by Sharon Rowse
“Does that mean you’d be willing to go with me to New Westminster again?”
Clara shot her a sideways look. “There are several shops we didn’t have time to explore.”
Emily could not help smiling. “So if I go shopping with you, you’ll come investigating with me?”
Clara pursed her lips slightly and nodded.
Emily burst out laughing. “Admit it, Clara, you’re enjoying this every bit as much as I am.”
“Only if I get to shop. And I didn’t think much of that library. It smelled musty.”
It had smelled a little musty, which was no easy feat when the library was only thirteen years old. But the books! Thinking of the stacks of bright bindings, Emily closed her eyes in delight and nearly tripped over a cobblestone.
“Emily, you’re daydreaming.”
“I’m not, simply thinking about all those lovely books.”
“Too many books.”
“There’s no such thing as too many books. They had the business directories we needed, didn’t they?”
It had taken less than fifteen minutes to find the listing for A.J. Morgan in the New Westminster listings for 1895, ‘96 and ‘97, slightly longer to find that there was no current listing anywhere. “Without the library, how would we have learned anything?”
Clara ignored the question. “So what are you planning now?”
Emily thought quickly. Miss Richards would believe that she was sick again tomorrow, though it would be easier to catch up if she skipped Friday’s class instead. But she didn’t want to raise Miss Richard’s suspicions; there were no other typewriting classes in Vancouver.
Perhaps Laura could help her catch up next week. “Why don’t we take the 8:30 tram to New Westminster tomorrow morning.”
“I thought we were to meet Mr. Granville for tea tomorrow?”
“Oh no, I’d forgotten.”
“Why don’t you tell him what we’ve learned and let him go to New Westminster? It’s a matter of business, after all, and you know that no businessman will answer questions put by a lady.”
Clara was right, but somehow she didn’t want to pass over this quest to Granville. This was something she could do.
“It depends how a lady asks the questions,” she said, putting up her umbrella against the light rain that was beginning to fall. “We can arrange to meet Mr. Granville on Sunday, and perhaps he’ll bring Mr. O’Hearn with him.”
Glancing ahead, she could see a familiar green and cream outline. “And if we hurry, we can catch the next streetcar home before it really starts to pour.”
EIGHTEEN
Friday, January 12, 1900
Granville woke with a groan. Every muscle ached, and his arm was on fire.
Coffee. He needed coffee.
Rolling out of the narrow bunk, he nearly tripped over a pair of carelessly dropped boots and swore. Reaching for his trousers, he looked for signs of the boy, coming fully awake with a start when he realized there were none.
No body sprawled across the other bunk, no clothes strewn across the wooden rail at the foot of the bed. No Trent, period.
So where was he? Annoyance was followed by a sharp stab of fear.
He replayed the events of the previous evening.
After he’d talked to Benton, he’d sent a telegram to Harris in Denver, then collected Trent at the Balmoral. They’d tested the whiskey in most of the seedy bars along the docks while looking for information on their ambushers. Or rather, Granville had tested the whiskey. He’d insisted Trent stick to beer, and kept a sharp eye on the quantity the boy had imbibed.
His own youthful excesses had taught him well. He could remember too many occasions where he’d either drunk himself into insensibility or engaged in what started out as a prank and escalated. He’d been sent down twice from Oxford as a result, and that was only for the things they’d caught him doing.
The irony was that he’d been careful to keep an eye on Trent’s drinking but paid no attention to his own. Where had they gone after they had left the Balmoral? The Drake? And then? He wasn’t sure.
Ostensibly he’d been looking for any word on their attackers, but the bite and the warm burn of whiskey had seduced him. It countered the cold that seemed to have settled in his bones, and the fire that had taken up residence in his arm.
He didn’t remember the rest of the evening, didn’t remember coming back here. And he had no idea where Trent was.
He rubbed his throbbing temples. The whiskey that seemed to distance him from his problems last night only magnified them today.
What did he do now? He hadn’t the remotest idea where to look for Trent, even less as to when he’d last seen him. Anything could have happened to him.
And what of the map? Granville put a hand to his chest, breathed a sigh of relief to feel the packet holding the map and the photo. Unless… He drew out the packet, opened it. The map and letter fragment were still there. And Emily had the photo, he did remember that.
But Trent was gone, and his head was pounding too loudly to think straight. He needed coffee, strong, black and lots of it, possibly followed by hair of the dog. Then he’d find Trent.
With another groan, he heaved to his feet. As he stood the door burst open, and Trent rushed into the room.
“Granville, you’ll never guess.”
He looked at that beaming face with intense relief. “First let me get some coffee into me. It’s too early for all this enthusiasm.”
Trent grinned sympathetically. “It’s nearly noon,” he said over his shoulder as he led the way out the door.
“Now can I tell you?” Trent asked a quarter hour later, his voice nearly lost in the hubbub of voices and clatter of crockery. Sally’s Diner was always busy, because the food was plentiful and cheap.
Granville drained the last of his coffee, gestured for more. “Go ahead.”
