The Lost Mine Murders

by Sharon Rowse

  She rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them. The stove had not yet taken the chill out of the air, but mostly she was nervous. The door to the street banged open, and she jumped.

  Then relaxed as Laura’s light tread raced up the stairs. “Emily?”

  “I’m here. Thank you so much for coming early.”

  “I wouldn’t leave you to meet that bully alone. I’m just sorry I’m late. He’s not here yet?” she asked as she rounded the corner, nearly out of breath.

  “No. You’re the first.”

  “Good.” Laura half-rested against the wall, panting slightly. “I really hate my new corset. I’ve told Mother I can’t breath properly, but she just says I’ll get used to it.”

  Emily nodded, but before she could commiserate the door slammed. They stared towards the stairs.

  The heavy tread of booted feet climbed towards them.

  Emily braced herself, then relaxed when she saw Wally Sutton, who looked startled to see them.

  “You two are here early,” he said, then flushed and looked away. “I mean—I’ll just go on through.”

  “No, stay,” Laura said, clutching at his arm. “We’re just waiting for Mr. Riggs. He’s promised Emily news.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “Very sure,” said Laura, releasing his arm but holding him with her smile just as tightly.

  Emily was glad she’d done so. Wally was too smitten with Laura to take part in Riggs’ bullying of them, and his presence might help keep Riggs in line.

  Her nerves were still tense, but she breathed a little easier.

  The door slammed again, and a new set of boots ascended.

  This time it was Riggs, who looked a little taken aback to see the three of them. His gaze narrowed on Wally.

  “I need to talk to these ladies alone,” he told him.

  Wally began to turn away, but Laura put her hand on his arm.

  He stopped, glanced at her. “I’ll stay, if you don’t mind,” he said.

  It was clear Riggs did mind, but it was a neat trap, Emily thought, with some sympathy for the treatment Wally would undoubtedly receive later. If it separated him from Riggs, though, it might serve him well in the end.

  “You had something to tell me?” she said to Riggs to distract his attention away from Wally.

  “We don’t need witnesses,” he growled.

  He was nice-looking, showing fair promise to be an extremely attractive man, once he’d grown into his shoulders, but his surly expression undermined that. “They’re my friends. They stay,” she said.

  Laura looked pleased, and Wally looked abashed.

  Riggs’s mouth curled down. “You call these friends?” he said with a nasty laugh.

  Emily ignored him. “I believe you have a name for me?”

  “If I give it to you, your fiancé will protect my father’s good name?”

  What he had of one. “Yes.”

  “Very well. It’s Pearson.”

  Mr. Pearson was a murderer?

  The same man she’d talked to the day before?

  For a moment a gray cloud swung before Emily’s eyes, and she thought she might faint. “This Mr. Pearson hired your father…”

  “Hired my father’s men.”

  “…To kill my fiancé and his party?”

  “Yes.”

  Beyond Riggs Emily could see Laura’s face, too pale, and Wally seemed to be supporting her. Seeing the other girl so stricken by the news made Emily feel a little better, for some reason.

  “Are you certain?” The words came out strong and clear, and she felt proud of herself.

  He nodded, but wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I’m sure,” he said.

  The noisy arrival of several other students ended the conversation.

  No matter, thought Emily. She had what she needed. But how to warn Granville? He’d be on the train somewhere between here and Denver by now.

  And Mr. Pearson was here.

  Did that mean Granville was safe?

  Or had Mr. Pearson hired someone else to follow them to Denver?

  Surely Granville was fine—his telegram held no hint of danger. Not that he’d tell her if he were in danger.

  But had she put Clara in danger along with herself when they’d gone to visit the man?

  The thought made her feel ill.

  But no, she reassured herself. Mr. Pearson had no reason to know about her connection to Granville. Or to think she and Clara were anything other than what they’d said they were.

  Another thought struck her.

  What if Mr. Pearson left town? What could she do?

  She could send Granville a telegram, warning him. Beyond that, there was probably nothing more she could do. She’d have to wait for his return.

  She hated waiting.

  FORTY

  Friday, January 26, 1900

  “There’s a message for you.” Miss Richard’s disapproving tones cut into Emily’s confused thoughts.

  Emily could feel every eye on her as she dropped her hands, glanced at the perfect page she’d just typed, then looked up.

  “Thank you.” It was hard to focus when she was so worried about the threat Mr. Pearson might pose for Granville. Looking beyond Miss Richards, she could see Trent’s excited face. They were back!

  “Oh…” she said, trying to contain the mixture of excitement and fear that rose in her. Judging by Miss Richard’s raised eyebrows, she hadn’t succeeded. “Please excuse me. My mother must be unwell.”

  Only an effort of will kept her gait sedate as she crossed the room to where Trent waited.

  “How is he?” she whispered.

  “Fine, we’re all fine. But…”

  “I must see him.”

  “They’re waiting for you at Stroh’s,” Trent said. “Can you get away?”

  “Yes. Wait a moment.” Turning to her teacher, who hovered nearby, Emily swallowed hard and said in a breaking voice “It is as I feared. Mama is—taken ill again. I am sorry, I must go.”

