The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

  Heavy eyelids lifted, and Gracie surveyed him through weary brown eyes. “I know you,” she said. “You’re that fancy man was asking after Jackson.”

  “That’s me,” Granville said wryly, amused despite his surroundings at her description. “Gracie, what are you doing here?”

  She smiled a slow smile, but the distance in her eyes didn’t change. “I find the pipe eases me after a long day. I don’t smoke more than twenty pills, though. I’m no hophead.” The effort of speaking seemed to exhaust her and her eyes started to drift shut.

  “Gracie, do you know a woman named Lizzie?” Granville asked, his tone urgent enough to break through the opium fog. “I believe she smokes opium, too.”

  Her brow crinkled slightly. “Lizzie? No, no Lizzie.” Her eyelids grew heavy again. “Guess I’ve taken too much this time. I’ll sleep it off now.”

  Granville stood helpless as drug-induced sleep claimed her as deeply as the corpse-man on the next bed. Even in the dim light, he could see how thin Gracie’s face was, the sharp angles of her cheekbones. From the little he knew about opium, its devotees cared more about smoke than about food, and often grew lean and haggard. Sometimes they even died, their bodies completely shut down.

  “She is only woman here. Is it she you search for?”

  The voice at his back made Granville start. He turned to face their guide. “No, this is not the woman I seek. Let’s get out of here.”

  Bertie nodded, and led the way to the door.

  T W E N T Y – T H R E E

  Wednesday, December 13, 1899

  “I don’t know why you insisted on coming here, Emily.”

  “They do make the best hot chocolate in town,” Emily said. It didn’t work. Clara was still frowning into her cup. Emily sipped her own tea and thought quickly. Clara was a dear, but when she was out of temper she could be trying. With Mr. Granville due to arrive at Stroh’s any moment, she didn’t have time to coax her friend out of the sulks. “Clara, I have a problem. I need your help.”

  Clara, who was clearly still uncertain about keeping this rendezvous, looked at Emily curiously. “Why?”

  “When I was searching Papa’s study, I came across something I don’t understand.”

  Clara leaned forward. “What did you find?”

  Emily had intended only to distract Clara, but suddenly she found herself wanting to tell her everything. The question of what to do about her father’s secrets had been eating at her since the previous day, and she was still no closer to an answer. Perhaps in talking about it, she could make some sense of what she’d found.

  She drew in a deep breath. “I found four sheets of paper under his blotter. On one of the sheets, Mr. Jackson’s name was written against several sums of money. Large sums of money.”

  “Oh, my goodness, Emily. Do you think your father wrote it?”

  “It was his handwriting.”

  “You don’t think your father had anything to do with Mr. Jackson’s death?” Clara sounded horrified.

  “No, not that.” Emily couldn’t quite bring herself to admit that fear; it made it too real. “But what do you think it might mean?”

  “Perhaps they did business together.”

  “No, Papa said he didn’t know him.”

  “Then why did your father say Mr. Jackson deserved to die?”

  It was the question she kept asking herself. Emily shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Jackson was shipping goods by rail and your Papa was keeping track of what he owed?”

  “But then why deny knowing him?”

  “Maybe Mr. Jackson dealt with a clerk rather than with your father, making a number of small shipments, but your father was keeping track of it all.” Then Clara’s eyes narrowed, and she gave Emily a suspicious look. “When did your Papa say he didn’t know Mr. Jackson? It was not while I was in the room.”

  Caught, Emily looked sheepishly at her friend. “When he was talking to Mr. Granville at home.”

  “And you listened outside the door, didn’t you? Oh, Emily!”

  Emily defended herself. “It’s the only way I find out anything that is going on, and you know it, Clara, so don’t take that tone with me. Besides, you would do the same, if you weren’t afraid of what your mother would do if she caught you.”

  “I would not. It is not how a young lady behaves.”

