The Lost Mine Murders

by Sharon Rowse

  “Indeed I do.” Emily smiled up at him, and slid into his waiting embrace.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  I have made every effort to respect the timeframe and keep the historical details as accurate as possible. I have used historic figures for a number of minor characters, and kept them as close to the historic records as possible, though in some cases I’ve created incidents and conversations specific to the plot of this book.

  Slumach and his rumored lost mine existed, and the details of the murder of Louis Bee are as accurate as the historical record allows. Numerous gold seekers have lost their lives searching for Slumach’s mine since his death in 1891. Slumach’s nephew, Peter Pierre, is also an historic figure, and I’ve drawn on documented conversations with him for the flavor of his dialogue. Charles Hill-Tout is also an historic figure, a self-taught ethnologist who made local contributions to the ethnology of the native races of the west coast.

  Many thanks to my first readers Carla Lewis, Sandy Constable, Roberta Rich, Bobbi Randall, Kayo Devcic and Linda Roggeveen for insightful comments on early drafts of the manuscript, and to my mother for her eagle eye for typos. Any errors or omissions are, of course, mine.

  I am also indebted to the resources and helpful staff of the Vancouver Public Library Special Collections division and the University of BC Special Collections and History Divisions. A number of historical works have been very valuable to me in researching this book; many of them are listed on my website at www.sharonrowse.com.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sharon Rowse is the author of novels and short stories, writing both contemporary and historical works. A former human resources director, Sharon now happily spends her days writing and researching. Her love of history combines with her knowledge of human behavior in books that seek out unique, forgotten bits of history, melding them with memorable characters in the mysteries she writes.

  The Silk Train Murder, the first book in the “Klondike Era” series, was short-listed for an Arthur Ellis Award for best first novel. Set in 1899 Vancouver, this series captures the seedy side of the western-most edge of the frontier, and has a recovering gold miner and a rebellious Victorian-era young lady for heroes. The series continues with The Lost Mine Murders, The Missing Heir Murders, The Terminal City Murders and The Cannery Row Murders. Ambush on the Creeks, a pre-quel short story set in the Klondike, is also available.

  The Barbara O’Grady novels are urban private eye novels, set in present day Vancouver as seen through the eyes of artist turned investigator Barbara O’Grady. There are four books in this series, Death of a Secret, Death of a Threat, Death of a Promise, and Death of a Shadow, with a fifth book, Death of a Lie, underway.

  Sharon’s work has been praised as “impressive” (Booklist), “delicious” (Mystery Scene) and “well-researched and lively” (Seattle Times).

  For more details or to contact Sharon, visit her website:

  www.sharonrowse.com

  If you’d like to be the first to know when the next book is coming out, sign up for Sharon’s New Releases Mailing List—which comes out three or four times a year. (Your email will never be shared, and you can unsubscribe at any time.)

  Also available from Sharon Rowse:

  The Klondike Era Series:

  The Silk Train Murder

  The Lost Mine Murders

  The Missing Heir Murders

  The Terminal City Murders

  The Cannery Row Murders

  Short Stories:

  Ambush on the Creeks

  The Barbara O’Grady Series:

  Death of a Secret

  Death of a Threat

  Death of a Promise

  Death of a Shadow

  Death of Lie (Fall 2016)

  The series continues…

  Excerpt from:

  THE MISSING HEIR MURDERS

  A Klondike Era Mystery

  by Sharon Rowse

  ONE

  Friday, April 13, 1900

  John Lansdowne Granville stared at the letter in his hands as rain battered at their office windows and a chill draft smelling of manure and burning coal crept in from the street below. “Beware the Ides,” he muttered under his breath.

  The quote felt apt, even if today was the Ides of April rather than March. And he was no laurel-wreathed general. He grimaced at the thought.

  “What’s that? Something wrong, Granville?” Scott said, looking up from the ledger he’d been wrestling with. The big man had a half-grin on his face, but his eyes were watchful.

  Granville crumpled the heavy white paper in one fist and tossed it across the mahogany partner’s desk they shared, watching it land on an unsteady stack of reports they’d been ignoring. “Not a thing.”

  “’Cause I got to tell you, the way you look now, you’d scare off a Mama bear looking for her cubs.”

  Granville gave a crack of laughter. Truth was, he’d rather face a grizzly than deal with this letter. “We’ve been offered a job.”

  Scott eyed the crumpled page, written in a spiked, forceful hand. A challenging job would be welcome, but Granville’s expression and the postmark signaled trouble. “In England?”

  “No, in Vancouver. We need to find the Earl of Thanet’s heir.”

  “Huh. How’d he lose him?”

  “Quite deliberately, I assure you. Apparently Rupert Weston is a Remittance Man.”

  “I thought they only paid off younger sons to disappear over here, not the heirs.”

  Behind Granville the windowpanes rattled as the storm increased. “And until a most unfortunate boating accident a few months ago, you’d have been right.