  Miss Richard’s expression softened. “Of course, my dear. I wish her well in her recovery.”

  Emily gave her a faint, brave smile. “Thank you.”

  Two minutes later, cloaked and hatted, she was following Trent down the stairs.

  Granville released a breath when he saw Emily come through the door with Trent, and cursed the fact that the amber liquid in his teacup was not whiskey. Strong whiskey. She looked unharmed, if a little pale, but the green eyes were as vibrant as ever.

  As she handed her gray wool jacket and gray velvet bonnet to an attentive waiter, Granville’s eyes searched that slim figure for any change. He found none. She was fine.

  It was ridiculous to have been so concerned—despite Emily’s spirit, how could a well-brought up young lady have learned of Mad Al Pearson, much less found him?

  Emily sat down as gracefully as she did everything, poured a cup of tea for herself and Trent and smiled at them. “I’m so relieved to see all of you well.”

  She gave him a look and a smile that he swore had a dimple attached. But Emily didn’t have dimples, did she?

  He smiled back, meeting her eyes. “And I you.”

  “I have news.”

  “So have we.”

  Her eyes widened, her gaze moving from face to face, lingering on Scott’s wide grin. “Little Sarah? You found her?”

  “She was returned to her mother early this morning.”

  “I’m so glad. And—how does her mother?”

  “You should’ve seen Lizzie’s face, when she saw her daughter,” Scott said. “I’ve never seen such joy. And the child almost seemed to know her.” His voice choked. “I think Lizzie’ll be fine now. I think she’ll get well.”

  Granville thought so too. The change in Lizzie was astounding—it was as if some smoldering ember had been rekindled.

  Her face and body were still gaunt but her eyes had come alive and her voice held purpose. And she held her little girl with such tenderness he’d had
to look away. “So now we can turn our energies to our search for Mary Pearson.”

  Emily drew in a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. The demure posture was so unlike her it immediately focused his attention. He had a sudden uneasy feeling.

  She didn’t disappoint him. “I think you’ll find Mary in a rooming house on the Eastside,” she said. “On Oppenheimer, near Gore. She’s living with her uncle, a Mr. Pearson.”

  She’d found both of them. This was worse than he’d imagined, but at least she had no idea whom she was dealing with.

  “I believe Mr. Pearson to be the man behind the attempts on your life, and the death of your client,” she continued, shattering his last comfort. “And I can see he might be dangerous, though I thought him rather kind.”

  “You met the man?” Granville asked, then moderated his voice when every head turned in their direction. “Suspecting what he was, you met with him? And how did you find out all this since we’ve been gone?”

  Emily hid a smile behind her teacup. “You obviously learned the same, or you would be asking different questions. And I didn’t know when Clara and I met with him. I’ve only this morning learned he’s the one who hired the men to follow and ambush you.”

  So that explained why they’d survived the first attack. It hadn’t been Mad Al himself shooting at them.

  But why only shoot at them once in Denver?

  Trent’s eyes had grown wider and wider, and Scott was an alarming shade of purple.

  Granville took a deep breath. “You’ve done amazing work. But I thought you agreed not to pursue this any further.”

  “Well, what I actually promised was not to investigate. I just asked a few questions,” Emily said. She did have a dimple.

  What was he going to do about her?

  He picked up her hand and pressed a kiss into the palm of it, watching with interest as she blushed and snatched it back.

  “We will discuss that at a later date,” he said. “As you’ve done half my work for me and located the fellow, I only need to work with the local officials to have him arrested. Promise me you’ll stay away from anyone involved until then?”

  “Yes, if you’ll promise to be careful,” Emily said. “And perhaps it might be possible not to shoot Mr. Pearson. I rather liked him.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Saturday, January 27, 1900

  Standing on the tidy porch of 153 Oppenheimer, Granville tightened all the muscles in his neck and shoulders, then released them. He checked the fit of his gun in the holster strapped to his thigh.

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Scott, Detective Moore and several heavily armed New Westminster police—Vancouver’s Chief of Police had declined to be involved in this little exercise. Moore had argued strongly for he and his men to be standing right beside Granville and Scott, but in the end they’d conceded.

  He just hoped his reading of the situation had been right.

  Mad Al Pearson himself answered the door to Granville’s knock.

  He didn’t seem surprised; gave them a nod of recognition. Though the fellow didn’t appear to be armed, Granville let his hand rest on his own revolver.

  It earned him a hard stare but Pearson stepped back to allow him entry.

  “My name is John Granville and I’ve come…”

  “I know why you’re here.”

  “Then you’ll know I didn’t come alone.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why are you still here?”

  “My brother is dead. I’ve avenged him.”

  “You could have fled.”

  “My niece needed me.”

  “Your niece is about to become a very wealthy woman.”

  “So I understand.”

  Granville gave him a hard stare. “How did you know we meant to give the map to her? That is why you didn’t pursue us in Denver, isn’t it?”

  Mad Al nodded.

  “How did you find out?”

