The Lost Mine Murders

by Sharon Rowse

  Granville braced himself.

  Before either man could react, the door burst open and Detective Harris stepped in, followed by a half dozen of his men, carefully chosen and heavily armed. “Don’t move. You’re all under arrest.”

  Androchuck took aim and fired.

  Granville leaped to one side just as the bullet whined by him.

  He hit the floor and rolled as a second bullet missed by inches, drawing his revolver and squeezing off a shot as he did so.

  Androchuck winced as the bullet winged his arm, then fired again.

  A deputy stepped forward and traded shots with him.

  A sound from the side had Granville turning to fire.

  In the jumpy light of the lanterns, his shot went wide.

  Squinting into the shadows, Granville could just make out Mather raising a rifle and aiming directly at him.

  Before he could get off another shot, a voice from directly behind Mather froze the blackguard where he stood. “He means you, too, Mather,” Scott said.

  Granville grinned at the sight as his eyes scanned the room.

  All around him stood crooks with their hands in the air and their guns at their feet. One of the policemen was awkwardly holding the baby, and patting its back.

  The child’s frightened wailing was dying to the occasional hiccup.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Tuesday, January 23, 1900

  Harris had insisted that they be in court that morning to testify at the arraignment of Baxter and his men, so it was already mid-afternoon when Granville walked towards the imposing white house with its gleaming black shutters and door. Baxter had been doing very nicely for himself. It was an affluent neighborhood; lawns were manicured, shrubberies pruned in fanciful shapes.

  With Baxter facing a jail sentence and the loss of his profession, to say nothing of his illegal income, what would become of the house and its inhabitants now?

  Beside him, the normally calm Scott was practically jittering with impatience. “Little Sarah will be here, won’t she? She’s too young to be at school, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, I think she’ll likely be at home. But it won’t be easy to tell Mrs. Baxter we’ve come to take away her daughter. And to convince her to let the child go.”

  Scott’s face set and his jaw thrust forward. “Not her daughter. Lizzie’s.”

  “Mrs. Baxter is the one who’s been raising her, the one who convinced her husband to give the child a home. And she’s just learned of her husband’s arrest and criminal activities.”

  “For all we know she’s been in on them.”

  “And if she hasn’t?”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’ll survive the loss. Lizzie won’t.”

  Granville nodded. There was nothing more to say.

  A very crisp and proper maid opened the door to them, then ushered them into a luxurious front parlor and announced them. One glance at the chestnut-haired woman seated amongst the greenery told him Mrs. Baxter had already heard the news about her husband.

  Granville had never seen a woman more devastated. White to the lips, she seemed to be waiting to hear the next word of trouble. He hated to be the one to deliver it.

  “Mrs. Baxter?”

  She rose gracefully, coming forward with a hand outstretched in greeting, a strained smile on her full lips. “Yes. Please, won’t you sit down?”

  Once they were seated, she on the brocaded sofa, he and Scott in plush wing chairs facing her, and had declined tea, she inclined her head. “How may I help you?”

  He glanced at Scott, but the big man was mute in the face of the woman’s evident grief. “It’s about your daughter.”

  One hand flew to her lips. “Ellen? Has something happened to her?”

  “It’s Sarah,” Scott burst out.

  With a glance at his partner, who had subsided back into silence, Granville said soothingly, “Nothing has happened to her. She’s fine.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. Then…?”

  “I don’t know how much you knew about your husband’s business, ma’am? The—other side of his business?”

  Mutely she shook her head, but her eyes were wary, and her fingers slowly clenched tight.

  “You know he’s been charged with selling children, adopting them away from their parents?”

  “Yes.” The word sounded as if it had been dragged from her.

  “Your daughter is adopted, is she not?” he said, his tone gentle.

  The woman’s face took on a gray tone and she swallowed hard, slumping back against the sofa. For a moment he thought she’d fainted and was about to call the maid when her green eyes opened and met his.

  Swimming with tears, they didn’t waver. “Ellen has living parents?”

  He nodded.

  “How do you know it is indeed she?”

  “The little girl we seek has a small brown birthmark on her right arm in the shape of a seahorse.”

  “Yes, it is she.” The words were all but inaudible.

  “My younger sister is her mother, ma’am.” In the face of Mrs. Baxter’s grief, Scott had found his tongue, and his deep voice was gentle. “Her health is poor, and finding her lost baby Sarah all she can think of.”

  “Sarah.” She shook her head. “It sounds so wrong. She has always been Ellen to me.” The words caught on a sob, quickly muffled in a dainty handkerchief.

  “I know how hard it must be, ma’am. But my sister grieves her child.”

  “So you’ll take her from me. And leave me to mourn?”

  Watching the two of them, Granville had a sudden sense something wasn’t right. He couldn’t quite say what it was, but he observed the lovely, fragile-seeming woman closely.

  “My sister suffers from a—serious illness. The thought of regaining her daughter is what keeps her clinging to life.”

  “And if your sister dies? What happens to the child then?”

