The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

  “It does make it more difficult, though mostly the faster we can get the silk to New York, the better our prices. No, we have armed guards on every car of the silk trains, plus we put guards on the empty cars before the silk ever arrives in Vancouver, to make sure there’s no trouble in the cargo transfer from the Empresses.”

  “And that’s what Mr. Scott does, the man who is in jail? He guards the empty silk train?”

  Mr. Turner looked a little concerned. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “Though I don’t know how you knew that,” he added, half to himself.

  “Had the Empress of India arrived when that man was shot?”

  He looked thoughtful. “They found him the morning of the day she docked.”

  “What happens when an Empress docks?”

  “There’s a great commotion, but the silk is the first thing unloaded after the passengers and their baggage. The bales are transferred directly from the ship to the waiting boxcars. The company pays a bonus if the silk is unloaded quickly.”

  “Are the bales heavy?”

  “Nearly a hundred and twenty-five pounds apiece.”

  Emily tried to picture it: the ship at the dock, the bales of silk being lifted across, the sense of urgency. “How long does the silk train stay in the station once it’s loaded?”

  “A silk train leaves the very second that loading is complete.”

  “And there was no attempt to rob this shipment?”

  “No, thank goodness. It arrived safely in New York a little less than eighty-four hours after it left here. A new record,” he said, beaming.

  Emily had never heard her father talk so openly about his work. He must indeed be proud of his silk trains. She hastened to ask further questions before he changed his mind and stopped answering. “So do you think there is a connection between the silk and the man who was shot?”

  Her father’s face grew red and he scowled. “No, I don’t think there is any connection. How could there be? And why are you asking me this?”

  “Well, I just thought that if you trusted Mr. Scott to guard the silk cars, he must not be the kind of man who would commit murder.” Emily considered blinking her lashes at him, the way she’d seen her sister Jane do to great effect, but she was afraid she’d look foolish. So she gave him a small smile instead.

  “Of course Scott seemed trustworthy. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Jackson.” He looked thoroughly bad-tempered now, the look he always got when faced with contradictory ideas.

  “It doesn’t?”

  “Of course it doesn’t,” he said testily. “Emily, you know nothing of such men. Which is as it should be.”

  “But why would Mr. Scott have done such a thing?”

  “Jackson deserved to die.”

  Emily was stunned. She’d never heard her father talk like that, never heard such venom in his voice. “Why, Papa? What did he do?”

  Her father looked shocked, as though he’d forgotten to whom he was speaking. “Never mind, young lady. This isn’t something you need to know about.”

  Emily wasn’t giving up that easily. “But, Papa, what about Mr. Scott?”

  “Run along, Emily. I’ll see you tonight,” her father said firmly as he herded them toward the door. “It was nice of you both to visit.”

  The door closed firmly behind him, and Emily and Clara looked at each other.

  “I wonder what Mr. Jackson did to your father?” Clara said.

  T W E N T Y

  “So you are looking for answers.” Benton had lit another cigar and breathed out a cloud of pungent smoke.

  “I am looking to get Scott out of jail,” Granville said, resisting the urge to stand up and pace the spacious room.

  “Yet you weren’t at the hearing today.”

  “What hearing?”

  “The one where your friend was bound over for trial, on a charge of murder.”

  Granville could barely contain his shock. “When was this?”

  “This morning. Scott declined to testify, which did him no good in the judge’s eyes.”

  Which explained why Scott hadn’t told him. “And when is the trial?”

  “Next Tuesday. The nineteenth.”

  At least it was the date he’d been working toward. Granville forced his mind to focus on why he was here. “The problem is, I seem to be the only person interested in clearing Scott’s name.”

  “Frances wants her brother freed.”

  “Does she? She has a bloody odd way of going about it, if she does. Or is it just that she doesn’t trust me?”

  That earned a half smile from Benton. “She doesn’t know you, does she? Though I think she believes that you want the best for Scott. The problem is that she trusts me.”

