by Sharon Rowse
“I thank you for your help,” he said formally, then with a quick grin turned to face the inquisition.
TWENTY-FIVE
Monday, January 15, 1900
Sally’s Diner was as crowded and noisy as ever. No surprise, given the reasonable cost and huge portions. As Granville forked up a slice of steak, he looked across the table at his friends. Trent was slathering eggs onto a piece of toast, then dragging the resulting runny mess through the syrup left from the stack of flapjacks he’d just devoured. Granville shuddered. Scott wasn’t much better—he’d stacked flapjacks, eggs and steak onto his fork and was conveying the resultant taste disaster to his mouth.
“My mother would be appalled,” he said with a grin, which spread even further when they looked at him in total bewilderment. “More coffee?” He waved his empty cup at the tired-looking waitress, who bustled over at the sight of his smile.
“Get you anything else?” she asked as she poured the dark rich beverage into his cup.
“Scott? Trent?” When both of them shook their heads, mouths too full to talk, he turned back to the waitress and tucked a coin into her apron pocket. “Just keep the coffee flowing.”
Her eyes widened. “You can have as much coffee as you want, sir.”
Scott smiled. “You might want to rethink that. I’ve seen this here gent drink his own weight in coffee.”
Granville laughed at Trent’s expression. “A slight exaggeration, I assure you,” he told the now giggling waitress. “But your coffee is very good, and I’m fond of the drink.”
“I’ll be back,” she said, and hurried off, drawn by a bellow on the far side of the room.
“Now you’ve arranged for your coffee, what are you planning?” Scott asked, his voice suddenly serious and not a little tense.
For all his lack of sleep and recent wound, Scott looked capable of taking down a grizzly by himself, Granville thought, looking across at his friend. “Next train to Denver’s tomorrow morning. And I need to talk to Emily as soon as possible. You?”
“I’ll go see Frances and Lizzie, let them know we’re going.”
Granville nodded. It wouldn’t be an easy conversation.
Scott reached for his coffee. “You know, you never did show me that letter you mentioned.”
Glad to provide a distraction, Granville teased the letter out of its pouch and extracted the creased and grimy half-sheet.
Scott peered at the cramped writing on one side, frowned. Flipped it over. Peered again. Then his eyebrows rose. “Cripple Creek?”
“That means something to you?”
“Depends. How are you planning on finding this Mary?” A grin split his broad face. “Since you’re so intent on giving away a fortune?”
“We’ve a few leads to track down. Once we get back from Denver.”
“Not very good ones, from what I’ve heard. Maybe you should just give up.”
“I gave my word, Scott.”
Scott’s grin vanished. “Yeah, I know. Just like you gave Lizzie your word that you’d find little Sarah. Which is why we’re going to Denver rather than staying here and looking for Mary.”
He shrugged. It was true, and Scott probably knew him well enough to know how uneasy that decision made him.
“So you might like to know that Cripple Creek is a gold mining town a hundred or so miles outside of Denver.”
“What?”
“You mean we can look for Sarah and Mary at the same time?” Trent asked.
“Somethin’ like that. James, if that’s really his name, knew Colorado and so did whoever wrote this to him. See here,” the big finger jabbed at a line of crabbed blue ink—“he says ‘like at the Portland? It’s one of the big mines up on the Creek.’“
Scott flipped the page over again, contemplated it, then looked at Granville. “Guess it’s a good thing we’re going to Denver.”
Granville set down his cup. “It is at that. Trent, Emily will likely be in class this morning. Can you get a message to her?”
“Sure can,” Trent said, and leapt up, pausing only to stuff a last mouthful of syrup-sweet toast and eggs into his mouth. “You’ll be here?” he asked indistinctly.
“No, I need a shower and a shave before I see her.” He ignored the look Scott gave him. “Ask her to meet us at Stroh’s Teashop at noon.”
“Not the teashop again?” Scott said.
Trent didn’t say a word, but his grin nearly matched Scott’s.
Granville ignored both of them.
“I trust you are feeling better, Miss Turner?”
Emily jumped as Miss Richards’s voice sounded from behind her.
She’d been ignoring the clattering typewriters echoing off the windows and high ceilings of the classroom, and hadn’t even been aware of her teacher’s approach over the rapid rattling sound of her own keyboard. It seemed she’d finally found the trick to typewriting quickly—don’t think about what you’re doing.
Most of her attention was focused on recalling her meeting with Mrs. Anders and wondering whether her sudden fears were the result of an overactive imagination, as Clara had seemed to think. After all, what connection could the woman have to the missing map and the men who were after Granville? It had been pure chance they’d found her.
Her mind went to the scrap of paper with Mary’s address, carefully tucked in her handbag, awaiting her next trip to New Westminster. She couldn’t go on Sunday; Sunday was church, followed by the traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, then visiting. There would be no time to even think about her quest.
This morning she’d intended to telephone Clara and see if she was free to go to New West. That plan was abandoned when Mama had unexpectedly decided to accompany her into town. Apparently there was some shopping she wanted to do.
