The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

  He nodded at Clara, then seated himself.

  “Well?”

  Emily started. Mr. Granville’s tone was abrupt and he looked impatient. “The person you are looking for? The one who killed Mr. Jackson? I have it on good authority that the killer is a woman.”

  Beside her Clara gave a little squeak, and Emily glared at her.

  He looked a little surprised, she thought. “What authority?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

  “We went to see a medium,” Clara blurted.

  Mr. Granville looked as if he wished he’d never met either of them. “A medium,” he said slowly, as if searching for something inoffensive to say.

  Emily took a deep breath. There was no point in hiding anything now. “That’s right. And she appeared to channel the spirit of Mr. Jackson, who said he had been shot by a woman.”

  “You say she appeared to channel Jackson’s spirit. You didn’t believe her?”

  Emily considered the question and said slowly, “Well, there was no proof. It could have been genuine, but it might have been a sham. Something about it, however, contained a ring of truth. I’m not being gullible, I assure you.”

  “What exactly did this medium tell you?” he asked.

  “The spirit was precise,” Emily said. “He said he had been shot late at night. And that he had been shot by a woman, but that it was too dark to see her.”

  “Well, Jackson was certainly killed at night. Anything else? Did he recognize anything about the woman?”

  “He said he wasn’t sure, but he thought she was wearing the scent of musk.”

  “Musk?”

  Emily nodded. “Yes. According to my mother, it is a scent no respectable woman would wear.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been discussing a murderer with your mother. Or mediums, for that matter.”

  Emily smiled at the idea. “No, of course not. I just mentioned that I had heard of a new scent and was thinking of trying some.”

  “Ah,” said Granville.

  He must have sisters, Emily thought. She smiled at him. “There was one other thing.”

  Before he could respond, the waiter bore down on them with their order. Emily picked up the teapot. “Tea?”

  Granville lifted his cup, and he met her eyes over the rim. “You were saying there was one other thing?”

  “Yes, of course. The spirit said that after she shot him, the woman said ‘Welcome to Hell.’”

  “Welcome to Hell?”

  “Yes.” Emily was proud she’d managed to repeat the words without blushing. Beside her, Clara had turned beet red. It was a good thing no one was close enough to overhear what they were saying.

  “What was this medium’s name?”

  “Then you do believe me?” Emily was amazed.

  He smiled. “Let’s just say that this is the second time I have heard that Jackson’s killer was a woman.”

  “Then it’s possible Jackson’s killer really was a woman? If you’ve heard it from another source, I mean.”

  “I’m beginning to think so, yes.”

  “Then what would her words mean?”

  “Perhaps she found her own circumstances desperate, and blamed Jackson for them.”

  “Will this information help you find her, then? The real killer, I mean?” Emily held her breath as she waited for his answer.

  Mr. Granville lifted his own teacup in a silent toast. “The information you have given me will help a great deal. It gives me a place to begin asking questions. I am indebted to you.”

  “Oh.” To her own embarrassment, Emily now flushed deeply. “It was nothing. I am just glad I could help. I don’t know why we decided to visit a medium, but once I’d determined to help you, this idea presented itself. Neither I nor my friends had ever consulted one before.”

  He laughed, a rich sound that Emily stored for remembering later. “Miss Turner, I’ll need the name and address of that medium. I would like to talk to her myself now.”

  “I’ve written it down,” Emily said, passing a piece of paper across the table to him. “I would very much like to know how your discussion with her goes. Perhaps you would inform Bertie when you see him next, and he can tell me.”

  She looked down at her lap for a moment, then took her courage in both hands. “Or, if you happen to be in the area, Clara and I will be taking tea here at two tomorrow afternoon.”

  “We will . . .?” Clara began, but Emily silenced her with a stern look.

  “And we would be pleased if you joined us.” Emily listened with the same pleasure as before when Granville laughed again.

  E I G H T E E N

  “No, it wasn’t a waste of time,” Granville told Trent. “It just wasn’t a meeting for you to tag along to.”

  “Well, she’s only a girl. How much help could she be?”

  “More than you’ve been,” Granville teased, then relented when he saw the look on Trent’s face. “You’re my Watson.” But that only brought on another hurt expression and Granville had to explain about Arthur Conan Doyle and his consulting detective.

  Trent had been helpful, Granville thought. But what Emily had told him, even given its unexpected and quite peculiar source, was a potential key to the maze he faced. Either he had to consider the possibility that Jackson’s killer really had been a woman, or find out why Bertie’s uncle and a medium were both sending misinformation his way.

  Emily had surprised him on their second meeting; she had not only had the imagination to set up a meeting with a medium but also had made intelligent observations about what she had heard. Granville smiled at the thought of the starchy Mr. Turner trying to cope with a daughter like Emily.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Trent sounded annoyed. Granville’s smile widened. Obviously he didn’t like feeling left out. Granville couldn’t blame him. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “It’s not nothing to me, your grinning like that.”

  “So, are you ready to help me with our next interview?” Granville asked to distract him.

  The ploy worked. Trent’s face lit up. “I sure am. Who are we talking to next?”

