The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

  “They’re still empty boxcars.”

  “Do you know what that cargo is worth?”

  “Well?”

  “Six of those cars full of silk fetch nearly three-quarters of a million dollars,” Sam Scott said, grinning at his partner’s expression. “How’s that for motive? Turner was afraid somebody might get the bright idea of sabotaging the cars beforehand, make stopping the train a little easier.”

  Three quarters of a million dollars. Granville whistled softly. He now lived in a world where he’d earned two dollars for a cold and dangerous night’s work, and judged himself lucky to be paid so well. “So how long do these silk cars sit in the yard?”

  “Usually just a day or so. They have to be ready and waiting when the Empresses get in. Then the silk is loaded and the trains are gone.”

  “The Empresses?”

  “They’ve got three Empress ships carry the silk; the India, the Japan, and the China. The India is due in later today.”

  “No passengers?”

  “The ships carry a thousand passengers or so, but the silk trains only carry silk. They run faster that way, and every lost hour is lost dollars.”

  Granville raised an eyebrow.

  “Insurance. With so many train robbers out there waiting for the Silks, rates are sky-high. And silk in transit is insured by the day. So you get CP racing the Canadian National and Northern Pacific lines to see who can get the silk to New York the fastest.”

  Granville whistled. “By the day?”

  “Anything that valuable, there’s always people determined to steal it.”

  “And last night’s attack? You think Benton paid for a little sabotage?”

  Scott drained his coffee and set the mug back on the table with a thunk. “Maybe, maybe not. He’s got his fingers into nearly everything in this town, and Jackson is still his top lieutenant. But I’ve heard rumors that Jackson’s cutting his own deals on the side.”

  “Sounds pretty risky. Crossing Benton can’t be a healthy thing to do.”

  “Not if Benton finds out, it isn’t.”

  That afternoon, Granville strolled along Seymour Street. He’d eaten and slept better than he had in months. All he needed now was a whiskey. Perhaps a bath and a shave first, he thought, fingering his thick beard, which itched.

  And there was a barbershop directly across the street. His luck really must be changing. Whistling “There is a Tavern in the Town,” he stepped off the board sidewalk, then leaped out of the way as a wagon rolled by, heavily laden with logs.

  “Damn fool,” Granville muttered, stepping out of the pothole he’d landed in, shaking the water from one foot. Not that it did any good; his socks were soaked through. At least with the money Scott had advanced him, he could afford a decent pair of boots.

  “Granville! Granville! Is that you?”

  Granville spun to face the voice, his hand going to the revolver on his hip. Seeing only Walter Blayney’s fair hair and foolish face, Granville relaxed. “Yes, it’s me.”

  “I thought so. Well, I’ll be. I almost didn’t recognize you with all that facial hair,” the other said excitedly in his unmistakably English voice. “Never thought I’d run into you here! In fact, I wasn’t sure you were even alive! When’d you leave the Klondike?”

  “September.”

  Blayney’s pale blue eyes swept from Granville’s decrepit boots to his ragged coat. “So, you never did hit the mother lode?”

  Granville grinned. Blayney had always had a keen appreciation for the obvious. Unfortunately for his long-suffering family, who had hoped for more from their second son, it was not a talent likely ever to support him. “No, I never did.”

  “Still, I’d have thought you’d recoup your loses. Cards not running your way?”

  Dangerous images flashed in Granville’s mind: the smoky buzz of a gambling hall, cards spread on the green baize, the thrill in his blood when he held a winning hand. . . . Edward lying facedown in a pool of his own blood.

  “No,” he said, his voice harsh in his own ears. “I don’t gamble anymore.”

  “The luckiest man in London has given up cards? I don’t believe it, by Jove, I don’t.”

  Granville ignored the dig. “And you? What about yourself?”

  Blayney ducked his head, scuffing one toe along the ground. Despite his privileged background, he was still the least socially comfortable man Granville had ever met.

