growled at me.

  The audience broke into scattered applause. George preened. Irene curtsied. In the wings, the dancers were looking highly pleased at this turn of events. Once again, Irene lifted a hand. The applause died down. “Leastways,” she said, “‘till spring. I’ll be back, boys.”

  They leapt to their feet and roared.

  Temporary marriages were not uncommon. A woman needed money, particularly over the long, cold winter when the dancehalls were largely empty, everyone huddled in their cabins out on the Creeks. A man needed female companionship. A business transaction. George would have paid a great deal for a temporary arrangement with the most popular dancer in the territory. I looked at him, short and ugly. All I felt was sorry for her.

  Show over, Irene shooed her prospective husband off the stage and went to change. Benches were pushed aside, the musicians picked up their instruments, and the caller announced that the floor was open for dancing.

  I waited for Irene outside the dressing room.

  “I won’t say your job will be waiting,” I said once she emerged. “Who knows what the situation will be like next year. But you can come and ask.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

  “Is it going to be worth it?”

  “Probably not. He’s promised me a lot of money, if I last till spring. I was raised on a farm with ten younger brothers and sisters and a mother who was sickly more often than not. I can cook and clean. Mend his socks. Do whatever else he wants, which likely won’t amount to much. But you know what, Mrs. MacGillivray? I’ll feel a lot cleaner with George. We both know what we’re getting and so does everyone else. He wants a housekeeper and a companion. I want money. I won’t be living a lie, pretending, like with Ray. And I won’t be hiding in the shadows. Like with Eleanor.”

  I held out my hand. “I wish you luck, Irene.”

  We shook, and she walked away, head high. George was waiting to escort her to their new life. She did not say anything to Ray Walker as they left.

  37

  I needed a new headliner. And fast.

  Fortunately I had someone in mind.

  “You’ve a good voice, and a nice stage presence. The men seem to like you. Do you want the job? Seventy-five dollars a week. An increase in a month if I decide it’s earned.”

  Colleen Sullivan tilted her head to one side in thought.

  We were taking tea at the Richmond Hotel. The sandwiches were fish paste, which I detest, and the tea had been stewed in a tin pot. The milk was powdered and lemon was nothing but the colour of some of the china. The delicate cup had a crack in the rim and the saucer didn’t match. The waiter scratched his belly and burped as he asked if we wanted more.

  I’d invited Colleen to tea to make my proposal. Her father had been expelled from the territory. If she wanted to leave with him, fine, but I’d extend the offer. I still had a stack of Eleanor Jennings’ photographs to use as advertisements. I could scrawl something across Irene’s face but the picture would be pretty much useless with the two central women gone.

  Eleanor Jennings had left the territory yesterday, expelled. I had not gone to see her off, but Angus had. As she supervised the loading of her photography equipment onto the steamship, she handed my son a gift, in thanks for his friendship. A book on the new science and art of taking photographs. I arrived home to find him pouring over it.

  Count Nicky, Angus told me, had boarded the same boat. Miss Jennings hoped she’d be able to avoid him. Fortunately for her, he’d have Roland the Magnificent to play poker with. As Richard had suspected, Roland had been ordered to leave the territory quietly. No doubt a strongly worded letter would be sent to his superiors.

  Colleen nibbled on a fish-paste sandwich. “My father’s been given a week on the woodpile,” she said, “and then he’s to leave the territory and never return. He told me to be ready to go soon as he gets out of jail. Ever since I was a little girl, it’s been Ireland. Always Ireland. My dad was born in New York. He’s never even been to Ireland. I hear it’s a poor, ignorant, dirty place, but there’s no telling him that. The Fenians are finished, they abandoned the cause a long time ago, but for my father that only proves the importance of remaining faithful.

  “It will be nice to be free of all that. Thank you, Mrs. MacGillivray. I’ll accept your offer. When do I begin?”

  I consulted my watch. “In four hours. I trust you know Macbeth. If you need to brush up on the lines, Angus has a book you can borrow. And please, we will not have the hoochie koochie, thank you very much.”

  38

  Angus kicked a rock aside. Back to working at Mr. Mann’s shop. He’d been down to the ship to see Miss Jennings off.

  “I wish I’d had a chance to take your photograph, Angus,” she said, as the porter carried her trunks aboard the steamship bound for St. Michael. “Not only would you make an interesting subject, but you’d have a memento of my visit. Nevertheless, here is a little something to thank you for your help.” She pressed a book into his hands.

  He’d thanked her and waved goodbye as she boarded. Her tiny blond head and neat brown bonnet were instantly absorbed by the crowd.

  It was beginning to look as though he’d be stuck working in Mr. Mann’s shop for the rest of his life. He flicked through the book. No, he had no further interest in being a photographer. It would be nice to have a camera, to take pictures of things of interest, but not to make a living from it. After the events of the past weeks he was more determined than ever to become a Mountie. Not only were the police required to track down murderers and pickpockets and patrol the cribs and the gambling halls, to be on guard against the use of vile language and loose morality, but they had to watch out for spies and foreign agitators too.

  Roland was leaning up against a building when Angus rounded the corner. “Afternoon, my boy,” the magician said.

  “Thought you’d been evicted,” Angus said.

  “Decided my work here is done. Time to take my leave. My boat’s leaving shortly.”

  “You said you wanted to be my friend. But
you only wanted to hurt my mother and Mr. Walker.” Angus walked away.

  Roland fell into step beside him. “I misjudged. The Savoy wasn’t a centre of the Scottish independence movement. No harm done.”

  “No harm! A man is dead. And no one will ever be held accountable.”

  “You mean Stewart. His real name, by the way, was the somewhat mundane John Green. We live in perilous times, son. Perilous times call for bold action. The Americans are growing in strength. About to go to war with Spain. They’ll have their eye on Canada next and after that, what? The British colonies in the Caribbean that’s what. What would you have us do? Put Green in jail for thirty days? Expel him from the territory? The Mounties here, they have no strength.”

  “Not kill him,” Angus sputtered. “And everyone who might be associated with him.”

  “Say goodbye to your mother for me. I did enjoy working at her place.”

  Angus walked away. Behind him, Roland called out, “You forgot something.”

  The magician was holding a quarter between his thumb and forefinger, grinning.

  Angus headed back to Mr. Mann’s shop.

  Author Acknowledgements

  I have attempted wherever possible to keep the historical details of the Klondike Gold Rush, and the town of Dawson, Yukon Territory, accurate. Occasionally, however, it is necessary to stretch the truth in the interests of a good story. A few historical personages make cameos in the book, but all dramatic characters and incidents are the product of my imagination.

  Information on photography of the time was provided during a fascinating visit to the George Eastman House: International Museum of Photography and Film, Rochester New York. I’d like to thank Jared Case and Todd Gustovson for taking the time to show me around and talk about old cameras.

  The reader who is interested in learning more about the Klondike Gold Rush is advised to begin with the definitive book on the subject Klondike: The Last Great Gold Rush 1896–1899 by Pierre Berton. Also by Berton, The Klondike Quest: A Photographic Essay 1897–1899.