  “She won’t die,” Scott said, but there was more conviction in his tone than in his expression.

  “And what of my Ellen? Have you thought what it will do to her to be wrested from the only mother she has known?”

  Scott’s face reflected his confusion. “But—Lizzie is her mother.”

  “Yet I am the one who rescued her from that terrible place, who made sure she had good food to gain the weight she needed, who held her while she cried.”

  “A child belongs with its mother.”

  “Does giving birth give a woman permanent rights over a child she abandons?”

  “Lizzie didn’t abandon little Sarah! The child was torn from her by the father, and left behind when he forced my sister to move to another city, another country. She had neither the means nor the opportunity to search for the child. Until now.”

  “No? She was left in a baby farm! The conditions were intolerable!”

  Granville watched as Scott’s shoulders sagged. His friend seemed unable to find a response.

  Mrs. Baxter still looked grief-stricken, but he hadn’t missed the tiny satisfied quirk of her lips while Scott struggled to find answers.

  There was more to the woman than she showed on the surface. He’d begun to wonder if she and her husband were not well matched after all.

  “A baby farm run by your husband and his associates,” he said.

  If he hadn’t been looking, he would have missed the flash of annoyance, before she composed her features. “I cannot speak for what my husband might or might not have done. All I care about now is Ellen’s welfare.” Her voice was clear and compelling.

  “Her name’s Sarah,” Scott said in a low voice.

  Mrs. Baxter ignored him, her attention focused on Granville.

  “And it is to ensure her welfare that we are here. But you must know you have no legal right to her.”

  An angry frown, quickly hidden behind the dainty handkerchief. “So what do you propose, since you say you are concerned for Ellen’s welfare?”

  “I propose you bring the child her so we may meet her.”

&
nbsp; “Now?”

  “I see no reason for delay.”

  Her eyes flickered, then she gave a slight nod. “Very well,” she said, and reached for the bell-pull.

  The little girl who walked in clutching her nanny’s hand was beautiful. With big dark eyes and soft golden curls, she was dressed in a gown of crisp white cotton with lace everywhere. Even her booties matched.

  Granville glanced from the child to Mrs. Baxter and back, just in time to see Sarah drop a slightly wavery curtsey to her.

  Mrs. Baxter gave a little nod, and the child’s face lit up.

  “Come to Mama,” Mrs. Baxter said, and opened her arms.

  Sarah half danced across the room, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  Mrs. Baxter tightened her arms around her, and Sarah stiffened, a startled look on her face. Quickly Mrs. Baxter turned the child so that she faced him and Scott.

  “These are friends,” she said. “Mr. Granville and Mr. Scott. Say hello.”

  “Hello,” said the little girl with another curtsey. She glanced at Granville, but seemed fascinated by Scott, who had given her a broad smile and a bow in return.

  Scott crouched down, so he would be at her level.

  “Do you like living here?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “And is your mama good to you?”

  Another nod.

  “Do you see her often?” Granville asked.

  She looked uncertain.

  “Do you and your mama do things together?” he continued.

  After a quick glance at Mrs. Baxter and another at the nanny, Sarah said softly. “Sometimes.”

  Mrs. Baxter began to say something, but Granville gave her a hard look and the words died unsaid.

  Scott had picked up on Granville’s line of questioning. “Do you like going to the park?” he was asking the little girl.

  “Oh, yes,” she said with a huge smile.

  “Do you go with your mama?”

  A look of surprise and a shake of the head.

  “Does your mama tuck you in at night?”

  “No.”

  “Or kiss you goodnight?”

  She cast another glance at Mrs. Baxter, bit her lip, and slowly shook her head.

  “Thank you,” Scott said. “It is a real pleasure to meet you, and I hope to see you again soon.”

  He stood up, glanced at Granville. “I think I’ve heard all I need to know.”

  Mrs. Baxter, very pale now, gave a nod to the nanny, who escorted the little girl from the room.

  Granville watched them go, then turned to their hostess. “The child comes with us. We’ll take the nanny, too. Do you want to tell them, or shall I?”

  She started to speak, noted Scott’s unflinching expression, and stopped. Finally she found her voice. “I will.”

  Little Sarah didn’t like the train.

  She sobbed unceasingly for nearly an hour, then drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  Granville woke to find a pair of thickly lashed eyes staring at him. Thumb stuck firmly in her mouth, she was awake, her curious gaze darting from him to Trent and back.

  Scott was awake too, still holding the child carefully in his arms.

  Beside them, the nanny snoozed, worn out by the trauma of getting herself and the child packed and aboard.

  Something in the big man’s strength and gentleness seemed to have calmed her fear.

  She’d be home soon, Granville thought. Hoping little Sarah would give Lizzie reason to live. And that Lizzie had enough love left in her to give her lost daughter what she’d never had.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Wednesday, January 24, 1900

  After an unexplained absence, Andy Riggs was back in class, looking no different than he had any other day. As the morning wore on, Emily was frequently aware of him glancing at her. What was he thinking? Her stomach churned, and she longed for the lunch break and a chance to talk to him.