  “You had the map, but you didn’t register the mine. At first I thought you’d sell it to the highest bidder, but then I learned you were asking questions about my brother and looking for me.”

  “So?”

  “If you’d killed my brother for the map, or partnered with that old villain, it wouldn’t have served you to look for Jim.” The depth of pain in the man’s eyes as he uttered his dead brother’s name made Granville’s gut clench. “And then there was the child.”

  “Child?”

  Mad Al smiled, and Granville suddenly saw exactly what Emily had meant when she said she rather liked the man. “Scott’s niece. Men who sought so hard to find a lost child, against such odds, would not knowingly do my niece wrong. Even an ambush didn’t deter you.”

  “I’d give much to know how you came by your information.”

  The deep-set eyes regarded him. “I’m well known there,” was the only answer Mad Al gave.

  Granville nodded. “You did kill my client, did you not? Cole?”

  “He killed my brother. He deserved to die.”

  “He would have hung. Now you will.”

  Mad Al shrugged. There was a look in his eyes that made Granville uneasy.

  “Did you kill Cole?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the photographer?”

  “Fool thought he’d try a spot of blackmail.”

  It wasn’t the answer Granville had found himself hoping for. “What about Jim’s daughter? What about Mary? She’ll need someone to look after her.”

  Mad Al tilted his head slightly and contemplated Granville. “And here I thought you’d promised your late client to make sure she got the mine. Way I figure it, means you’ll have to protect her, too.”

  “Where d’you hear that?”

  “Your young assistant talks too much. Like I said, I know people.”

  Trent. The boy was lucky to be alive, and probably didn’t even know it. “So why didn’t you just light out? Head north?”

  Mad Al shrugged. “I figured this was justice.”

  “And Mr. Pearson just let himself be handcuffed?” Emily asked. They sat in her mother’s overheated parlor, armchairs pulled close together, heavy drapes drawn against the weather.

  Emily expected to be interrupted at any moment, so she spoke quickly. “But why? Does he expect to be acquitted?”

  “I think he really doesn’t want to live without his brother,” Granville said.

  “Oh. You liked him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t mean spirited, and he has a clear sense of justice, even if it’s a little old testament for my taste. He wasn’t what I’d expected.”

  She thought about it for a moment. “Then why did he kill Mr. Morgan?”

  “Morgan and his aunt were blackmailing former clients. And Morgan tried to blackmail Mary with the thefts at the Raynors.”

  Emily’s eyes searched his face. “Blackmail her how?”

  She didn’t miss a thing. He’d hoped to avoid telling her this part, but it didn’t surprise him if she’d guessed. “He was pressuring her for her favors.”

  She nodded. “It had to be something like that to make her uncle commit another murder.”

  “I think he’d already decided to die for avenging his brother; to him this was the surest way of taking care of his brother’s daughter too.”

  “And Mary?”

  “Still in Seattle. Scott’s gone to get her back.”

  “It’s so sad.” She was looking down, tracing little patterns on her skirts. “All those deaths, for gold.”

  “Yes.”

  She looked up, met his eyes. Her own were steady and serious. “Would you kill? I mean, is there anything that would make you kill someone?”

  “Not for gold.”

  “For what?”

  “For the people I care about. If I had to save you, for instance.” He tried to turn it into a joke, but couldn’t quite pull it off.

  Her cheeks flamed, but her eyes were steady. “Even when our engagement is over?”
/>   “Even then. If it is over. I like you, Emily.”

  Her lips quirked. “That’s good,” she said, “because we may be engaged for a time yet. I’m proving to be a dreadful typewriter.”

  Her eyes were telling him something quite different.

  FORTY-TWO

  Monday, January 29, 1900

  Emily sat at the typing table and stared at her clenched hands. The soft voices and stifled laughter around her as the rest of the class arrived seemed wrong.

  She hadn’t been able to sleep since her last conversation with Granville, and only part of it was her nervous stomach at the realization that there really might be something building between them. No, it was also something about Albin Pearson. The grief and anger she’d seen in him were real, but she just couldn’t believe he was a killer.

  Dangerous, but not a killer.

  “Miss Turner!”

  Emily started.

  “Hands up, please.”

  She raised her hands to the proper position, hesitated, dropped them. She looked at Miss Richards. “I’m sorry. I have the most unbearable headache and I’m afraid the influenza might be coming back.”

  Miss Richards frowned, then gave a brief nod.

  Quickly gathering her things, Emily left the room, leaving an annoyed Miss Richards and a hum of gossip in her wake.

  It didn’t matter. She had to talk to Mary Pearson, and the train from Seattle should be pulling in shortly.

  At two-fifteen the Seattle train chuffed into the station, coming to a halt with a screeching of metal and a blast of smoke and grit. Emily was coughing and wiping her eyes, missing the moment when the doors opened and the porters let down the steps to each compartment.

  When she could see again, a familiar figure was descending from the carriage one over from where she stood.

  Walking briskly towards him, she called out. “Mr. Scott?”

  “Miss Turner!” He looked surprised to see her.

  She smiled at him. “I thought Miss Pearson might appreciate some female company. Mr. Granville agreed to accompany me.”