by Vicki Delany
“How’s he killed?” Joe grudgingly admitted he didn’t know that either. It was looking as if he’d had his two drinks’ worth. Those who hadn’t rushed out at the very mention of the words “blood” and “fainting ladies” turned back to whatever they’d been doing.
I wanted to go upstairs and check the ledger one last time before I left for my dressmaker’s appointment.
“Mrs. MacGillivray?” Joe Hamilton said in his soft, always polite voice.
“Yes?”
“I came to the Savoy first because I thought you would be particularly interested in the goings on at the Richmond. You have friends staying there, do you not?”
“Yes, I do.”
Even in a town of poor sanitation, Joe Hamilton emitted a particularly unpleasant odour. His clothes had been torn and mended then torn and not mended. And they probably hadn’t seen a soap flake since leaving the factory. He came into the Savoy occasionally, when he’d managed to gather some money together, and nursed one or two drinks all night. He usually spent the night watching me. He was always unfailingly polite and respectful, and I sometimes felt a bit sorry for him.
“Your son, Angus, he visits your friends at the Richmond regularly?”
“Yes.” I signalled to Ray to pour Joe another drink. This had better be worth it: I was not feeling quite so sorry for Joe Hamilton at this particular moment.
“Angus MacGillivray found the body,” Joe said.
The rest of our customers rushed for the doors.
I was ahead of them all.
* * *
If there is one thing nice about living in such a small town, it is that one can cross distances in a matter of minutes. I made it from the Savoy to the Richmond Hotel on Princess Street in record time. A good-sized crowd had gathered in front of the hotel; a handful of Mounties struggled to keep them back.
“Sorry, ma’am,” one of the redcoats said to me, “you can’t go in there right now.”
He looked too young to shave and was new to the Yukon. I swatted him aside. “I am Mrs. MacGillivray and I am needed inside.” I pushed my way past him. I have found that if you convincingly pretend you belong somewhere, almost anyone will believe you.
The lobby of the Richmond Hotel was crowded. Inspector McKnight was there, observing everything through his thick glasses; a doctor (a real doctor, not that fool who always seemed to appear whenever I was feeling faint) ministered to a dance hall girl while her friends fluttered uselessly about; Richard Sterling knelt by the body, which had dispensed much less blood across the floor than Joe Hamilton’s theatrics led me to expect; Sergeant Lancaster was doing nothing but trying to look important; halfway up the stairs, Martha Witherspoon wrote in her notebook while Euila clung to her. My son leaned over Richard, observing everything and peppering the constable with questions about such delightful topics as lividity and rigor mortis.
“Oh, Fiona, thank heavens you’re here.” Euila launched herself off the staircase.
Angus looked up and saw me, wrapped in a sobbing Euila. He straightened, leaving Richard to his inspection of the body. “Mother,” he said, “you shouldn’t be here.”
I patted Euila on the back. “And neither should you.” I peered around my son’s attempts to block me from viewing the body on the floor. “Oh, it’s Tom Jannis. No harm done, I must say. Other than to that floor.”
“You know the gentleman, madam?” Inspector McKnight asked. I thought I’d spoken quietly. Apparently not quietly enough. Perhaps one day I’d learn to control my tongue.
I decided to speak my mind—Jannis’s untimely demise clearly being none of my doing. “Nasty fellow this. Goes by the name of Tom Jannis. If I were you, Inspector, I’d start investigating in the less respectable gambling halls.”
“Well, you are not me, Mrs. MacGillivray, and I don’t need your advice, as well-intentioned as I’m sure it is.”
I blinked. Was McKnight insulting me? Euila sobbed against my shoulder, her tears leaking through the cotton of my day dress. I tried to shrug her away. “Pull yourself together, girl.”
Euila made no attempt to move. I looked around for help: none was forthcoming. Martha Witherspoon continued to write furiously in her ever-present notebook.
The doctor approached us after finishing with the fainting dance hall girl. She was being led out the door by her friends, who were tossing their heads and swirling their skirts around their ankles in anticipation of the attention they were about to receive as they stepped through the hotel doors. “Perhaps you should sit down, ma’am,” he said to Euila.
