by Sharon Rowse
“Please, enjoy our hospitality and the dancing.”
“Again thank you. It is a great privilege to see it.”
Pierre nodded and turned back to his companions. Feeling dismissed, Granville rejoined Scott, and was pleased to find Trent there.
“Horses stabled and fed?” he asked Trent.
Trent nodded. “And the mules.”
Scott grinned, despite the lines of pain around his eyes. “Mules? Not those ornery critters we set loose just before the avalanche.”
Trent nodded.
“So they survived. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Too ornery not to,” Granville said, and Scott let out a roar of laughter.
“You named them well, then,” he said in an aside to Trent.
Granville just smiled.
“So what were you asking the shaman?” Scott asked.
“He might know something of our map; he’ll let us know.”
“Can’t ask more than that, I guess. So what now?”
Granville shrugged. With Moore hot to see Cole’s body, he needed to move the gold. Question was if he could do so without being shot at.
TWENTY-TWO
Emily frowned at the address she held. “Clara, I cannot see the number.”
“Let me look.” Clara pushed her bonnet back on her head a little, then made a minute adjustment of the brim, so that it more effectively framed her lovely face. Emily had to smile at the sight; it was so Clara. “Fifty-three? I don’t see it either.”
They looked from one house to the other. They were small houses, bungalows, really, lining a quiet side street in East Vancouver. Each had narrow windows and wood paneling, much less ostentatious than the houses in the West End where they lived.
“But here is number 51 and number 55. It must be here somewhere.”
“Is that a pathway?” Clara pointed to a narrow lane that ran between the two houses.
“Perhaps.” It looked barely wide enough to accommodate the sweep of their skirts. “Let’s try it.”
“You didn’t say come along,” Clara complained as she followed.
Number Fifty-three was a very small cottage tucked in behind the two larger bungalows in front of it. Emily could see neat lace curtains hung at each of the small windows that looked directly into the back walls of the bungalows.
“It must be very dark inside,” Clara said in a half whisper.
“Shhh,” Emily said, raising her hand and giving a sharp rap on the white painted door.
They could hear the quick tap-tapping of heels on a wooden floor, then the door was opened by a small, tidy woman in late middle age. Graying hair puffed over her ears, and sharp gray eyes looked them over from head to foot. “Yes?”
“Pardon me,” Emily said, with her best company smile. “Mrs. Anders?”
“Yes?
“We’re looking for Mr. Morgan, and were told he might be here. I’m very sorry to disturb you, but it is a matter of some urgency.”
“And how did you know to look here?”
“Your nephew’s mother-in-law’s second cousin told us,” Clara said, “And she sold me this lovely bonnet.” And she put a hand up to the confection of frills she was wearing.
The woman eyed the bonnet for a moment, then smiled, transforming her face from severity into an appealing openness. “It is attractive. You’d best come in, then” she said, holding the door for them. “I’ve just brewed tea. If you’d like to set for a moment, I’ll bring it through.”
And she waved them into a tiny formal parlor.
After a quick glance at looming furniture and neatly placed doilies, Emily turned to the woman. “This is a beautiful room,” she said impulsively, “but we’re already imposing and I hate to put you to more trouble. You’d have sat in your kitchen with your tea, would you not? May we not join you? Please?”
The woman looked slightly shocked, then pleased. “You know, it’s my favorite room.”
As she led them into a small room at the back of the house, Emily could see why the room was a favorite. Thin winter sunlight poured in through the kitchen windows, lighting the scarlet geraniums that bloomed in profusion. Every surface gleamed, and the well-scrubbed oilcloth bore a cheerful yellow and blue pattern. A heavy brown pottery teapot sat on the table beside a delicately fluted white china cup and matching saucer.
“I can see why,” Emily said. “But how did you get your geraniums to bloom at this time of year?”
“I get a lot of sun. And I feed them dried tea leaves. It seems to make them flower better. Please, have a seat.”
And when they were all seated, cups of tea in front of them, plates of fresh scones declined, the little woman laced her fingers in front of her and leaned forward. “What can I do for you?”
The warmth and honesty of the kitchen had decided Emily in favor of trusting the woman. “I’m looking for the girl in this photograph,” she said, pulling it out and passing it to her hostess. “I was hoping the photo was taken by your nephew.”
The woman studied the photo, turned it over in her hands several times, as if checking for something. “No, it wasn’t taken by my nephew,” she said.
“It was taken by his father, also A.J.,” she added, before Emily had a chance to feel disheartened. “A.J. was my brother.””
“Was? I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Anders nodded. “Thank you. Three years ago now. A.J. Junior tried to keep the shop going, but he didn’t have the confidence his father had. He’s been lucky to find work that still allows him to take pictures, keep his hand in. One day he’ll reopen the studio, that is if all these newfangled Kodak cameras don’t make taking pictures too easy for the amateurs. Do either of you own cameras?”
Emily and Clara exchanged glances, shook their heads.”
“And a good thing too,” Mrs. Anders said. “Making cameras so simple anyone thinks they can use them. A lot more goes into a professional photograph than looking through a lens and pushing a button, you know. A good photographer takes years to learn his trade, plus he has to have the eye, of course. But you don’t need to hear this. It’s a thing that troubled my brother deeply in his last illness, you understand.”