  When Miss Richards finally called the break, she hurried to get her coat, then waited for Mr. Riggs to leave and followed him to the stair. He stopped dead and turned to face her, taking her by surprise.

  “So you’re asking questions about my father again,” he said harshly.

  Emily took a step back, noting he had one fist clenched at the same time she realized they were out of sight of the others. Surely he’d not strike her?

  “It isn’t your father I’m interested in, but the man who hired him. The one who means harm to my fiancé,” she said. “Surely you can understand that? In any case,” she added quickly when his expression darkened further, “anything you tell me can only deflect interest from your father.”

  “Seems to me you’re the only one who has an ‘interest’ in my father’s doings,” he said, advancing a step towards her.

  For the first time Emily felt real fear.

  There were others near, but if he lost the temper she could see simmering in his face, he could hurt her badly before anyone could reach her.

  Gathering her skirts with one hand in case she had to run, she drew a calming breath and forced the fear back. “My only interest is in my fiancé and his continued health,” she said. “Two men are dead. The police in New Westminster have an ongoing investigation into the matter. Surely you wouldn’t want your father’s name to be part of that investigation?”

  Andy’s brow clouded further. “Are you threatening to…” He stopped, looked at her. “Two men?”

  She nodded. The fact that the murders might not be related was something she’d keep to herself. “An old miner and a photographer from New Westminster.”

  “But he never…” He stopped himself, looked at her. “I must talk to my father. I might have something for you. Tomorrow, here, before class.”

  “Very well.”

  “If I give you a name, you’ll see him clear of this?”

  “My fiancé would do so. As long as he stays alive.”

  Andy Riggs gave a short nod and continued down the stairs.

  Emily released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and half fell against the wall as her knees gave way.

  She knew he was a bully, but she hadn’t expected him to be dangerous.

  Straightening, she brushed back the locks that had fallen into her eyes, just as Laura dashed through the door. “Miss Turner? Emily? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” said Emily. “Can you be here early tomorrow morning?”

  Clara and Emily stood in the tidy but shabby parlor on Oppenheimer Street, waiting for the landlady to fetch Mr. Pearson.

  “I’m just glad he’s back,” Emily whispered. “I don’t think I could convince Miss Richards I had the headache again tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You’re going to fail that class, you know.”

  “I’m getting better…” Emily began, then broke off as the landlady returned. A tall man with gaunt features and dark hair stood behind her.

  “This is Mr. Pearson,” the elderly woman said. “He may be able to help you.”

  “Thank you,” Emily said, and the woman nodded and left the room. Turning to the tall man, she said, “Mr. Pearson, I am looking for a Mary Pearson. Is she a relative?”

  “My niece.” His eyes considered them. If he thought they looked out of place here in their modish gowns, he didn’t say so.

  Emily hurried to explain. “My cousin and I are assisting my aunt in hiring a new parlor maid and your niece came very highly recommended. Can you tell us if she is currently looking for employment?”

  Mr. Pearson appeared to accept her story. His expression grew somewhat less fierce and the suspicious glint died out of his eyes. “No, she’s no longer seeking work.”

  “I also have the respects of Mrs. Raynor to pass on to her, and would very much like to do so in person. Is she here?”

  “She is still out of town, I’m afraid.”

  He didn’t ask them to sit, Emily noted.

  She really wanted to ask about Mary’s father, but she didn’t quite dare. Th
ere was something in his the tense alertness of his stance that made her uneasy, though she quite liked his eyes, which were a dark gray.

  Surely this was the right Mary?

  Unable to think of a question that would clarify it without raising Mr. Pearson’s suspicions, she thanked him for his time.

  “Not at all.”

  “And could you please pass on Mrs. Raynor’s respects for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is such a lovely lady, and she thinks so highly of your niece.” Emily knew she was babbling, but she’d had the sudden thought that perhaps Mr. Pearson had met Mrs. Raynor, and she could confirm the connection that way. But no.

  “I’ll do so,” he said, and politely stood back so they could precede him to the door. There was no possible reason for them to linger.

  “Good day,” Emily said, accepting the inevitable.

  “It does seem to be our Mary,” Clara said as soon as they were out of earshot. “I wonder why she no longer has to work?”

  “I don’t know,” Emily said, still pondering the odd feeling she’d experienced in talking with Mr. Pearson. “Perhaps she isn’t the right one at all.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I just wish I’d asked him more questions.”

  “There wasn’t much you could ask.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Well, I for one am glad you didn’t ask any more questions; I think Mr. Pearson could be more than a little frightening if angered.”

  “I quite liked him.”

  Clara gave her a look, but said only “We’d best be going or we’ll be late for dinner.”

  “In my father’s eyes, that is a fate worse than death,” Emily said, straight-faced.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Thursday, January 25, 1900

  Early the following morning, Emily paced the hallway outside their classroom. She was anxious to hear what Andy Riggs had to say. She glanced again at the large clock over the stairs. Where was Laura? She’d promised to be here.