Emily had no choice but to get off on Hastings and turn into the school, while her mother waved from the streetcar window. Well, at least she’d apparently learned how to typewrite at last.
“Yes, thank you, Miss Richards. I’m quite recovered.”
“I’m glad to hear it. It will be difficult to catch up if you fall too far behind. You must work hard to see that doesn’t happen.”
Emily nodded. This was as bad as being at home and lectured by her mother. Where was the independence she’d expected to be earning? “I’ll try to do so.”
“Very well then,” said Miss Richards as she moved on.
Emily knew she’d missed several days of classes and she felt rather guilty about it, but she rather resented Miss Richards’s disapproving looks. How was she to find Mary and keep up with her lessons? And why hadn’t she heard from Granville? Surely he should have been back by now?
“There’s a message for you, Miss Turner,” Miss Richards said some twenty minutes later, breaking Emily’s concentration so her fingers tangled in the keys once again. “I gather it’s a matter of some urgency.” Her tone implied that only a death in the family would be sufficient reason for interrupting her class.
Emily took the folded piece of paper from Miss Richards. Over her teacher’s starched cotton shoulder she could see Trent’s broad smile and quick wink.
They were back!
Scanning the message, she saw Granville was proposing they meet at Stroh’s at noon.
She needed to let Clara know. And Tim.
“Oh dear,” she said, composing her face into lines of sadness. “I must send am reply.”
“Very well,” Miss Richards said. “I shall ask the messenger to stay.
He’d stay anyway, but there was no need to upset Miss Richards further.
Dashing off two notes, Emily walked over and handed them to Trent with a quick smile. “Tell Mr. Granville I’ll be there. And these notes are for Clara and O’Hearn,” she said in a low voice.
His answering smile told her he’d probably anticipated the request.
Good. She gave him a little nod and he winked at her and left.
Noon found Emily and Clara seated at a table for six near the
back of the teashop, feeling decidedly conspicuous. Emily was sure several of the ladies had turned to follow their progress to their table, but when she’d looked no one seemed to be looking at them.
“Why is it we’re always the first to arrive?” Clara asked.
“I suspect the gentlemen find themselves out of their element here. At least with us present they’ve a reason for being here.”
Clara looked around them at the tables filled with stylishly dressed women sipping tea, discussing fashion and catching up on the latest gossip. “I suppose. It doesn’t seem to bother Mr. O’Hearn, though.”
Emily held back the comment that sprang to her lips. “As a reporter, he must be used to going anywhere there’s a story.”
“He had another byline on page three. Did you see it?”
“The one on the police investigation of the man shot a few days ago? Yes, I thought it was good reporting. But Clara, never tell me you are reading the paper now?”
Clara blushed, and smoothed out her gloves. “Not exactly. I do glance through it when my Papa is finished.”
“Looking for a certain byline, perhaps?” Emily said with a quick smile.
“And your father permits it? Mine still pretends he doesn’t know I read the newspaper. And if I weren’t engaged to Mr. Granville, he would still be trying to break me of the habit, as he terms it.”
“My father doesn’t know. He leaves the paper in his study, and I’ve taken on overseeing the cleaning of that room. Mother thinks I am finally learning to like housekeeping duties, and is most pleased with me. Which is convenient at times,” Clara said with a conspiratorial smile.
“May we join you ladies?”
Emily looked up to smile at Granville.
Running her eyes over him, she could see he was undamaged. He looked tired, but his eyes gleamed. “I’m so glad you’re back safely. And Mr. Scott. Trent. Please be seated, all of you.”
“Thank you for meeting us on such short notice,” he said as he pulled out the chair opposite hers.
“It was arranged last time we met, remember? Only delayed.”
He smiled at that, and she was annoyed to find herself flushed and a little nervous. “You didn’t have any more trouble?” she asked in a rush.
“No, none.”
She noted the glance Trent shot at him.
So there had been trouble. Granville was trying to protect her, and she wished he wouldn’t. “Is there further news of little Sarah?”
“We may have another lead,” Granville said, and related what Benton had told him.
“Oh, how awful,” she said when he was done. “You can find her though, can’t you? And bring her back to her mother?”
“We certainly hope to. It is the strongest lead we’ve had to date.”
“If those villains have her, we’ll find her,” Scott said.
The big man’s voice was determined, but she could see the lines of tension and strain about his mouth.
His face was too pale, and there were tiny beads of moisture along his brow. She could see how ill he’d been, and hoped he was well enough to undertake such a long journey and all the danger they were going into.
Granville would look after him, though. “I’m sure you will.”
“And how have you been getting on?” Granville asked her.
Her search for Mary hardly seemed important compared to their determination to rescue little Sarah. “Clara and I found out that the photography studio was in New West, but has been closed for several years now. The photo was taken in ‘95, so Mary must be twenty or twenty-one by now.” She didn’t look at Trent as she said it.
“Were you able to get a last name for Mary?” Granville asked, smoothing over the awkward moment.