I gave her a surreptitious shove to get her off my shoulder.
“I’m quite all right, sir, thank you,” Euila said, swallowing her sobs.
“Euila, allow the doctor to take you upstairs. This is no place for a lady.” Martha Witherspoon lifted her head from her notebook.
“I’m perfectly…”
“You’re staying at this hotel, miss?” McKnight asked.
“Yes.”
“Your name?”
Euila gave it.
“Go to your room, please. I’ll want to talk to you later.”
“Miss Forester knows nothing about this wretched business,” Miss Witherspoon said.
“I’ll decide that,” McKnight said. “Why does it seem that lately you are always around when something is happening?”
“Now see here, Inspector,” a voice boomed from the door. “That is a baseless accusation.”
“Calm down, Mouse. The inspector wasn’t making any accusations,” Richard said from his kneeling position on the floor. “How did you get in here anyway?”
Mouse O’Brien crossed the lobby in two gigantic steps. He had probably done nothing but loom over the constable guarding the door until the nervous boy stood aside. “I came as soon as I heard the news, Miss Witherspoon. Are you all right?”
“O’Brien, get out of here,” McKnight shouted. “Doctor, take Miss Forester to her room. Miss Forester, wait there until you are called upon. Miss Witherspoon, you do the same. Mrs. MacGillivray, you may remain while I question young Angus. And you, sir!” He was now bellowing at the cowering desk clerk. “You can explain to me how you happened to stand there working while a dead man lay not five feet away!”
The clerk went quite pale. “Actually sir,” Angus hurried to explain, “he wasn’t lying on the floor; he was sitting in that chair until Miss Witherspoon touched him.”
Euila put one hand to her mouth. Martha continued to scribble.
“Doctor, take those women upstairs. O’Brien, I told you to get out of here. Angus, you and your mother wait for me in the dining room. Lancaster, go outside and see why it seems as if every passing man and his dog is able to wander in here at will. And send someone for the undertaker. Sterling, finish examining that body, and you,” he shouted at the clerk, “wait right here.”
Mouse O’Brien took Martha’s arm and guided her upstairs, over her protests that she was a writer and had a responsibility to her readers. Euila followed. The doctor decided that a dead body on the floor was more interesting than a wobbly Englishwoman and joined Richard in an examination of the remains. Lancaster politely suggested that if I felt the need to go home and lie down, he would act as the responsible adult while Angus was questioned. Richard lifted one eyebrow at me, then bent his head to accompany the doctor in the examination of the late, unlamented Tom Jannis.
“Thank you for your kindness, Sergeant,” I said with a flutter of my eyelashes. “But I am needed here. And I think,” I glanced at McKnight, who was growing increasingly agitated as no one followed his orders, “you are needed outside. Your authority will help the younger men to control the crowd.”
The crowd was indeed getting quite lively. Two constables were trying to block the door while men were pushing against them, trying to see in. Several rows of faces lined the two small windows on either side of the door, Graham Donohue’s first amongst them. He waved at me, hoping I would somehow be able to gain him admittance.
“I want to watch.”
“Go with your mother, Angus,” Richard said without looking up. “You’re a witness to what happened here. You can’t be involved in the investigation this time.”
The dining room, the site of yesterday’s aborted tea, was deserted, save for two white-aproned waiters lining the walls as if they were part of the decor. The customers had all been told to leave, but no one bothered with the staff. “Tea,” I said, settling down at the biggest table in the centre of the room. A single sprig of droopy fireweed tossed into a dirty glass served as a centrepiece. “And sandwiches. Not fish paste.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Angus,” I said as the waiters hurried away, no doubt glad of something to do. “You always manage to land in the middle of police business.”
“I don’t do it on purpose, Mother.”
As we waited for our tea, I realized that I was making a lawabiding living just in time. My previous careers couldn’t have withstood the degree of police attention Angus attracted.
