The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

  Granville was watching Gipson’s expression carefully as he spoke. “It’s my hunch you’ve been bringing in contraband in the Empresses. Now, what could be expensive enough to be worth the risk? Opium, perhaps?”

  Gipson stared back at him, face impassive. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “No? You don’t know anything about smuggling opium?” It was a guess, but it fit the facts.

  “Opium is legal,” Gipson said, his voice cold.

  “Not if you are smuggling it to the States to avoid the duty, it isn’t. San Francisco, perhaps, or New York? How were you and Jackson shipping the opium across the border?”

  The muscle beside Gipson’s eye began to twitch in time with his heartbeat.

  “Yes, that’s it, isn’t it?” Granville sighted his revolver between Gipson’s eyes again. “Why did you have Jackson killed? Was he trying to collect what you owed him or something equally unacceptable?”

  “I didn’t kill Jackson.”

  “I didn’t say you did. I think you arranged to have him killed. What do you say to that?”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Am I?” Granville watched Gipson’s tense expression for a moment. “We’ll see. Why did you try to have me killed?”

  Gipson glanced at the gun, then met Granville’s eyes. His eyes were calm again, his voice smooth. “I simply wanted you to leave town.”

  Of course he did, preferably feet first. “Why?”

  “You know too much about my . . . past,” Gipson said, one eye on the revolver. “I have built a certain reputation here, and I intend to protect that reputation.”

  Trent started to say something. But at a look from Granville, he subsided.

  Granville nodded slowly. “For now, we need to reach an agreement. I won’t betray your past.” He wouldn’t have to, once he pinned conspiracy to murder Jackson on him. “And in return, you stop trying to kill me.”

  “I will stop trying to run you out of town,” Gipson corrected him.

  “You call off your men. Do you agree?”

  “You have a deal.” But it was one he didn’t look happy about making.

  Granville stood, keeping his revolver in his hand. He didn’t trust Gipson’s word, but their deal just might buy enough time to point the police his way. “Come on, Trent. We have work to do.”

  T W E N T Y – F I V E

  Thursday, December 14, 1899

  Breakfast found the Turners seated around the big mahogany table in the dining room. “Don’t pick at your food, Emily. And sit up straight.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Emily put down her fork and straightened her spine a fraction.

  “That’s better.” Her mother looked more closely. “You look pale, dear, and you aren’t eating. Is something wrong?”

  “No, Mama, I am fine,” Emily said. In truth, she had not been able to stop worrying over why her father had those notes on the shipping of silk. “I probably just need some fresh air.”

  “Perhaps it will warm up by midday, and you can go out then,” her mother said.

  Emily glanced toward the window. The light looked thin and gray, as if it was about to snow again. She looked at the head of the table, where Papa sat engrossed in his newspaper.

  “Papa?” she said.

  He looked up, frowning. “Yes?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the silk trains you were telling Clara and me about.”

  “You have?” The frown disappeared, replaced by a smile. “I had no idea you were interested, Emily.”

  “I thought it was fascinating, the silk coming all the way from Japan, the race to get it to New York. Tell me, who is responsible for making sure the silk arrives on time?”

  He’d put down his paper and leaned forward. “Well, I am, in a way. I advise the head office in Toronto of any problems with the routes of the trains. The train before last was delayed in the Fraser Canyon because of a washout. Now I’ve recommended that we have a crew on standby when a silk train is scheduled. I just got word yesterday that this suggestion has been approved and will be implemented as soon as possible.” He nodded, pleased with himself.

  “And what happens if your silk trains are too slow?”

  “Well, then our customers lose business to their competition, which then means we lose their business. But our Empresses are the fastest ships on the Oriental route; as long as our trains get through, no one can beat us.” He resumed scrutiny of his newspaper.

  That could explain his notes on the shipping times, on the loading and unloading of silk. And Papa didn’t sound like a man who was betraying his employer; he took far too much personal pride in their successes for that. So probably those notes were innocent, she decided with relief, reaching for a slice of cold toast and slathering it with Cook’s homemade preserve. Except it didn’t explain his reaction to Jackson’s name, and the hand-written list with Jackson’s name on it. Of course there could be a dozen good explanations for that. She just wished she could think of one. Still, she she had every faith in Mr. Granville’s abilities as a detective.

  Two hours later, Emily stood shivering at the trolley stop, waiting for Clara. Just as she was about to give up, Clara arrived, out of breath and full of excuses.

  “Oh Clara, you’re always late. It doesn’t matter when it’s warm out, but I’m freezing. Come on, we need to be off to Mrs. Merchant’s.”

  “Emily, I don’t trust her.”

  Emily laughed. “I don’t, either, but that doesn’t matter. I just need to ask her a few more questions.”

  Mrs. Merchant showed no surprise at seeing them. “Welcome, young ladies, welcome,” she said. “Only two of you today? But where is your other cousin?”

  “She was unwell,” said Emily without even thinking. For some reason, she wanted this woman to know as little as possible about herself and her friends. Clara looked slightly startled at such a blatant untruth.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” the medium responded. “Perhaps the spirits will have some advice for her on regaining her health. Please, be seated.”