Emily leaned forward. “I was told her name is Mary Pearson. We’ve an address too, also in New West. We haven’t had a chance to visit there yet, so I don’t know if it is still good.”
“I’m amazed by much you have learned in such a short time. That is very well done, ladies,” Granville said.
Emily felt her cheeks heating again, and Clara beamed.
“How’d you learn all that?” Trent blurted out.
Emily smiled at him. “Clara and I were able to find the photographer’s sister, a Mrs. Anders. She still had all his photo files and records stored in her basement.”
“Mary Pearson,” Granville said thoughtfully. “So Cole lied about James being a surname, after all. Presumably the man’s name was James Pearson.”
Scott nodded. “Our late, unlamented client wasn’t straight about anything else, so why would he be about this?”
“True. And if Mary is twenty-one, she could be either Pearson’s widow or his daughter.”
“Didn’t your client say she was his daughter?” Clara asked.
“He did. But I’m not inclined to believe anything he said without further proof.”
“And in either case, she could be married by now, with a different last name,” Scott said.
It was true, Emily realized. Why had she not thought of that? “So we may be no further ahead.”
“Not at all,” Granville said, smiling at her. “Each step leads to the next, and you’ve moved us a long way forward in finding our missing heiress. Thank you both.”
“Well, I’m glad to have helped,” Emily said. She still felt like an idiot for not thinking Mary might have changed her name, no matter what he said.
“How old is the address?” he asked.
“Five years. So she is not likely to be still living there.”
“Perhaps not, but someone there may be able to tell you more about her.”
It was the same thought she’d had. “I’m not sure I trust my informant on either Mary’s last name or her address. I got a most uneasy feeling from the woman and I wasn’t sure that she was telling me the truth about either.”
Granville frowned. “What do you mean by uneasy?”
“She seemed—angry.” That didn’t quite capture it, but surely she’d imagined that feeling of danger?
“Angry? And you’d just asked about the subject of a photograph her brother took?”
Emily nodded.
“I felt it too,” Clara said.
Emily gave her friend a quick smile, grateful for the support. She felt a bit foolish, and she didn’t much like the feeling.
Granville’s face was tense and his eyes held hers across the table. “Emily, I don’t think you should be asking any more questions about Mary Pearson without my being there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure who is looking for the map and the mine, but they killed Cole and tried to kill us. I want you safe. If this woman is somehow involved with our pursuers, then you can’t trust her or anything she might have said. I don’t want you anywhere near her, or her associates, whoever they are.”
Emily was suddenly glad she hadn’t said more. “There was nothing more she could tell us in any case,” she said, making her tone light.
“Someone out there is willing to kill because of this gold mine.” His gaze was intense. “Until we know how Mary is connected, I must have your promise that you’ll do no more investigating. It’s too dangerous.”
“Very well,” Emily said with a shiver. She certainly had no intention of talking with Mrs. Anders again, nor Mr. Gipson. Looking for an address wasn’t really investigating, after all.
And how dangerous could a few questions be?
Granville nodded, apparently satisfied.
Clara looked uneasy, but then Clara had known her far longer than her pretend fiancé.
Before Clara could say anything, an out of breath O’Hearn slid into the seat opposite her. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I couldn’t get away. That story about the man who was shot? They think they might have found the shooter.”
Emily watched Granville and Mr. Scott exchange glances, and she suddenly put the pieces together. “That was your client, was it not? The man who was ambushed and murdered, the on
e the police are investigating?”
O'Hearn leaned forward eagerly as Granville nodded. “Indeed.”
“Your client?” O’Hearn’s ubiquitous notebook appeared. “You were with him when he was shot? What happened? Why was he shot?”
Granville held up a hand. “Why don’t you start by telling us the news? It may be a matter of some urgency to us. We’ll fill you in later.”
“I’ve your word on it?” O’Hearn clearly wasn’t going to lose sight of the possibility of another front-page story.
“You have my word.”
“All right then. The police are now expressing interest in talking with a man named Morgan.”
Emily jumped at the name, and exchanged glances with Granville, who suddenly looked fierce.
“You aren’t to go anywhere near New Westminster, do you hear me?” he said to her.
Emily nodded. She heard him. She hadn’t promised anything, though.
“What did I miss?” O’Hearn asked.
TWENTY-SIX
Tuesday, January 16, 1900
As they descended from the streetcar in New Westminster, Emily drew her jacket more closely around her. A fierce wind gusted off the river, and seemed to search out every patch of bare skin. Ignoring it, she gestured to the east along Columbia Street. “Clara, since we’re here, we should at least walk over to Fourth Avenue. It shouldn’t be difficult to find that address Mrs. Morgan gave us.”
“In this cold? And I thought you promised Mr. Granville that you wouldn’t do this,” Clara protested.
“A brisk walk will do us good. And I only agreed that I heard his concerns.”
“I knew it.”
“Just walking past won’t do any harm. And we should be out of the wind on Fourth. Besides, I suspect Mrs. Morgan lied. There’s no danger if it isn’t even the right address for Mary.”
Clara muttered something, which Emily knew better than to ask her to repeat.