  Granville slowly sat back in his chair, watching Benton carefully, trying to read the expression in his eyes. “You are trying to get Scott out of jail?”

  “Let’s say Frances wants me to get Scott out of jail.”

  “And I’m in the way?” Granville kept his face expressionless as he asked the question. Beside him, he could feel Trent tensing.

  Benton blew another cloud of smoke. “That’s one way of putting it.” He slowly tapped the ashes of his cigar into a cut-glass ashtray, then met Granville’s eyes. “But I do think I see a solution to my problem with Frances.”

  “Oh?” Granville said, watching him warily. This man was far more dangerous than Gipson could ever be. Did he know about his meetings with Frances, and the near flirtation that had sprung up between them?

  Benton nodded. “For various reasons, I can’t deal with the matter of Jackson’s killer myself. But for the sake of—shall we say harmony?—I’d like to see your partner released from jail. I think you may be my answer.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’d like to hire you to get Scott out of jail.” Benton smiled, and the smile reached his eyes, lightening their darkness. “After all, you are a detective, aren’t you? That is what I keep hearing.”

  Granville sat back with a silent groan. He might have known that particular lie would come back to haunt him.

  Benton was looking at with something very like amusement. “You’re not worried about taking money from me, are you? It spends the same as anyone’s.”

  “No, I am not worried about the money.” There were always the poker tables, Granville thought. “The problem is that I already have a client.”

  “Scott, I presume?”

  “That’s right.” Even if Scott seemed determined to refuse his help.

  “I don’t imagine he’s paying you much.”

  “Money is not the issue.”

  “Hmmm.” Benton’s eyes drifted over Granville, assessing as they went.

  Granville was glad of the quality of his new outfit; outwardly at least, he had nothing to be ashamed of. Inwardly it might be a different matter, but then every man was entitled to his secrets.

  “If I hire you, you’ll have access to any information and resources I have.”

  “Then give me access and save yourself the fee. I will free Scott, anyway.” Whatever Benton’s game was, Granville didn’t want to be indebted to him.

  Benton’s eyes gleamed. “If I hire you, it will appease Frances. If you fail, it’s you she will blame, not me. If I don’t hire you, Frances will expect me to save Scott.” He drew on his cigar, watching Granville. “So if I don’t hire you, there’s no reason for me to tell you anything.”

  Granville started to laugh. Against his better judgment, he liked this man, and for some reason he trusted him, at least in this. “How can I resist such a magnificent offer?”

  Benton watched Granville for a moment, a hint of something that might have been surprise on his face, then he put down his cigar and reached across the desk to shake Granville’s hand. “Good. Consider yourself hired.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask my terms?”

  Benton’s eyes glinted. “As you just told me, money is not the issue. I’ll pay your terms, whatever they are. I am sure th
ey’ll be reasonable.”

  It was a warning, but it was also a joke, and Granville smiled, amused by the irony of it all. “Well, perhaps on the far edge of reasonable.”

  Trent tugged at Granville’s sleeve. “What about me?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper that carried far better than he had meant it to.

  Granville grinned. “Of course, those terms will include my assistant.”

  Benton chuckled. “Of course,” he agreed. “How could I not hire such a fervent champion of my Frances?”

  “Oh, you noticed that?”

  “It’s hard to miss.”

  They both turned and looked at Trent, who flushed under their combined regard.

  They turned off Water Street and onto Carrall, striding past the magnificent brick-and-glass facade of the Alhambra Hotel, past ships chandleries, stepping aside from the sprays of mud and water thrown up by the horses pulling the delivery vans.

  “I can’t believe you agreed to work for Mr. Benton,” Trent said.

  “Why not? We are now making good money to chase rumors all over town, and we know that Benton suspects Frances’s sister Lizzie, and so does Frances.”

  Trent looked at Granville for a moment. “We do?”