  It seems Weston’s two older brothers drowned in unexpectedly rough seas off the Isle of Wight. Hence the search for the new heir apparent.”

  “Huh. Wonder what young Weston did that got him sent to the colonies.”

  “Whatever it was, all will now be forgiven.”

  “He’s unlikely to have reformed any, not from what I’ve seen of the remittance boys.”

  Scott was right, but the casual dismissal in his voice grated. Granville had refused to admit it at the time, but he hadn’t been far from a remittance man himself, not so long ago. “True enough.”

  “But now he’s the heir none of that matters?”

  Granville nodded, amused despite his own misgivings by the incredulous note in Scott’s voice.

  “I’ll never understand you English.” Scott tossed the crumpled letter back. “Where’s this Earl send the money?”

  “Post office here in town—care of General Delivery.”

  “I’m guessing their letters have been returned?”

  “You’d be right about that.”

  “So Weston might still be in Vancouver.”

  “Might be. If he is here, he’s laying low.”

  “Gives us a place to start, though. Sounds easy enough. So what’s the catch?”

  Granville eyed Scott with affection, grinned. “The catch, as you so succinctly put it, is that Thanet isn’t hiring us.”

  “Then who is?”

  “Thanet’s brother-in-law, the boy’s uncle. And the request comes by way of my brother William.”

  “The Baron?”

  “That’s him.”

  “But the job’s legit? No reason we can’t take it, is there?”

  Granville shook his head. “Et tu, Brute?” he said mournfully.

  “Huh?” Scott said, face blank.

  That earned him a half laugh, as it was undoubtedly meant to. “William has never done anything straightforward in his life, and most particularly not when it involves me.”

  “You don’t trust him even on something as straightforward as this? Or is there some particular reason Thanet isn’t the one hiring us to find his missing son?”

  “I gather he’s too mired in grief to take any action. But based on hard experience, I don’t trust William on anything.”

  “So what’s your dear brother up to, then?”

  “Currying favor
with the Earl of Thanet, I suspect. Or trying to, through the man’s brother-in-law. Probably as close as William could get to the Earl.”

  Scott gave a bark of laughter. “Probably. So we find this Weston, it’s easy money and Brother William’s in your debt. Sounds like a no fail plan to me.”

  “Which means we’re missing something. I wonder what happens to the estate if we don’t find Weston, or if he’s already dead.”

  Scott gave him a sharp look. “Why should we care?”

  “Because William will have looked at every angle of this before involving himself. And the most obvious path is seldom the one he follows. He’ll not concern himself if we’re injured or killed in pursuit of whatever goal he has in mind—in fact it might sweeten it for him.”

  “Nice brother. But he’s thousands of miles away. How dangerous could it be?”

  Granville shrugged. “How dangerous was it up on the creeks when a fellow didn’t know enough to provision for winter?”

  Scott grunted. “Killed by what we don’t know? At least it won’t be boring.”

  “Getting tired of guarding nervous bankers are you? Fine, we’ll take the job,” Granville said, and flicked a disdainful finger toward the crumpled ball he’d made of the letter. It was probably time he stopped avoiding William and his schemes, anyway.

  “That was quick.” Scott eyed his partner. “And I’ve seen that look before, usually right before you get both of us into trouble. What’re you planning?”

  He was planning to out-maneuver whatever his unscrupulous older brother might have in mind for him. “There’s nothing to stop us taking on this case and finding young Weston. Once we have all the facts, we can decide how we want to handle it.”

  “You planning on bamboozling Brother William?”

  There was a reason he and Scott were still friends. “Exactly,” Granville said, striding towards the door. “What do you say?”

  The grating of wood chair on hardwood floor told him his partner was behind him. “I’ll probably regret this,” Scott said. “But when do we start?”

  By the time they’d made their way to the imposing granite-faced Main Post Office on Pender Street, the wind had lessened. Shaking the rain from his hat, Granville was amused to find himself standing in front of a long marble counter that could have been in any post office in London, being glared at by a dapper young man—nattily attired in black and white—who seemed to have hopes of being this century’s Beau Brummell.

  Granville wondered if anyone had told him how unlikely that was in Vancouver, of all places. As far as the English were concerned, the clerk’s focus should be on making money, like all good Colonials.

  “No Weston here.”

  Granville had met friendlier icicles. “But he does collect his mail here?”

  “Can’t give out that information.”

  “Fair enough. Can you tell me if you have uncollected mail for him?”

  Granville watched the man’s eyes dart to a section of wooden pigeonholes. Some were empty, some had a few letters, but one or two were stuffed with mail. Which one was Weston’s?

  “Sorry, that’s classified,” came the predictable answer.

  “We just need to know when he’s expected next,” Scott put in.

  “And how would I know that?”

  “Can you perhaps tell us if he collects his mail regularly?” Granville smiled, put an extra hint of Oxford in his tone. “He’s a friend—we lost touch with him in Skagway.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Come on, Granville,” Scott said. “We’re wasting our time here.” Gripping his partner’s elbow, he half dragged him outside.