  But personal experience had taught Granville what failure felt like, what it tasted like and what it looked like, and Blayney did not fit the mode. His boots were polished and his coat, of good quality wool, tailored to fit. So what was he hiding?

  “Hear anything from home?” Granville asked, instantly regretting the words. England was no longer home.

  “I’m afraid I’m out of favor at the moment.”

  And likely to remain so, Granville thought, which meant no remittance from Papa. Still, the fellow seemed not to be suffering. “You’re working, then?”

  Blayney beamed. “I’m a sort of general manager for a fellow named Gipson.”

  “Gipson? George Gipson?”

  “You know him?”

  Granville nodded. Oh, yes, he knew the old weasel. Too well. In their last encounter, Gipson had hired a couple of toughs to ambush Granville and stake him on the frozen edge of a Yukon lake for the night. If Scott had been even ten minutes longer in finding him, he’d have died there.

  “Gipson struck it rich, you know,” Blayney was saying. “He struck gold on the edge of a claim he’d worked forever. Finally his patience paid off.”

  “Gipson struck gold?” If Gipson had found gold, it hadn’t been on his own claim, Granville thought. Of all the miners Granville had met in his eighteen months in and around the creeks of the Yukon, Gipson was the least skilled and the most corrupt—and patience was not a quality he had ever been known for.

  “More gold than even you or I dreamed of.” Blayney said, managing to look both envious and defiant.

  Then why would he hire Blayney, of all people? Certainly Blayney had an English public-school education, the same one as Granville’s own. Heavy on the classics, light on everything else—a training as useless out here on the edge of a new world as anything he could think of. It made no sense, and Granville had never been able to resist puzzles. It was what drew him to games of chance. “So what does a man who’s already made his fortune need a general manager for?”

  Blayney brushed a speck of mud off his coat. “This and that. So, may I buy you a drink?”

  Granville abandoned the idea of new boots without a qualm. “Indeed you may.”

  Blayney turned and led the way into the Dancing Dog across the street. “Two whiskeys,” he called out.

  The smell of smoke, beer, wet wool, and unwashed bodies hit Granville the moment he walked in. Every bar he’d been in from San Francisco to Dawson City smelled the same. It was about as far from a Pall Mall club as you could get, but the whiskey tasted as good, and, to his mind, the company was better.

  “So, Granville. What have you been up to?”

  Granville shrugged. “This and that,” he said.

  “What are you doing now you’re here?” his companion persisted.

  Granville took a slug of his whiskey. “I hooked up with my partner from the goldfields, and he’s found me a job guarding empty boxcars.”

  Blayney spluttered. Granville regarded him with mild concern. The man still couldn’t drink.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” Blayney said when he’d caught his breath. “But empty boxcars? Sounds odd, old chap.”

  “Odd it may be, but the CPR pays well, and jobs are hard to come by in this town. Especially for traveling British gentlemen, it seems.”

  “The CPR?” Blayney said. “You’re working for Canadian Pacific?”

  Granville nodded. “I’m now guarding the silk trains. You’ve heard of them?”

  Blayney took a hefty swig of his whiskey, then pulled out a gold pocket watch. “Look, I�
��m most awfully sorry. I’ve just remembered an important appointment. Worth my life if I’m late. I must dash, but have another drink on me.” He threw some coins on the table.

  Granville watched him leave. Now, what was that all about? Blayney had practically had heart failure on the spot. Was it the mention of the boxcars they were guarding? Perhaps Scott’s tales of the silk robberies weren’t quite so far-fetched, after all.

  And what was Gipson up to with his newfound wealth? Most likely nothing legal. Personally, he intended to stay as far away from the fellow as possible. He turned his mind to more important matters. First the haircut, then he’d do something about the boots and perhaps the coat, too. He hadn’t missed the pity in Blayney’s eyes, and despite what his brother might think, he hadn’t yet sunk that far.