I finished my fish paste sandwich as McKnight arrived to interview Angus. They didn’t talk for long, and shortly after four o’clock, I hustled my son out of the empty dining room.
The lobby was empty, save for a bored-looking constable standing guard over a small wet patch on the floor. I averted my eyes.
“I’d like to check on Miss Witherspoon and Miss Forester, Mother,” Angus said.
I checked my watch again. It was approaching ten past. How long would Irene wait? If I missed this appointment, would they give me another right away or make me suffer?
I hesitated. “I don’t know, dear. Perhaps you’d best come with me. That killer might still be around somewhere.”
He looked horrified. “Mother! I can’t trail around after you.”
Actually, I thought that not such a bad idea. Was I making a mistake with my son by letting him be so unsupervised?
He read my mind. “I’ll be fine, Mother, if I’m with Miss Witherspoon and Miss Forrester. The Mounties will catch the killer soon.”
I smiled at him. “Very well, but until then, please Angus, stay with Miss Witherspoon.”
He kissed me on the cheek. Our eyes were on the same level. It seemed that he grew taller every day. I hugged him tightly.
“Mother!” Angus pulled away, flushing a deep red. He peeked out of the corner of his eyes to see if the Mountie was watching him being hugged by his mother. He was.
“Take care, dearest,” I said, leaving for my appointment. The crowd outside the Richmond had largely dispersed once the body had been removed. A few layabouts with nothing better to do lingered, hoping for a fresh flash of excitement. Graham Donohue stepped into my path.
“Fiona,” he said. “This is ridiculous. I represent a prominent American newspaper, and McKnight won’t give me even a hint of what is going on in there.”
“Perhaps the good inspector doesn’t give a fig for your prominent American newspaper, Graham. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an important meeting to which I am dangerously late.”
He fell into step beside me. “We can talk on the way. That Witherspoon woman was inside the entire time. Do you think she got the whole story?”
“I don’t know, Graham.”
“What happened? Angus was there when they found the body, the men say. Weren’t you talking to Jannis last night, Fiona? In fact, you ordered him out of the Savoy. Think that has anything to do with his death?”
“If he’d killed himself, I would consider it a perfectly natural reaction to being expelled from the Savoy. However, it doesn’t appear he did himself in, so I don’t see that I have anything to tell you. Oh dear, I did just tell you it wasn’t a suicide, didn’t I?”
“That you did, Fiona.” The streets were full of mud. I had to lift my skirts to indecent heights to get from one boardwalk to another. More respectable women dragged their hems through the muck.
“Not much blood on the floor, though,” Graham said cheerfully, “least as far as I could see. But some, so he wasn’t likely strangled. Must have been a knifing or a shooting. And as no one appears to have heard a shot— which would have been a pretty unusual sound around here—I’m guessing it was a knife.”
“A very small knife,” I said. McKnight had told Angus and me not to talk to anyone about what had happened. As if anyone in Dawson could keep such a thing secret.
“A small knife.”
“Angus said it made a small neat hole in the neck. It was covered by that scarf Jannis always wore, which is why no one noticed him bleeding.
“Interesting,” Graham said. “A well placed strike. Someone who knows anatomy then.”
“Don’t get too carried away with speculation, Graham. Everyone brought up on a farm or a woman who’s attended a birth knows the rudiments of anatomy.”
“You’ve never told me about your childhood, Fiona. Were you raised on a farm? I can see you running through fields of yellow corn and amongst the grazing cattle, your long black hair streaming behind you in the wind.”
“Do I sound like my parents were farmers?”
“Your father was a horse breeder perhaps. Thoroughbreds. And you raised colts from birth and hung over the fence to watch them break records. With your long black hair streaming in the wind. Do they have racehorses in England?”
“No. Only fat ponies that pull straw-filled wagons full of apple-cheeked children at county fêtes.”
It was almost four thirty when we arrived at the “dresmakers”. Irene was standing outside, looking quite annoyed. No doubt she’d allowed adequate time for me to be late, yet still arrived first and had to cool her heels on the sidewalk. Ironically, since for once I’d planned to be punctual.