  “I need to speak with the spirit of Clive Jackson again,” Emily said.

  “He seems very popular, the late Mr. Jackson.”

  “Oh?” said Emily. “Have others wanted to speak with him also?”

  The medium’s eyes glittered. “I cannot speak of my clients to each other, my dear,” she said. “Now, close your eyes and I will see what I can do.”

  Emily closed her eyes, which only made her more aware of the fusty smell of the room. It seemed to be getting worse, almost as if it emanated from somewhere near them.

  Peeking out from under nearly closed eyelids, she looked around her, but nothing looked any different than it had on her previous visit. Drawing in a deeper breath, she nearly gagged when the odor seemed to intensify. What was it?

  The medium’s voice distracted Emily. “Spirits, we seek your guidance,” she intoned. “Is Clive Jackson present?”

  Emily could feel herself growing tense, waiting for a response, and when Clara’s cold hand crept into hers, she started. Just as she thought the session was going to be a failure, a deep voice filled the room.

  “What do you wish of me?” it said.

  “Is that Mr. Jackson?”

  “It is.” The deep voice seemed to have no point of origin.

  Emily as watching the medium carefully from under lowered eyelids. Neither the woman’s lips nor the muscles of her throat moved; if it was a hoax, she must have an accomplice. Yet no one knew that she and Clara had come here today. Emily cleared her throat nervously. “May I ask you several questions?”

  “You may.”

  “Why did you go to the wharves the night you were killed?”

  There was a pause, then an answer came: “I often liked to stroll along the wharves at night and smoke a quiet cigar, especially when there were ships in port.“

  In December? Emily thought. “So you didn’t go to meet anyone?”

  “No.”

 
The terse syllable was not encouraging. Whether it was really the spirit of Mr. Jackson or an accomplice of the medium, he didn’t seem to like her question. “Did you see anyone while you were walking?”

  “No one. The docks were deserted.”

  “Except for your killer, you mean.”

  “Yes, except for my murderess.”

  That didn’t make any sense. She didn’t believe him, whoever he was, but it seemed prudent to stop now. She was feeling increasingly uneasy just being in this room. Hoping her voice didn’t sound as wavery as she felt, she said “Thank you for coming, Mr. Jackson. I have no more questions.”

  There was a long silence, then the medium shook herself and said in a bewildered voice, “Oh, are we done? Has he left already?”

  “Yes, just a moment ago.”

  “And did you get the answers you came for, dear?”

  “Yes, thank you. I am satisfied.” She just wanted to get herself and Clara out of the stifling parlor as quickly as possible. She’d think about the significance of what had been said later.

  “Well, that’s good, my dear. So many of my clients leave with questions still troubling them.”

  “No, all mine were answered,” said Emily, rising. She put a coin on the table. “I thank you. Come, Clara.”

  The Daily World, one of Vancouver’s two local dailies, reported arrivals and departures of prominent locals and visitors, which was a handy feature, Granville mused, when you were looking for someone. This morning’s paper, for instance, had told him that two of Jackson’s former partners had left town. Both Carver and Ahrens had departed by train to Toronto the previous day. It was especially worth noting because, according to the local gossip he’d uncovered, their departures had been sudden rather than planned. Something to do with Jackson’s death, perhaps?

  Aloysius Smythe, the third partner, was still in town, however. Granville and Trent were currently kicking their heels in his lavish outer office. Every so often the clerk who was sitting at the cluttered desk to one side of the door would pause in the act of dipping his pen into the inkwell and survey them over the top of his glasses, as if to confirm that they were still waiting.

  The hush of a door opening on well-oiled hinges focused Granville’s attention. Smythe appeared; he was a thin man, somewhat below medium height and unnaturally pale. In the dove-gray morning jacket and trousers he wore, he looked almost ghostly. He looked from Granville to Trent, then over at his clerk.

  “Mr. Smythe, these gentlemen came to see you. I told them you might not have time, but they insisted on waiting.”

  Smythe’s pale eyes returned to Granville and Trent, scanning them without expression.

  “You might as well come in,” he said, turning and preceding them into the office. “I can give you a few minutes.”

  “Why did you wish to see me?” Smythe asked when they were seated. “I gather this isn’t about wanting to make investments.”

  “Why do you say that?” Granville’s self-assurance caused a flicker of doubt to cross Smythe’s face, and the businessman scanned Granville more closely. His gaze flicked to Trent, quickly dismissed him, and moved back to Granville. He gave a satisfied smile and sat back in his chair. Picking up the gold pen on his desk, Smythe ran it through his fingers. “Suffice it to say I have met your kind before. If you have a question, ask it,” he said.

  My kind, is it? Granville thought, torn between anger and amusement. So he had been summed up as a remittance man, had he? One of those younger sons, sent to the Colonies with an allowance, allowing the family to forget about them. In some ways, Smythe wasn’t far wrong; he was the youngest and he had caused his father no end of grief, but he wasn’t dependent on the family largess. He’d stand or fall on his own.

  “Appearances can be so deceptive. Don’t you find? Take Clive Jackson, for instance,” he said, and had the satisfaction of seeing Smythe flinch. “I understand you were his partner? Not a likely association, on the face of it.”