  “First a Mrs. Merchant. Then I’ll need you to find Bertie for me. Think you can do it?”

  “Try me.”

  Two hours later, Granville was standing on the wooden sidewalk outside a neat little brick house in the West End, swearing inventively. Trent looked impressed by his creativity, which didn’t decrease Granville’s frustration one iota. The visit they’d paid to Mrs. Merchant had been short, and less than helpful. She had simply and categorically denied knowing anything about the conversation between the spirit of Clive Jackson and Miss Emily James.

  “I remember nothing from my sessions,” she’d said, her expression sanctimonious. “But you are welcome to stay for your own session, if you wish.”

  He had then sat through an interminable hour in stifling silence, long legs cramped under a tiny table. At the end of it, she’d met his gaze and told him she was sorry but the spirits weren’t cooperating that day.

  “They are sometimes cautious,” she explained as she pocketed his money. “I’m sure they’ll talk to you if you return another day.”

  She had to be a fraud, but a cautious one. Granville was curious what it was about him that had made her wary. She must know something about Jackson’s death—but what, and from whom? Clearly he wasn’t going to find out by asking her, but perhaps if Emily were to visit her again? Mulling that idea over, he turned to Trent. “Where do we find your pal Bertie?”

  “This time of day? Maybe the Chinese laundry over on Richards.”

  “Can we go there?”

  Trent nodded. “Follow me,” he said.

  The laundry was tiny, barely ten feet wide. It was also hot, crowded, and loud with shrilling conversations that shocked Granville’s unaccustomed ears. He scanned the crowd. Bertie was not among the customers, nor was his one of the dark heads bent over steaming tubs of water or hanging drip
ping clothes on the lines that ran along the walls.

  “He’ll be here,” Trent promised. “What time is it?”

  Granville pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “Nearly two.”

  “He’ll be here soon,” Trent said with confidence.

  Nearly an hour later, Trent’s confidence had wilted. The heat and the noise had driven them outside, despite gray clouds that threatened more snow and a wind that kept reaching icy fingers down the back of Granville’s neck. He drew his collar closer and looked over at Trent. “We’ve waited long enough. Come on.”

  “Where?”

  “Turner’s place.”

  Trent looked horrified. “We can’t go there.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “If you go there and ask for Bertie, you’ll get him fired, probably me, too. And it’s not easy to get a job, you know.”

  Yes, Granville thought, watching Trent’s expression, that was something he’d been learning in the last few months. All those years as a fourth son, when he’d felt there was no place in the world he truly fit, he’d still never worried about his next meal. Even those lean years in the Yukon, he’d still had the last of the settlement his father sent with him to fall back upon. After that, he had mostly gone hungry till Scott had offered him the job with the CPR. He clapped a hand on Trent’s shoulder. “You’re right. We’ll find another way to talk to him.”

  Trent let out a sigh of relief, then hurried to catch up with Granville’s long strides. “If we’re not going to talk to Bertie, then where are we going?”

  “We’re going to have another chat with Benton. If a woman shot Jackson, there are a couple of things that don’t add up.”

  “There are?” Trent asked, trying to catch his breath.

  “There are,” Granville said. He’d been doing some thinking. If it wasn’t Frances Scott was protecting, could it be their other sister, Lizzie? When Frances had spoken of her, she had been overcome by emotion. Had that been an act, designed to keep him from asking more questions? If so, it had been effective.

  Granville considered the possibilities. Lizzie as the dark-haired woman who had shot Jackson, the person Scott was protecting? It made a certain kind of sense. But if he was right, why had Lizzie done it, and where was she now?

  Benton looked surprised to see them, but recovering his aplomb, he invited them into his office after a short delay.

  “Why are you back?” Benton’s approach was direct.

  “There was one question I forgot to ask you the last time.”

  “Oh?”

  “You told me the first time we spoke that you would take care of Jackson’s murderer. Have you done that?”

  A muscle tightened beside Benton’s mouth, but his voice was level. “No. The situation has changed.”

  Of course it has, now that you know he was killed by a woman, Granville thought, his suspicions confirmed. “Changed how?”

  Benton gave a sharp nod. “I now believe it to have been a personal matter, only affecting Jackson and his killer, nothing to do with me or my businesses, so I’m satisfied.”

  Granville didn’t believe him for a minute: a man in Benton’s line of work could not afford to give up vengeance so easily. “Your second in command is murdered, and it has nothing to do with you?”

  Benton drew on his cigar. “Jackson’s death had nothing to do with anything except who Jackson was.”

  Granville nodded, watching his expression closely. “I see. Well, with Scott still in jail, I am not satisfied.” He paused. “Your change of heart wouldn’t be because his killer was a woman, would it?”

  Benton avoided the question. “It was an entirely personal matter.”

  “Then who killed Jackson?”

  “I don’t know who killed him, but I do know Jackson brought it on himself.”

  There was a note of truth in Benton’s voice; he believed what he was saying.

  “How?” Granville thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear Benton’s version.

  “Jackson was a man of many appetites. He knew people from all levels of society, and used most of them. He got what was coming to him.”