  Emily emitted a sound very like a snort, and Clara looked at her in horror, then began to giggle. It was contagious, and soon both girls were giggling uncontrollably, holding gloved hands in front of their mouths to try to stifle the sounds.

  Finally Clara stopped giggling long enough to say, “It’s a good thing this is an unfashionable place for tea, or we would be tossed out,” which implausible thought set them both giggling again.

  “Good day, Miss Turner. Miss Miles.”

  The deep voice from behind her cut off Emily’s giggles immediately. It was Mr. Granville’s voice, and she was horrified that he’d seen her behaving so childishly. Turning in her chair, she summoned all the dignity she could muster. “Good afternoon, Mr. Granville. Won’t you join us?”

  As pleased as she was to see him, Emily found herself wishing he’d not been so prompt. She still hadn’t decided what to tell him about her discoveries. Was Papa innocent? If he was not, and she spoke of what she’d found, would she be betraying him? But if she said nothing, and they hanged Mr. Granville’s partner, she’d feel intolerably guilty. Wouldn’t she?

  If she did tell Mr. Granville, what would he do with the information? Could she trust him? What was the right thing to do?

  “Have you learned anything that might be useful?”

  Emily looked across the table and met his eyes. He looked tired, she thought, noting the shadows under his eyes. Well, there was one thing she could give him with a clear conscience. Reaching into her leather handbag, Emily pulled out the pages she’d taken from her father’s files and handed them to him. “These are the manifests and passenger lists from the last voyage of the Empress of India.”

  “The one Bertie’s cousin disappeared on?” He accepted the papers, looking intrigued. He moved his side-plate out of the way and spread the pages on the table in front of him.

  “Yes. I don’t know if they’ll be of any use to you, but Mr. Jackson’s body was found the morning the India docked.”

  He stopped reading and looked up. “So it was. I’d never considered the timing. I assumed Jackson arranged to meet his killer on the docks. This gives me reason to wonder.” His eyes met hers. “You are a pretty good detective, Miss Turner, as well as a very charming one.”

  Emily’s instincts said she could trust him, and she was going to. It wasn’t just his praise—which had made her blush—but the innate decency she sensed in him. Clara was watching her nervously, but, suddenly, Emily didn’t care. “There is one other thing.”

  He was a gentleman, she was certain of it. “I would ask you to keep this in strictest confidence, to use it only if you must to save your partner.”

  “Emily, be careful,” Clara warned.

  Granville looked from one to the other, then focused on Emily. “You have my word.”

  “Under the blotter in his study, my father—” Her voice broke, and she paused for a moment. “He had a list of names, with dollars against them. It was a handwritten list, and Jackson’s name was on it.”

  She stopped again, took a deep breath for courage. “And my father said, in front of Clara and me, that Mr. Jackson deserved to die.”

  “Many people thought the fellow deserved to die, but they didn’t have anything to do with his death,” Granville said. “I thank you for telling me.”

  He waited for a moment, watching Emily’s bent head, then, when she looked up again, he said, “Do you happen to remember exactly what was on the list?”

  “Yes, there were five names; Jackson, Carver, Smythe, Ahrens, and Gipson. And eight amounts, three against Jackson, then one against each of the other names. Against Ja
ckson; five thousand, one thousand, and two thousand, then against the others; five hundred, fifteen hundred, one thousand, one thousand, and two thousand.”

  “I’m impressed that you remembered the numbers so clearly. Was there anything else?”

  Emily just shook her head. It felt like those numbers were seared into her brain. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the other sheets of paper; it felt too much of a betrayal. She’d look into them herself. “Did you recognize any of the names besides those of Jackson and Gipson?”

  “No, just those two. But how did you know I recognized Gipson’s name?”

  “I saw your reaction. How do you know him?”

  “You’re very quick. Gipson was a business associate of Jackson’s. He is a speculator and a banker.”

  “So the figures my father had written could have been amounts invested.”

  “Yes, or amounts loaned. I’ll look into the other three names, and any possible connection with Jackson. I may indeed learn something.”