  Annoyed, their host dropped the pen he was toying with. “We were hardly partners.”

  “No?”

  “I barely knew the man.”

  “But you invested money with him.”

  “With Jackson? Where did you hear that? Certainly not.”

  “No? Gipson seemed to think the five of you were partners. But perhaps you have another word for it?”

  A silence followed, and Granville let it drag on. Before long, Smythe would be saying anything, just to fill the emptiness. Guilt acted on respectable men this way—Smythe may have had shady dealings, but Granville judged him no natural fraudster.

  Finally Smythe spoke. “It was an investment syndicate. We put up the money. Jackson had the contacts and took care of the details.”

  “Details? Oh, you mean he stole the opium, transported it illegally, and smuggled it across the border.”

  “Buying and selling opium is legal.”

  Granville had heard this before. “Certainly, if you have licenses and pay the appropriate duties, but that’s hardly what your little syndicate was doing, was it?”

  “What is it you want? Money?”

  Granville shook his head. “No. I want Jackson’s killer.”

  “Jackson’s killer? Why?”

  “I believe that is my business.”

  “I can’t help you. I don’t know who killed Jackson.”

  “You must have some idea who would want him dead.”

  Smythe gave him a bitter smile. “You may put my name on top of that list. But I didn’t kill him.”

  “No? Then why wish his demise?”

  “That’s personal.”

  “I am after a killer. Nothing is personal.”

  “Look, Mr. Granville, or whoever you are, you aren’t the police. You have no right to burst in here and ask me these questions.”

  “Perhaps you’d prefer that I alert the police. I’m sure Constable Craddock would be happy to ask you questions.” Craddock was the last person Granville would bring in, but Granville knew personally how annoyingly officious the man could be.

  A muscle in Smythe’s jaw jerked. “There is no need to bring in the law.”

  “Then tell me why you wanted Jackson dead.”

  Every vestige of color drained from Smythe’s face, making it even paler than before. His fingers laced tightly together on the clear desktop.

  “Look, I have no interest in what Jackson had on you. My only concern is to find out who killed him.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t have much choice.”

  Smythe closed his eyes for a moment. “Blackmail.” The word sounded forced. “The swine was blackmailing me.”

  “Is that why you invested with him?”

  Smythe gave a tiny jerk of his head.

  “And the other syndicate members? Was he blackmailing them, too?”

  Smythe nodded.

  “Even Gipson?”

  “I would assume so. Why should Gipson be any different?”

  “Do you know what he had on the others?”

  Smythe shook his head, thin lips held tight.

  Granville sensed Smythe was being honest with him, and that he would tell him nothing about the blackmail itself. “What about Carver and Ahrens? I understand they left town rather suddenly. Did either of them kill Jackson?”

  Smythe shook his head. “No. They are as relieved as I am to see him dead, but we’re not violent men.”

  “Just thieves and smugglers.”

  Smythe gave him a nasty look. “That was Jackson’s doing. And he was cheating us, too—skimming money. We were just in the importing business.”

  “Importing as in smuggling opium to New York and San Francisco?”

  “Look, let’s end this. You want Jackson’s killer, I can’t give him to you.”

  Smythe referred to the killer as a man, Granville noted. “Then what can you give me?”

  “Money.”

  “I don’t want your money.”


  “What then?”

  “More information. I need to get close to Jackson.”

  “Jackson’s dead.”

  “So I can’t very well ask him, can I? I’m asking you. What was Jackson doing down on the docks that night?”

  “We had a shipment coming in.”

  “On the Empress of India?”

  “That’s right.’

  “Who was Jackson’s contact?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Was he on the ship or on shore?”

  “Knowing Jackson, probably both.”

  “Do you know any of Jackson’s contacts? Or how the opium was sent out?

  “That did not concern me, nor did his associates.”

  “What about Gipson? Did he know?”

  Smythe looked surprised. “Gipson? Why would he know? He’s just an investor like the rest of us.”

  Not quite, thought Granville, but he let it go. If Smythe actually believed that, there was little more the man could tell him. He rose and inclined his head. “If I find you’ve been lying, I’ll be back,” he said.

  Gesturing for Trent to follow him, he crossed through the outer office and stepped out into the mist, right into a blow that knocked him to the ground.

  T W E N T Y – S I X

  Emily stood in the doorway of the cluttered Daily World newsroom. There was no one visible except a red-haired young man seated at a desk in the far corner. She headed his way, Clara trailing behind her.

  The sleeves of the youthful reporter’s shirt were pushed up above his elbows, and his tie hung askew. As though feeling her gaze, he looked up. If he was surprised to see two well-bred society girls standing there, it didn’t show. He looked to be someone who took everything in his stride.

  “Ladies. How may I help you?”

  “We are looking for Mr. Timothy O’Hearn?”

  “You found him.”

  Emily studied his eager expression, wondering whether there was any point in talking to him, and how he would react to her interest in a murder. “I am Miss Turner, and this is Miss Miles. I’m here about the murder of Mr. Clive Jackson.”