“Graham,” I said with my most charming smile, “it would be better if you don’t mention anything to the Mounties about Jannis and I having a slight altercation yesterday.”
He pressed his hand to his heart. “As if I would do anything to draw their unwanted attention your way, Fiona.” “Humph,” I said. Graham adored me, but he’d sell me down the river fast enough if there was a story in it.
“Mrs. MacGillivray,” Irene said, “couldn’t you have been on time? Maggie’s a busy woman.”
“Sorry, Irene,” I said, trying to look contrite. “Couldn’t be helped. Shall we go in?”
“Lucky for you, Maggie had an unexpected errand to run this afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Graham,” I said firmly. Never one to take a hint, he followed us inside. The shop was small, but the south-facing windows were large and filled with panes of high-quality glass, which let in excellent light. A long table ran down the middle of the room, and dresses in various degrees of quality and completion hung from hooks around the room. Bolts of cloth and a scattering of hats lined the shelves in a waterfall of vibrant colour and texture. I sighed happily. Maggie stood beside her cutting table, tapping her toes on the floor. Quite rudely, she glanced at the watch pinned to her chest. I scarcely noticed—a stunning length of pale blue satin had captured my attention. I closed my eyes and stroked the bolt. If I concentrated on the feel of the fabric and the scent of new-cut cloth, I might be back in London, in the exclusive shop of one of the best dressmakers in the city.
“That colour isn’t for you,” Maggie said, sounding not at all like a sycophantic London seamstress. I opened my eyes. Instead of an indulgent patron, there was only Graham Donohue, gazing at me in an unguarded moment. Instead of a fussing lady’s maid, there was Irene Davidson, looking like the cat who’d not only swallowed the cream but bought the whole dairy.
“Why not?” I asked. “It’s beautiful.”
“The colour of your hair and eyes and that complexion, you’re way too dark to wear it. You need dark blues, navy’d be good, vibrant reds, even yellows. And black. You can get away with lots of black as well as pure white. Not pale shades. And never, ever, wear green, orange or mustard.”
“Is that so?” My best evening dress was a pale green satin. Maybe that was why I never felt particularly good wearing it, whereas I was still in mourning for the crimson Worth. “What would you suggest?”
“First tell me what you’re wantin’. Day dresses, gowns?”
I wanted to shout “everything”. Instead I told Maggie I was in need of one day dress and two evening gowns. We set about selecting fabric and discussing style. Maggie might not like me—aristocratic English bitch indeed!—but when it came to clothing, she was all business. Irene watched us as if she were a mother hen guarding her single chick, and Graham grew increasingly bored and fidgety, interrupting us to offer suggestions we ignored. When Maggie told me to go into the curtained alcove at the back so that she could take my measurements, he brightened up considerably.
“Have you nothing at all to be doing today, Graham?” I said.
“Nothing better than watching you, my dear.”
He was staring out the window when we returned from the measuring. I had been prepared to pay heavily, and I was not to be disappointed. Maggie scribbled in her ledger, told me the total cost for three dresses, and demanded a good portion of the money up front. I dug into my reticule. No doubt the prices had shot skyward the moment I’d walked through the door.
“If you come back on Monday, the red dress’ll be ready for a fitting,” Maggie said. She buried her head in her ledger, and I was dismissed.
I nodded to Irene and said something silence-filling. Graham held the door open for me, but before I could step through it, a diminutive bundle of pure malevolence slipped in.
“Well, if it isn’t Mrs. MacGillivray,” Joey LeBlanc said, baring her teeth at me. “I’ve been talking about you.”
“That I do not doubt,” I said. “If you’ll excuse us.”
“I ’ear your boy, Angus isn’t it, such a dear, I see ’im around a lot, is mixed up in another murder.”
“Good heavens,” Irene gasped. “There’s been another one?”
Maggie pulled a parcel wrapped in brown paper out from under the counter. “Five dollars, Mrs. LeBlanc,” she said.