  “And what of you?” she asked. “Have you learnt anything since I saw you last?”

  His eyes grew cold and distant and for a moment, Emily thought he wasn’t going to answer. This caused her to feel both anger and alarm. Surely he wasn’t going to shut her out now, not when she’d just trusted him with such delicate information.

  “I spoke with your medium,” he said, his face still grim.

  “And what did the spirits say?”

  “Not much. It seems I have a dark aura, and they are wary of me.”

  “How odd.”

  “I think so, too. And it makes me very curious why she told you what she did, and where she’s getting her information from.”

  Emily nodded. “Perhaps I should pay her another visit. She seemed to like my aura.”

  “Or the color of your coin.”

  She smiled at his dry tone. “True. But then your coin is the same as mine, and no spirits spoke to you.”

  “But Emily, I don’t want to go there again!” Clara protested.

  “I think Emily would appreciate it if you would go with her, Clara. It would help me immensely if the two of you could find out a little more about Mrs. Merchant.”

  “Is there anything in particular you’d like us to ask her?” Emily asked him.

  “I would like to know her connection with Jackson, but please don’t ask anything that will endanger either of you.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Emily assured him.

  “If your medium is involved in something illegal, she may overreact to any perceived threat. I’d never forgive myself if you came to harm.”

  “You think we might be in danger?”

  “I have every faith in you, Miss Turner,” he said gravely.

  Feeling she now had a right to pursue her curiosity further, Emily leaned forward and asked “What else have you learned?”

  “That my partner has a second sister in town—whom he’s undoubtedly protecting and who might have worked for Jackson. I’m searching for her now.”

  Emily watched his expression carefully. He’d shared more information than she’d expected, but there was something he was holding back. “You think she might be the dark-haired woman, don’t you? The one who shot Mr. Jackson.”

  She was quick, this little Emily, thought Granville as he debated just what to tell her. But she still seemed far too innocent to be involved in this case. He wasn’t about to turn down any help she could offer, though, not when it came to saving Scott. “Yes, I do think my partner’s sister may be the one who shot Jackson. And he believes so, as well, though he won’t admit it.”

  Emily’s lips pressed together and she looked down for a moment. “Poor man. But what are you going to do?”

  “I am going to find Jackson’s killer and get Sam Scott released from jail.”

  T W E N T Y – F O U R

  Granville eyed the whiskey set out on the bar in front of him. It was early for drinking, even for him. He glanced around. Like most of the other bars on Alexander Street, the Mermaid was narrow, dingy, and smoky. At the moment it was also nearly empty and quiet enough for him to do some thinking.

  Pulling out the pages Emily had given him, Granville frowned at first one list, then the next. He didn’t see anything pertinent, but who knew what he might be missing? He kept thinking about the connection that he had missed and that Emily had seen so easily—Jackson had been killed the night before the India docked.

  He hadn’t even thought to look for a link between the silk they’d been guarding and the man Scott was accused of killing. Hell, he’d been on the docks that night himself, talked to Scott about the India coming in the next day, and still he’d failed to see the possible connection. Obviously his focus had been too narrow. He threw the whiskey back, feeling the welcome burn down the back of his throat, and signaled the bartender for another.

  Granville turned to the list of names Emily had given him. Jackson. Gipson. Carver. Smythe. Ahrens. What did they have in common with each other, and with Jackson? He could ask Benton about the three he didn’t recognize. On the other hand might be more enlightening, and possibly more entertaining to have a chat with Gipson. He hadn’t yet confronted Gipson with trying to run him out of town, either. It was time to collect Trent and do just that.

  “Gipson’s office is the one down at the end.” Granville said.

  Trent’s eyes were wide, but his tone was skeptical. “And you expect him to see you?”

  “He’ll see me.”

  “Is that why you’re carrying a gun? You know that’s illegal, right?”

  “Not if I’m concerned for my safety, it isn’t.”