  Stepping onto the planked walkway several hours later, Granville rubbed a hand against the newly revealed squareness of his chin. Following the new fashion, he’d even dispensed with a mustache. After so many months behind a thick beard, he felt oddly exposed. He snorted with sudden laughter at the thought, imagining Scott’s reaction. He’d never hear the end of it.

  He drew his new, double-breasted greatcoat more closely about him, the warmth and fit a welcome change from what he’d worn for nearly two years. He’d been lucky to find it, though the luck hadn’t only been his. He’d never forget expression on the tailor’s face when he’d walked in. Sheer horror at his attire had been rapidly replaced with the gleeful recognition of a solution to an expensive problem. Mr. Tittle, it seemed, was in possession of “a beautiful overcoat, sir, commissioned special for a gent just your size, who failed to collect it.”

  And it was rather nice, especially for the price he’d paid, once he’d convinced the little tailor to admit the down payment already made on the coat, and to factor that into the final price. Between the coat, the hat and his new boots, also compliments of the unknown gent, he pretty much resembled the upper-class Englishman he’d been raised to be. With a wry smile twisting his lips, he headed for the docks.

  “Well now, don’t you clean up pretty,” Scott drawled from behind him.

  Granville spun around and assumed a fighting stance. “Who you calling pretty, you big lummox?”

  Scott laughed, then wrinkled his nose and inhaled lustily. “You even smell pretty.”

  “Well, that’s better than smelling like a hibernating grizzly. Now, tell me, what do you hear about Gipson?”

  Scott’s grin changed to a scowl. “That scum? Why’re you askin’ about him?”

  “I ran into an old acquaintance, name of Blayney, quite down at heels last time I saw him. He’s cleaned up nicely these days and all, it seems, due to Gipson.”

  Scott looked Granville up and down, from his neatly barbered hair to his gleaming boots, but didn’t say a word. Luckily for him, Granville thought darkly. “It seems Blayney is working for Gipson. Poor fellow. But something’s up, he lost all his color when he heard I was working with you at the yard.”

  “Working for Gipson, is it? Doing what?”

  “It’s hard to tell. What’s Gipson’s business these days?”

  “He’s set himself up as an honest businessman, but rumor says it’s a front.”

  “I’d say that rumor is correct.”

  “I see you haven’t lost your love of the man.”

  “It’s a weakness, I know, but I can’t help hating people who try to kill me.”

  “He thought you were after his claim.”

  “So he said.”

  “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “Well, if you’re lucky, Benton will handle Gipson for you. Rumor also has it Gipson’s poaching on his territory.”

  “Gipson’s moving onto Benton’s territory? I thought that Jackson was doing the poaching, or are they working together?”

  Scott looked thoughtful. “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “So what makes that dried-up old weasel think he can challenge Benton?”

  “That weasel’s got money now. And if Benton presses him, well, ain’t nothin’ nastier than a cornered weasel. Now, come on, partner. We’ve got a boxcar to guard.”

  “I thought the India was due in today.”

  “She got caught in a storm at sea and delayed. She made it to Victoria today, should be here tomorrow.”

  T H R E E

  Wednesday, December 6, 1899

  It was a quiet night, if long and even colder than the previous one. It warmed enough to start snowing sometime after nine, thick flakes floating down, obscuring sight and muffling sound. Toward dawn it turned to rain, steadily growing to a downpour. By the time sunrise streaked the heavy clouds with pink, Granville was cold, wet, and miserable despite his new coat. He was also heartily bored; they hadn’t seen or heard anyone all night; it had been just Scott and himself and the boxcars.

  He scowled at his partner, who looked untroubled by the long hours, the cold and the lack of sleep. Scott refused to discuss Gipson or his doings any further, changing the subject each time Granville mentioned the name. He was even less forthcoming on the subject of Benton and Jackson. Was something going on that Scott wasn’t telling him? Granville wondered for the sixteenth time that night. His mind worried at the question, turning over the few facts he had, looking for patterns.