  “Think about it.”

  Trent’s forehead wrinkled for a moment, then cleared. “You mean because he didn’t argue when you said it was Lizzie?”

  “And because he was no longer interested in pursuing the matter himself. It would be somewhat awkward for him, if the killer is his lover’s sister. The complication for Frances is that she wants to see neither her brother hanged nor her sister apprehended for the murder of a man who deserved killing.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Now? We get out of this blasted wind and find ourselves somewhere warm. I could use a whiskey.”

  “Now? But what about our case?”

  Granville grinned at the proprietary sound of that “our.” He probably shouldn’t tease Trent. Still, it was difficult not to. “I have a particular taste for the whiskey at the Carlton.”

  Trent looked confused for a second, then began to grin. “Oh, I get it. We’re going to talk to Miss Frances again, right?”

  “Right.”

  Frances was not pleased to see them. They’d found her seated at the vanity in her cluttered dressing room. She was assessing her reflected image as she held a long diamond earring up to one earlobe, the gems glittering against her hair. The opening of the door had caught her attention and she’d glared at their images in her mirror. Meeting those angry eyes, Granville felt a stab of lust. She was stunning in her fury.

  “Why are you back?”

  “I just have a couple of questions for you, if you don’t mind.” He should have waited until she’d had a chance to talk to Benton, Granville thought ruefully as her eyes sparked at him.

  “I told you everything I know.”

  She was a good liar, he’d give her that. “Not quite,” he said, watching her closely.

  Her eyes darted to her dressing table, and it didn’t take a genius to realize she was looking for something to throw at him. He had to admire her spirit. “Benton just hired me,” he said hastily as she curled one hand around a glass jar full of powder.

  “He what?” It was almost a shriek.

  “Hired me.”

  “Why?” Her voice was an interesting combination of threat and fear.

  “To clear Scott. Which means I have to find Jackson’s killer.” He paused, letting silence fill the room, and watched her face. “Benton says you think it might be your sister Lizzie.”

  She gasped, the sound loud in the quiet room, and her face went white. Trent started to move toward her, but Granville’s outstretched hand warned him back. He needed answers, and to get them, he had to crack through her protective shell. “I want to save Scott’s life,” Granville said, his voice gentle. “Benton trusts me.” Enough to hire him, anyway. “Don’t you think you can trust me?”

  “Damn you,” she said, turning to face him. “Damn you for this.”

  It shook him, hearing a woman curse. “For making you choose?” He watched her for a moment, looking for the words that would persuade her. “Scott has already chosen. He’ll die rather than mention Lizzie.” One hand twitched in her lap, then was still. “Is that what you want, to see Scott dead for something he didn’t do?”

  She blinked, her eyes filling with tears. “No, I don’t want Sam to die.” Her voice softened but the words were clear and firm. “I asked Benton to save him, but I don’t want it to be at the cost of my sister.”

  “It may not come to that.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  No, she wouldn’t accept false comfort, he thought, and respected her for it. “Just tell me what you know. I will save Scott, and if there’s any way I can save your sister, too, you have my word I’ll do it.”

  She gave him a piercing look, as if assessing what his word was worth. Granville said nothing, just met her gaze steadily, and waited. Would she trust him?

  It seemed forever that he stood, breathing in the mingled aromas of paint, powder, and scent, watching her bent head. When she finally spoke, he had to bend his own to hear her.

  “All right,” she said, then straightened and gave him a fierce look. “What did you want to ask?”

  “Where is Lizzie now?”

  “Somewhere in Vancouver.”

  “You don’t know where?”

  She shook her head, then sighed. “She’ll be in a house, somewhere. She’s a prostitute.”

  “Is that why you said she was lost to you?”

  “Do I look like a hypocrite to you?” she challenged him. “My life is not exactly what you’d call proper.”