  Opening the door into the narrow antechamber, Granville considered the two bruisers playing cards in the antechamber. “Trent, I believe these gentlemen are acquaintances of ours,” he said as he walked into the room.

  Both men leaped to their feet, hands rising into fists.

  “I’m here to see your employer, not to settle scores. We have some questions to ask him.”

  Gipson’s men hesitated, obviously unused to thinking for themselves.

  “Just tell him John Granville wants a few minutes of his time. We’ll wait right here. Peacefully.”

  Less than ten minutes later, Granville opened the heavy door and strolled into Gipson’s office. Dusk had fallen, casting shadows in the corners of the paneled room. Cigar smoke filled the air and wreathed thickly above the banker’s lamp set on the edge of the heavy desk. As they entered, the ash from Gipson’s cigar fell on the ledger he was checking. He carefully brushed it off, closed the ledger, then looked up. “Gentlemen,” he said. “And what can I do for you?”

  “Just wanted to clarify a few facts. You and Jackson were doing pretty well before someone shot him, weren’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, I think you do. But weren’t you concerned that Benton would find out and do something about it? He’s not someone who tolerates claim-jumpers like you.”

  Gipson’s eyes narrowed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “No? You and Jackson weren’t partners? You really have no idea what he was doing down on the docks the night he was killed?”

  “None.” A muscle twitched beside Gipson’s right eye.

  “None at all?” Granville let a smile crease his face. This was starting to be fun. “It’s sad when they lie so badly, isn’t it?” he said in an aside to Trent, never taking his eyes off Gipson. “So, you don’t know anything about your partnership with Jackson. How about Carver? Smythe? Or perhaps Ahrens? Any of those names ring your bells?”

  Gipson’s lips tightened. “I think I’ve heard enough. Both of you need to leave now.”

  Granville laughed again. “Now, now. Try to be civilized. That is what you’re pretending to be, isn’t it? You may fool little old ladies and those imbecile enough to invest money with you, but you can’t fool me. I know the kind of underhanded game you run as well as any man alive.”
He showed him the gun he’d just pulled.

  Gipson’s hands clenched. “You force your way into my office, pull a gun on me, and accuse me of being uncivilized? I expected better, even from you, Granville. You were at least raised a gentleman, were you not?”

  “You’re the one who has been trying to have me killed, Gipson, and, as a gentleman, I call that highly uncivilized behavior.”

  Gipson sneered. “If it weren’t for your gun, we wouldn’t be conversing at all.”

  With a grin, Granville raised the revolver so it was pointing right between Gipson’s eyes. “Thank you for reminding me. Now, what is the nature of your dealings with Carver, Smythe and Ahrens?”

  “They are investors.” Gipson still maintained his sneer.

  “I see. What kind of investors, Gipson?”

  “They invest in mines, among other things.”

  “And those other things, did they involve Jackson?”

  “Some of them may have.”

  “And what kinds of things would those have been?” When no answer was forthcoming, Granville pulled back the hammer, the sound loud in the quiet room. “What kinds of things, Gipson?”

  A bead of sweat appeared on the man’s forehead. “You wouldn’t shoot me. You haven’t the nerve.”

  “No?”

  Gipson met Granville’s eyes, staring long and hard. “Importing,” he said at last. “We formed a syndicate to import goods.”

  “Now, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Granville said, assessing the information. “Benton didn’t know about this syndicate of yours, did he?”

  “No. It’s a private matter.”

  “And Benton would not have been pleased.” Gipson was silent. “Which is why you were so reluctant to talk to me about it.” Gipson’s hands clenched even tighter, but he still said nothing. “And what did this syndicate import?”

  “Various goods. It depended on the markets, on what was in demand.”

  Granville’s voice went silky smooth and his hand gripped the gun more tightly. “You are lying to me again, Gipson. That isn’t smart.” He sighted down the blued barrel. “And don’t think of shouting for your apes out there.”