  The daytime guard finally relieved them at six. Feet squishing wetly, Scott and Granville walked north and west, heading for Cambie Street. On their left was a row of boxcars, paralleling the docks. On their right was Water Street, lined with brick warehouses. They walked in silence for several minutes, too cold and wet for idle conversation.

  Granville noticed a light burning over the doorway of the four-story Hudson’s Bay warehouse, and was thinking how advanced this frontier city was in some ways—even the warehouses were wired for electricity—when, beside him, Scott stopped abruptly. Granville froze, every sense alert. His hand fell to his revolver. “What is it?”

  Scott moved toward a dark mound lying half-hidden under one of the boxcars. A bleak certainty of what they’d find filled Granville. He had seen death in too many guises not to recognize it here.

  Scott bent to the body, rolled it over. “He’s dead. Shot, looks like.” He fingered a singed hole in the man’s coat, picked up an arm, let it drop.

  There was nothing they could do for him now. Granville scanned the area around them. Nothing moved, nothing claimed his attention. He looked from the body to the empty boxcar. Had the man been killed here, or shot elsewhere and dumped? And why here?

  “Neither of us heard anything. The snow would have muffled sounds.” The dead man was a dark shape against the pale gravel. “Do you know who he is?”

  Scott nodded, his face expressionless in the half-light. “Oh, yeah. It’s Jackson, Benton’s right-hand man.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Scott nodded. “And there’ll be the devil to pay.”

  Granville stared hard at what had once been a man. Undoubtedly Jackson was a scoundrel, but no one deserved to die like this. “He’s the best-dressed dead man I’ve seen in quite some time,” he said lightly. “The evening coat is a particularly nice touch. But he looks surprised about something.”

  “Probably being shot,” Scott said. “I’ve heard it takes people that way.”

  Granville laughed. “So will the city police handle this?”

  “Someone has to tell them, first.”

  “Very amusing. You spotted him and identified the body. I think that should be you.”

  “Walking will be warmer than standing here, anyway. We’ll be back soon.”

  As the sound of Scott’s footsteps faded, Granville stood contemplating the body. After a quick look around, he bent down for a closer look at the icy hands. They showed no sign of bruising on the knuckles, and the fingernails were clean. They were also manicured, Granville noted. It didn’t look like Jackson had been in a struggle before he was shot.

  His curiosity unsatisfied, he
ran a hand into the dead man’s pockets. In one pocket he found a handbill, brightly colored and crudely lettered, and was unfolding it when the crunching of heavy feet on gravel startled him. He straightened, placing the page in his pocket.

  When Scott and two policemen in the dark blue uniforms and peaked caps of the city force came into view, Granville was standing several feet from the corpse, looking respectful. In the barrage of questions that followed, he stayed in the background, listening hard. He wasn’t really involved, hadn’t found the body, didn’t know the dead man, but the questions interested him. It wasn’t the fact that Jackson was dead—that seemed almost expected—it was where he’d died and when that appeared to concern them most.

  As the questions hurled at Scott seemed to become more pointed, however, Granville stepped forward. “We kept watch together last night, and were leaving the yard together this morning,” he said.

  One of the policemen, a short, burly man, turned toward him. His expression was not friendly. “All night? From what time? And how do you know this fellow didn’t just walk off and return without your noticing?”

  His insolent tone irritated Granville. “Yes, all night, from eight o’clock last evening, and we were within sight of each other all night.”

  “And what time did you say you left the yard?”

  He hadn’t said. “Six, wasn’t it, Scott?”

  His partner nodded.

  “How long has this person been dead?” Granville asked.

  The other officer was checking the dead man’s pockets. In the back one, which Granville hadn’t had time to check, he found a dark, flat wallet.

  “I’d say since long before ten, but we need the coroner to be sure. You sent for him yet?” the shorter one said.

  The other man nodded. “Station’ll have done that.” He looked at Granville. “You’re sure you both left at six?”

  “Yes.”