  “No, but it isn’t boring.” That earned him a flicker of a smile. “Why did you call her lost?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was low. “Lizzie has been smitten with the poppy.”

  It took him a moment to grasp her meaning. “Your sister’s an opium-eater?” It wasn’t as bad as he’d been expecting. Laudanum was prescribed for everything from toothache to nervous conditions; he’d known at least one countess, to say nothing of a poet or two, who’d been addicted to the stuff. There were cures available.

  Frances shook her head, her expression fierce. “I wish it were laudanum she took. She’s addicted to the opium pipe.”

  T W E N T Y – O N E

  What had Mr. Jackson done to her father? Emily wondered as she and Clara stepped back into the icy wind. It must have been something awful; she’d never heard Papa wish anyone dead before, and his eyes had been filled with anger. She shivered a little, and drew her collar more closely around her neck.

  “Clara, it worries me that Papa was so very upset about Mr. Jackson. I hope it isn’t connected to why he was murdered.”

  “Slow down,” Clara said, her voice breathless. “You are walking too quickly.” She paused for an instant then hurried to Emily’s side. “I still don’t understand why you are involving yourself with that awful murder.”

  “Because it is the only bit of life in my own!” Emily burst out, then stopped and looked at her friend. “Oh, Clara, I feel so trapped. Papa forbids almost everything and Mama tries so hard to turn me into a lady, I feel as if I’m choking. It’s almost the new century, everything is changing, but it seems I’m going to be locked in the old ways forever.”

  “I know, Emily. But why a murder? It’s so ugly.”

  “Because this is what I’ve been given the opportunity to do. Because no one else seems to care that an innocent man will hang.”

  “If he is innocent, then they will find that out at his trial. And besides, he has that Mr. Granville trying to get him free.”

  “And what if he doesn’t succeed? What if something I could have done or found out could have made a difference, but I didn’t bother? How will I feel if they hang him and I never even tried to help?”

  “If they hang him, maybe it is because he�
��s guilty. It’s not up to you to save this man.”

  “Perhaps not. But I’ve been given the chance to try. How can I ignore it? How can I say someone else should help him, if I’m not willing to do it?”

  “But, Emily, it could be dangerous.”

  Emily shook her head. “We dutifully go to church every Sunday, Clara, and listen to sermons about helping our fellow man. Is that all it is? Words? Is it enough to put money in the collection box to help the heathens overseas?” She met Clara’s eyes, and her own twinkled. “And besides, I am so dreadfully bored.”

  Clara gave a soft laugh, her breath hanging frozen on the air. “Now that sounds like you. Oh, Emily, why must you care so much about things?”

  “I don’t know, Clara. I suppose it is just the way I am. And I have always hated puzzles I couldn’t solve.” Her forehead wrinkled. “The first thing I’d like to know is how Papa knew Mr. Jackson.”

  “There must be a way you could find out.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Does your Papa ever bring work home?”

  “Clara, you are brilliant. Yes, he has an office at home, and he won’t be there for hours yet.”

  “Well, promise you’ll tell me what you find.”

  “I promise,” said Emily. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, when we go to Stroh’s.”

  “So you can meet him again. I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Emily. Really. You don’t even know the man.”

  “It isn’t like that, Clara.”

  Clara didn’t look convinced. “He is still a man, Emily, and attractive. And you don’t know anything about him.”

  “I don’t need to know anything about him. This is business.” And she did know something about him, Emily thought. She knew he was loyal to his partner, and that he had treated Bertie better than most men would have. For now, it was enough.

  Angus Turner’s study was small, dominated by a massive rolltop oak desk with two pedestals and a pair of tall filing cabinets. Heavy curtains bracketed the windows, and the thin gray light that seeped between them scarcely penetrated the semi-gloom. Closing the door carefully behind her, Emily shivered. It was a room that always felt lifeless to her. She took a deep breath, then crossed to switch on the standing lamp, surveying her father’s neat desktop with something approaching dismay.