Trent flashed him a grin too knowing for Granville’s liking. “Head still giving you the devil, eh?”
He gave the boy a look. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
Trent smiled more broadly, seemingly unfazed by his ill humor. “Pa used to get like that when he drank. He always felt better after he ate. Try it.”
He waved at the stack of flapjacks and sausage on Granville’s plate, awash in melted butter and maple syrup.
Trent was comparing him to his indigent father?
“Impertinent upstart,” he growled, but took a tentative bite anyway. He never knew how his stomach would react after a hard night, but the sweet doughiness of the flapjacks seemed to sit just fine. Suddenly realizing he was famished, he stabbed up another forkful. “So talk.”
“First, here’s the response to your telegram.”
He ran his eyes over it and nodded. Harris would expect his arrival.
Trent leaned closer, lowered his voice. “And I may have a lead on the owner of the map.”
Much as he appreciated Trent’s discretion, he was hard pressed not to laugh at his turn to melodrama.
If anyone were watching them, Trent’s actions had just convinced them there was something to watch for. He flicked another assessing glance around the room. No one appeared the least interested in them.
He recognized a few gamblers from last night, who looked even worse than he felt, and seemed to be paying no heed to anything except the coffee they were drinking with the air of desperate men. Another table held men who looked like they worked in the rail yards, and beyond them two brakemen, still in the gray striped coveralls and peaked caps that proclaimed their occupation, were silently working their way through mounds of flapjacks accompanied by a stack of thick sausages. None of them displayed any interest in Trent or himself.
He kept a wary eye on them, all the same. “Go on.”
“I went into the office this morning to check the mail, like you asked, and the guy who was following us last night trailed me. This time I recognized him. It was the kid from Port Hammond, the one that sent the telegram.”
> “We were followed?” Granville cursed his lack of memory.
Trent gave him a look he couldn’t read, but nodded. “You noted him right off, so we went into the Drake, then out a back door and lost him. I thought he looked familiar, but it was too dark to see clearly. When he tailed me again this morning I recognized him.”
He’d seen the man?
Granville prodded at the black hole in his memory, but found nothing. He cursed under his breath.
This hadn’t happened to him since he’d taken ship from England for the Klondike, despite all the hard drinking he’d done there. Why now? What made last night different?
Suddenly aware that Trent was watching him closely, he gave another silent curse, and picked up the thread of the conversation. “So he followed you to the office. Then what?”
“I managed to lose him right after I got the telegram. Then I followed him.”
“Good for you. So where’d he go?”
“Riggs’s Livery Stable. That’s the one that Miss Emily told us about yesterday.”
“And?”
“Riggs was mad at him for losing us, and the kid got really upset.” Trent’s voice hitched a little. “Seems the guys shooting at us didn’t make it out, and two of them were his father and brother.”
He could tell Trent was thinking of his own father, and wondered if the boy had any idea where the man had run. “That’s hard.”
“Yeah.” Trent stopped, took a breath. “Anyway, the kid just wanted to shoot us.”
“Understandable. I gather that’s not what Riggs wanted?”
“No. Riggs wants to know what we’re up to. He’s passing the information to someone.”
Could it be Gipson? “You get a name?”
“Nope, they never said. But Riggs’s afraid of him.”
Interesting. “What information was he after?”
“Wants to know where the map is. They aren’t sure who has it. And Riggs said you can’t question a dead man.”
“We may have to do something about these idiots before one of them kills us by mistake.”
“I kinda thought you might feel that way. So I followed him when he left Riggs’s.”
“And he didn’t notice you?”
Trent looked offended. “He’s just a boy. I’ve been tracking warier prey since I was eight. ‘Sides, anything walking on two legs uses fewer senses than those that walk on four.”
It was probably true. He’d spent more time with the two-legged kind himself. “And?”
“And he sent a telegram back to Port Hammond.” Trent pulled a second creased piece of yellow paper out of his pocket, and slid it across the table.
“How did you get this?” He scanned the words, felt his stomach clench. Scott was in danger.
“Bribed the telegraph operator. They aren’t paid much, y’know.”
“Good work, Trent. Finish your coffee. It’s past time to lose our shadow.”
Trent’s eyes widened. “He’s here?”
He nodded to the far corner, where the boy who’d been watching them had his face half buried in the World. “That him?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. So how’re we going to lose him?”
“I have my ways.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“Not a chance. You’ll have to wait and see.”
“Well, I don’t call that fair. I thought we were supposed to be a team.”
Granville gave him a look. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
Trent quickly raised his coffee cup, drained it. “Then what?”
“We go back to Katzie, but first we pay a quick visit to Frances.”
The maid who answered the door at the quiet house on Beatty Street conducted them quickly to an elegant parlor. Looking about him, Granville was impressed by the lack of feathers and frills. He could imagine Benton feeling very much at home here.
“It’s nice,” Trent said.
Frances burst into the room before he could reply. Pointing a finger at him, she said, “I’ve been asking questions. Your quest for that mine has made you and Sam targets. The two of you’ve made someone very angry.