  Benton was definitely protecting someone. He might not be sure who had killed Jackson, but he clearly had his suspicions. “From whom?” he persisted.

  “That’s all I can tell you.”

  “And you won’t tell me who you think might have killed Jackson?”

  “No.” Benton paused, drew deeply on his cigar, and eyed Granville through the smoke. “Why? Who do you think killed him?”

  Granville decided to take a risk. “I think it will turn out to be Sam and Frances’s sister, Lizzie.”

  Benton, who was in the process of relighting his cigar, paused and watched Granville through the smoke. “Do you, now? And why would you think that?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “And what do you propose to do about it?”

  “Find Lizzie.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “Because I think you know where she is.”

  Benton puffed out a cloud of cigar smoke. “You’re wrong,” he said.

  “Are you saying that Lizzie is not the killer? Or that you don’t know where to find her?”

  “I’m saying you’re wrong about all of it.”

  “Oh? Then Frances is the killer?” Beside Granville, Trent shifted restlessly, but he didn’t say anything.

  “You know she’s not.”

  Granville felt the muscles in his jaw knot. “I only know that a man is dead and that Sam Scott is in jail for a murder he didn’t commit.” He kept his voice very level. “Beyond that I have conjectures, rumor, and supposition, but no facts. Which is why I am talking to you. I hear that in this town you are the man with the answers, and right now I am running short of them.” And even shorter of time, Granville thought, but he wasn’t willing to show Benton the desperation he was beginning to feel. He recognized in him a man to whom it would be dangerous to reveal anything the other might see as a weakness.

  N I N E T E E N

  Emily was restless. Being dragged from shop to shop by Clara was utterly boring. She looked over at her friend, who was deep in contemplation of the merits of one waist over another, and sighed. On a day like today, with the wind blowing straight off the snow-covered mountains that rose behind the city, it was a wonder that exercise-averse Clara was even willing to walk from store to store. Only her love of shopping could overcome her dislike of the cold.

  Emily shook her head ruefully; another half-hour of such tedious activity and she’d go crazy. She absently fingered a swath of blue velvet lying on the counter, enjoying the soft feel of the fabric, when inspiration struck. “Clara,” she said. “Clara!”

  “Emily, which do you think?” Clara asked, turning to face her. “The cerise or the mauve?”

  Emily looked quickly from one to the other. Both had a white front, with crossbars of black velvet ribbon; the only difference was the color. She looked from the waists to Clara’s creamy complexion and blue eyes and back again. “The cerise,” she said. “It will best become you. But never mind that for now. I want to go to visit Papa’s office. Will you come?”

  “You want to visit your father?” Clara was stunned.

  “Yes. The railway offices are actually quite interesting. Will you accompany me?”

  “Well, I suppose so. Just let me purchase this first.”

  “Good afternoon, Papa,” Emily said, opening the heavy office door and poking her head around it. The room beyond was paneled in aromatic cedar, with a massive oak desk, glass-fronted bookcases, and a beautiful Aubusson carpet. The effect was one of restrained luxury; it seemed more like a home than an office, and Emily took a deep, appreciative breath. She’d always loved the way it smelled: spicy cedar and lemon furniture polish, mixed with the tang of cigar smoke and the richness of leather.

  “Emily? And Clara too,” he exclaimed as Emily opened the door wider. “This is a surprise. Is something wrong
?”

  “No, Papa. I wanted to show Clara your office.”

  “You’re right, Emily, it is beautiful,” Clara said.

  You couldn’t even tell she’d been coached in what to say, Emily thought in relief. “And I love to see you at work,” she finished. Her father was too busy showing Clara around to question her last statement, though her mother would not have believed it for an instant, Emily knew.

  “From this window you get a good view of the rail yards,” her father was saying. “And there, beyond it you can see one of our Empress liners. She’s set to sail right after the New Year. A beauty, isn’t she?”

  Emily joined the two of them at the window, gazing at the sleek white steam liner with the swept-back bows. She couldn’t believe her luck. “Where is she sailing, Papa?” she asked, attempting to sound casual.

  “To the Orient, my dear.”

  “Oh, is that one of the ships that carries tea and silk?”

  “It is indeed,” he said, pride evident in his voice. “That beauty is the Empress of India. The Empress of Japan is due in next month, and the Empress of China the month after that.”

  Clara’s imagination was caught by silk, not ships. “Is it very valuable? The silk, I mean?”

  “Very. One carload of raw silk is worth more than a hundred thousand dollars, and this last shipment took seven carloads. Biggest we’ve ever had.”

  That was over 700,000 dollars. Emily was stunned. It was more money than she could imagine. Why, even her bicycle, the deluxe model that Papa had bought for her the Christmas before last, had only cost thirty-five dollars, and that was the most expensive thing she had ever owned. No wonder they hired men to guard the silk. “Aren’t you afraid the silk will be stolen?”

  He nodded, looking pleased that at her interest. “Yes, that is why the CPR started the silk trains. Add our fastest engines and those trains break records right across the continent. They stop only to take on coal and water.”

  “So are they going too fast to rob?”