  “I wasn’t done there.”

  “You were about to try bribing that clerk.” Scott settled his hat more firmly in place, turned up his collar against the wind-driven rain and began walking north.

  Granville buttoned his coat as he paced beside his parnter. “I was indeed. And?”

  “And I know the clerk’s brother,” Scott said. “Very officious family—and all of them hate Brits. No offense.”

  “Seems to be a common sentiment in this part of the world,” Granville said. It was unsettling, and the fact that he found it so just annoyed him more.

  Confining as he’d found being a member of the English gentry, he’d always taken the respect that came with it for granted. Now he couldn’t.

  Scott chuckled, then sobered. “Yeah, well if you’d tried to bribe him, he’d have you arrested for tamperin’ with the mails or some fool thing.”

  “That could have been embarrassing. Especially since the local constabulary are none too fond of us.”

  “Getting some of them arrested will cause that.”

  Granville recalled his first weeks in town with an inward grin. “True enough. But it saved you hanging for murder. I suppose it was worth it. So where are we headed in this downpour?”

  “Newspaper office. I thought we’d advertise for Weston.”

  “Hmm. News to his advantage or something of that sort? That makes sense.”

  “Yeah, I thought so. The Province is around the corner. It has the biggest readership.”

  “By all means.” Granville swiped absently at the rain dripping into his eyes, pulled his hat brim lower. “We’ll want replies to a post office box rather than our office.”

  Scott thought about it for a second. “Keep this anonymous? Makes sense.”

  “No point giving away our hand quite yet. What time does the afternoon mail get delivered?”

  “Around four, but the earliest we can expect replies is tomorrow morning. The ad won’t run until tonight.”

  “And meanwhile, we’ll send a letter to Weston. That will get delivered this afternoon, am I right?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So we can see which box it gets delivered to.”

  “You’re not thinking of robbing the post office?”

  He hadn’t been, but as a last resort, it had possibilities. “Why not?” he said, grinning as he watched Scott sputter.

  “They’d recognize us.”

  “Calm down. I’m not thinking of robbing the post office. I just want to know how much mail is sitting in Weston’s box, uncollected. If the box is full, Weston most likely left town in a hurry. And hasn’t been back.”

  “Huh. That could work.”

  “I thought so.” He winked at his partner. “You post the ad. I’ll write our letter to Weston. And tonight we’ll visit a few poker spots, do a little listening. Weston was always a bit of a gambler.”

  Actually, he’d been hopelessly enthralled by it, if even half the rumors were true.

  “If we’re not in jail by then. And I thought you gave up gambling—wait a minute. You know him? Weston? And you’re just telling me now?”

  Granville shrugged. “I know of him. The young idiot was part of a wild set at college. Got sent down from Oxford twice.”

  “Didn’t you tell me you were sent down three times? Or was it four?” Scott said, poker-faced.

  Granville ignored him.

  With both Scott and their apprentice out of the office, it was quiet except for the steady pattering of rain and the scratching of Granville’s fountain pen as he dashed off a quick note to young Weston.

  It was unlikely Weston would ever see it, but in case other eyes were checking the lad’s mail, Granville kept the letter short. It simply asked Weston to contact them at his earliest convenience, for information to his advantage. Sealing it, he added the two-cent stamp, then clattered down the stairs and out to the post box on the corner.

  That task complete, he sat down to the harder work of composing a letter to his eldest sister Louisa, now Lady Waybourne. He needed to know more about the Earl of Thanet, as well as the society gossip about the family and especially about the drowning of the previous heirs. Only one name had come to mind.

  Louisa still thought very fondly of him, and her social connections were faultless. She would know all the latest on dits and family scandals. She was
also his favorite sister, and could be counted on not to mention a word to Brother William.

  It was well past noon by the time he’d finished the letter. With a little luck, Louisa’s reply would come in time to do some good. In the meantime, he’d find out everything he could about Weston. Someone must know where he’d disappeared to.

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  Have You Read a Barbara O’Grady Mystery?

  Excerpt from:

  DEATH OF A SECRET

  By Sharon Rowse

  CHAPTER 1

  Have you ever had one of those conversations that feels wrong from the first sentence, but you’re not quite sure why? Your intuition is telling you “this is trouble” but you’ve nothing to back it up with? That’s how it felt when I met my newest client.

  It was a Saturday evening in early spring, and I was standing in front of a huge canvas depicting a freeway interchange against a foreground of spring blossoms. Taking a sip of the surprisingly decent Cabernet, I was considering the artist’s use of light, and making mental notes about how she’d accomplished the effect.

  I tried to take a step back for a better perspective, but the press of people behind me wouldn’t allow it. The din of rising and falling voices confirmed it—Yuriko Imry’s opening was a success.

  I was thrilled for her.

  I don’t know Yuriko well, but I do know how hard she’s worked to get here, and the sacrifices she’s made. I’ve been there. Though I never quite broke through to a solo show.