It was Clara who nodded, saying, “Indeed we do understand,” in sympathetic tones.
Emily was too busy considering the advantages that having a camera and knowing how to use it could give someone in the detective business. “How does a photographer learn his trade?” she asked. “Is there a school?”
“Oh my no. The usual route is to apprentice with another, more experienced photographer, which is what my nephew was doing. Unfortunately he never got to finish his apprenticeship. Now, of course, the camera companies are offering tutorials, but they’re meaningless for a true artist.”
But not so meaningless for an investigator? Emily made a mental note to talk to Granville about it at the first opportunity. “Your brother would have taken that particular photo, then, and not your nephew?” she asked.
The little woman rubbed a finger along one edge of the photo. “Yes, this is my brother’s work,” she said. “He had a particular genius for capturing the light and shadow in a way to highlight the subject’s attire. See how this lace trim shows up?”
Clara leaned forward and made an appreciative noise. Emily couldn’t tell if she was being polite or if she really did see a difference. “Then the photo must have been taken at least three years ago?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I don’t suppose there are records kept of the sitters?” she asked without much hope.
The little woman surprised her. “Why yes, of course. The inventory is the most valuable part of a photographer’s business; how else can someone request more copies of a favorite photo? Some day young A.J. will open his father’s shop again.”
“Would your nephew be able to find the record of this sitter?”
“Yes, but he left just this morning.”
Yet another wasted trip. “For New West?”
Mrs. Anders shook her head. “No. He and his wife are on their way to the hot springs at Harrison. They’ve both struggled with the ‘flu this year and she is inclined towards weak lungs. He’s worried about her health.”
Emily’s heart sank. It was nearly eighty miles to Harrison and the only way to reach it was by train. She could think of no reason to go there that her father would accept. Now what could she do?
“But I might be able to identify the sitter for you.”
“You could?”
“Oh yes. I have the records here. My brother’s records, that is. I’ve room, you see; they’re safe and dry in the basement.”
“You have them here?”
“Follow me,” Mrs. Anders said. Rising, she made her way from the kitchen along a narrow hallway patterned in chintz to a white painted door. Beyond the door was a steep narrow staircase, illumined only by a single bulb with a pull chain.
Emily followed Mrs. Andrews down the uneven stairs.
Clara, behind her, stopped at the top of the stairs.
“I think I’ll stay in the kitchen and finish my tea,” she called down to Emily.
Emily nodded, her attention focused on the long rows of steel cabinets she could see filling most of the basement.
“Your friend didn’t come down with you?”
What was that note in her voice?
Emily’s gaze moved from the friendly woman they’d been chatting with to the very dark cellar beyond her.
Suddenly alert to a danger she’d never even considered, she said quickly, “No. She’ll wait for us in the kitchen.”
“Well then, let’s get on with this, shall we? Let me see the photo for a moment, dear,” Mrs. Anders said.
Emily handed it to her with reluctance, wondering how she intended to make out the features in this dim light.
To her relief, Mrs. Anders reached to switch on an angled lamp Emily hadn’t seen.
Mrs. Anders turned the photo over and peered at the back of it. “9584,” she muttered to herself. “Taken in June of ‘95.” And she scuttled over to one of the cabinets and began pulling drawers open. “Here we are.”
So the photo was taken four and a half years ago, Emily thought. That meant Mary was likely twenty-two or three now, nearly four years older than Emily was herself, in fact the same age as her oldest sister Jane.
Trent would be disappointed that she was so much older than him, Emily thought, as she watched Mrs. Anders with a careful eye.
“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Anders said, pulling out a large manila folder and shutting the drawer with a clang. “We can look at this in the kitchen if you’d rather. The light’s better there.”
“May I have my photo back, please?”
For a moment Mrs. Anders seemed to hesitate, then she smiled and handed it to her. “There you go, dearie. Now, up with you.”
Emily climbed the staircase quickly, more than relieved to be out of the cellar and the darkness that descended behind them as Mrs. Anders clicked off the lights.
Only her desire to find out as much as she could for Granville kept her from collecting Clara and leaving immediately.
Still, she watched in fascination as Mrs. Anders opened the manila folder and spread out the contents.
They were surprisingly meager. Just a shiny black square and a form with less than half of the spaces filled in. Emily tried to read the neat writing, but Mrs. Anders had turned it so she couldn’t quite see.
“Hmmm. This was taken three years ago, just before my dear brother passed. Her name is Mary Pearson, and she lives, or she did then, at Number 221 on Fourth Avenue in New Westminster.”
Emily pulled out her notebook and jotted down the information, her mind racing.
The woman was lying to her.
Three years ago would make it 1897—the woman had clearly said the photo was taken in 1895 when she was searching for it.
Did she not realize she talked to herself? For some people it was a habit, Emily knew, so it was possible she didn’t even hear herself anymore, didn’t realize what she’d given away.
Was anything else she’d told them true?
Emily gave the woman her best company smile. “Thank you so much for your time and your trouble. I really do appreciate it, but we must be going now. Clara?”