No surprise there. “Who?”
“I couldn’t get a name. Either he’s kept it hidden, or my sources are too afraid of him to say.”
Neither bode well for him or Scott. “Anything else?”
“Nothing. Give it up, Granville. Before you and Sam, or Trent here, get killed.
“I wish I could, but it’s too late for that,” he told her. “As long as we have the map, we’ll be targets.”
NINETEEN
Emily stepped off the streetcar in New Westminster, raising her umbrella against the persistent drizzle. She drew in a breath of fresh, river scented air. It smelled good after the soot and cigar smoke-laden air of the train carriage. Glancing up and down Columbia to get her bearings, she turned quickly to her right and set off.
Clara clutched her arm, keeping step beside her. With a bright smile, she twirled her own umbrella to an angle that framed her face at the same time it kept off the worst of the damp. “Just how are you planning to find this photographer?”
“I intend to go to the last address we found and ask. With any luck, we’ll find someone who remembers him.”
“That’s good thinking, Emily. Your Mr. Granville will be proud.”
Emily could feel her face heating up, and hoped that Clara wouldn’t notice. Foolish of her. When had Clara ever not noticed people’s reactions?
“Emily, you’re blushing. His opinion matters to you,” Clara said, a knowing look in her eyes.
Emily flushed even deeper. She hadn’t even told Clara about the temporary nature of her engagement. Now she wondered if having only herself and Granville knowing the truth had made the engagement seem more real. Yes, she was determined to have a career, but her feelings for Granville seemed to keep getting stronger.
Not quite sure what to do with that thought, she brushed off Clara’s insight with a little laugh. “We’re engaged, aren’t we?”
“But you’re not sitting home embroidering your trousseau, nor bubbling over with raptures about how wonderful your fiancé is.”
Clara’s eyes were fixed on her face. Emily tried to school her expression to reflect nothing of her feelings. “My embroidery is dreadful, and I couldn’t bubble if I tried.”
“No. You’re far more caught up in saving his life, even above that typewriting school you fought so hard to attend. And Emily, you’re good at this investigating business. The way you’re tracking down the photographer? You’re as good at it as I am at finding bargains. You should be working with Mr. Granville.”
“I’ve been thinking something similar, Clara,” she confessed. “When I have completed my typewriting lessons, perhaps I can manage his office.”
Clara stopped walking and turned to face Emily. “For heaven’s sake Emily. What is wrong with you? I’ve never heard you underestimate your own abilities before. You should be a detective, not a typewriter.”
“But I want to be a typewriter.”
“Do you really? Or do you just want to have a career, and typewriting is the only one starting to open to ladies?”
“Well…”
“Emily, do you even like your typewriting classes?”
“No!” Emily said before she thought. “Well, it is all very interesting of course…”
“Horse-feathers!” Clara said, then blushed. “Well, it is. You liked the idea of typewriting. You’ve been looking for every excuse to avoid the reality of it.”
“Saving Granville’s life is not an excuse.”
“Looking for the missing heiress is not exactly saving his life, is it? It seems to me more along the line of helping him with his detecting business.”
“Yes, but…”
“But?”
“Oh, Clara, you’re right,” Emily burst out. “You’re saying everything I’ve been thinking, but trying not to think.”
“Why not?”
&nb
sp; “How is it even possible? No-one will let me truly work at detecting.”
“Your husband might.”
Emily took a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh. It was time to tell Clara the truth. “We’re not really engaged. It’s only until I finish typewriting school.”
Clara gave Emily a long look, nodded once and began walking, urging Emily along. “I knew there was something you weren’t telling me. This calls for a cup of tea.”
She felt much better for having confided in her friend, Emily thought as she watched Clara examine several rolls of laces, comparing two delicate patterns before finally settling on a third. None of her questions were answered, and the problems were still there, but at least she was no longer trying to pretend they weren’t.
“I’ll take this one,” Clara finally said, handing the other two back to the gentleman behind the counter. She unrolled a length of the lace she’d chosen, held it at arm’s length and examined it critically, then gave a little nod. “Yes, this is the one. Three yards, please.”
Turning to Emily, she asked, “What do you think?”
“It’s very pretty, Clara.”
“I’m thinking of using it to trim the maroon silk I bought yesterday.”
“Mmm—lovely. Are you ready to go?”
Clara smiled at her. “I thought your patience was too good to last. Yes, I’m done.” And to the shop clerk, “Could you wrap those, please?”
Fifteen minutes later, they were strolling along the sidewalk bordering Columbia Street. All of these handsome buildings had been damaged or destroyed by the fire and largely rebuilt.
Number 439 was now a barbershop, and the owner had never heard of an A.J. Morgan. The tobacconist on the east side was no better, nor was the hardware store on the west.
“This is hopeless,” Emily said. “None of the shops are the same as they were before the fire.”
“We should try the shops across the street. Perhaps one of them will remember the photographer.”
Emily looked where Clara was pointing, and couldn’t help but smile. It was a hat shop.