“Can I not offer you another cup of tea?”
“Thank you, but no. My father will be most concerned if I am not home at my regular time.”
“It was nothing. And if you’ve more questions, please come back.”
“Indeed I will,” Emily assured her, with another, even brighter smile. “Come along Clara.”
When they reached the street, Emily set off at a brisk clip towards the streetcar stop on Georgia Street. Clara, keeping pace with her with some difficulty, slanted her a look. “What was all that about? As long as you’re home by dinner, your father doesn’t expect you.”
“Clara, what made you decide not to accompany us to the cellar to look for the photos?” Emily asked, ignoring Clara’s question.
“I dislike dark, enclosed spaces. Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered.” Emily saw no reason to convey her uneasy feelings to Clara. She didn’t want her friend to worry, nor did she want her to decide that accompanying Emily was too risky for her comfort.
“Hmmm.” Clara gave her a skeptical look. “Now you have an address for the mysterious Mary, I suppose you’ll want to go traipsing back to New West?”
“I think this time I’ll wait for Mr. Granville to accompany us.”
Clara stopped dead, staring at Emily, and forcing her to stop also. Emily avoided her gaze. “We’d best go, it’s getting dark.”
“Only if you tell me what’s really going on.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Then we’ll be standing here until nightfall.”
“Oh, very well. Though it’s more of a suspicion than a fact. But let’s walk on while I tell you.”
“As long as you tell me,” Clara said. “All of it.”
TWENTY-THREE
“So, are we off?” Trent asked.
Sunset was still two or three hours off, but Scott had given in to the lines of pain Granville could see bracketing his mouth. It was just he and Trent standing watching the dancers weave in and out of the smoke that now completely filled the longhouse. Detective Moore had vanished somewhere, which was a relief.
Granville didn’t plan on taking the boy with him. Too dangerous. “Not until Scott’s ready to travel with us.”
“I know that. I meant are we off to get Cole’s body and the gold?” Trent said, lowering his voice.
Granville eyed Trent’s enthusiastic face and raised a brow. He appreciated the boy’s discretion in lowering his voice.
It was unlikely they could be overheard against the drumming and the chanting, but at least the boy had thought about it. “I suppose I’ve no chance of convincing you to stay and look out for Scott?”
“Then who would watch your back? Besides, with all the people here, and especially Mr. Moore, no one has a chance to get anywhere near Mr. Scott. Which is how I know you’re about to go after the gold without him.”
The boy didn’t miss much, and he was a quick thinker. And a good shot. “Then I suppose you’d better come along.”
“I’ll harness the mules,” Trent said, beaming. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Shaking his head, Granville went to collect their knapsacks and leave a message with Arbuthnot for Scott. He planned to be back in a day, two at the most, but he’d brought provisions for a week, just in case.
He hoped Moore wouldn’t decide to come after them, though the storm that had been predicted should deter him. If he and Trent had any sense, it would deter them too, but he was hoping to throw off any pursuers. He didn’t need company, whether it was Moore or whoever had sent the ambushers.
“Why’d you borrow these coats, anyway?” Trent asked as they began to climb.
Granville chuckled at the look of distaste on the
boy’s face as he plucked at the sleeve of the grimy stained mackinaw borrowed from Arbuthnot. He wore its twin, and he pulled it closer around him as the wind picked up, sighing through the cedars as they rode.
“This thing reeks,” Trent said.
Granville drew in a breath. The air was clear and cold, but not cold enough to mask the smell of stale smoke, rotting mulch and old bones that clung to the jacket. “Yes, but it’s preferable to being shot. And the hat is a particularly nice touch, don’t you think?”
Trent grunted something under his breath that was probably extremely rude. He grinned. The air was exhilarating, and it felt good to be away from the heat and noise of the longhouse. Fascinating though it was to glimpse a culture so different from his own, the lack of action had grated on him. And with their gold cache to be re-hidden, having Moore accompany them was too much of a risk, despite any protection from ambush he might have provided.
Trent led the mules up an increasingly narrow path, following a winding route he said would lead them back to where he and Scott had stashed the gold without signaling to anyone who might be watching where they were headed. Granville hoped he was right.
“What are we going to do with the old guy’s body?” Trent suddenly asked. ‘When the police are through with him, I mean.”
“I rather thought Cole would like to be buried near the mine, though we can’t do that until spring.
“Yeah, I think he’d like that. Unless Mary wants to have him buried near her?”
Granville smiled at the concern in Trent’s voice. He really was smitten by that photo. “I think our client killed someone important to Mary. She isn’t going to care where he’s buried.”
“But won’t she mind if it’s at the mine?”
“I don’t think she needs to know about it.”
“Oh.”
As the trail grew steeper, they climbed on in snow-cushioned silence. The only motion was the whiskey jacks, gliding from snowy branch to snowy branch in their wake.
It was hard going, but the pull and burn in his muscles and the harshly cold air made Granville feel alive. As the trail wound higher, the snow fell faster, thick and heavy. The birds vanished. Their footsteps and even the occasional jingle of the mules’ bridle were muffled.