by Sharon Rowse
Granville ignored the attempt to distract him. “Well, think about it.”
“Think about what?
“We both found the body, but you’re the one who’s in jail. As far as I know no one else was even questioned, and the police don’t appear to be looking for anyone else. Otherwise why arrest you?”
Scott’s lips tightened. “You’re wrong.”
“I don’t think so. Whoever killed Jackson seems have made sure you’d be the one accused of it. As if they knew you would turn noble and refuse to clear yourself.” He looked at his friend. “How would they know that, Scott?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I am talking about. Who are you trying to protect? Your sister Lizzie?”
Scot’s eyes met Granville’s then slid away.
“What if she isn’t guilty, Scott, and someone has convinced you she is? I’ve heard the same rumor, and Frances is certain it’s true.” He watched Scott’s face closely. “Unless it’s a story Frances devised, and she’s the one you are protecting?”
“Hell no,” Scott said, then fell silent again.
“I can understand your desire to protect your family,” said Granville. “But what if Lizzie isn’t guilty? What if your death would only be saving the hide of a gutter rat like Gipson? Would you still remain silent?”
“Gipson?” Scott repeated. “How’s he tie into this?”
“That’s what I’m trying to sort out, but I need your help. Look, Scott, someone has been working very hard to make sure you and all your allies believe Lizzie killed Jackson. Which is beginning to make me think she had nothing to do with it.”
“You think she could be innocent?”
“I’m beginning to.”
“What if you’re wrong? I won’t see my sister die.”
“They would never hang a woman.”
Scott lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “They wouldn’t have to. Being thrown in jail would kill her within six months.”
“All right, then, I’ll make a deal with you. Tell me about Lizzie and help me find Jackson’s killer. If it was either of your sisters, I won’t say a word. Anyone else, though, will be taking your place in jail.”
There was a long silence. “Fair enough,” Scott said finally.
“Good man. What was really between you and Jackson?”
“He was Lizzie’s pimp,” Scott said in a tone of utter loathing.
T W E N T Y – E I G H T
Striding through the fog toward 21 Dupont, Trent keeping pace beside him, Granville thought about what Scott had told him. It was no wonder that Scott hated Jackson; Lizzie had been barely seventeen, recently orphaned, and on her own in Denver when Jackson had seduced her, then put her to work. Scott suspected he’d beaten her, too. Easy to understand why she’d become an opium addict.
Jackson had deserved to die, and to die slowly, Granville thought. A bullet had been too good for him.
An opium addict. Granville mentally replayed his visit to those hidden-away dives. He could taste the smoke, touch the heaviness of the air, feel his frustration at not finding his quarry. Eventually he’d seen all three of the white women Wong Ah Sun had said would be there, but only one brunette. That brunette had been Gracie.
Replaying that moment, picturing Gracie in his mind, he felt again his shock at recognizing her, his pity at what she had become. Breaking stride with a silent curse, he thought about that image and finally saw what he should have seen days ago. Gracie was dark-haired, tall, and would have resembled Frances had she not been so very thin. He could have kicked himself for his stupidity.
Walking into the hot, over-scented room, Granville scanned the faces in the uneven light of badly trimmed lamps, ignoring the irritating tinkling of the piano and the come-hither looks sent his way. Gracie wasn’t there. Flo, however, seemed pleased to see him back.
“I was hoping to see Gracie. Is she here?” he asked her.
“I’m afraid she’s indisposed,” she replied. She tucked a curl behind her ear coquettishly.
Granville raised an eyebrow. “Ah. I’m sorry to hear that, but I only need to ask her a question or two. I’ll make it well worth her while, and yours.”
Flo gave him a hard-to-read look, then nodded. “Follow me. But he’ll have to stay here.”
Granville looked at Trent and nodded.
Trent’s face fell, but he obediently moved to a scarred brown leather armchair set against the wall and sat down. Granville followed the woman up a wide curving staircase to the second floor, where Flo knocked on a door halfway along the hall.
“Gracie?” she called softly. “Gracie, honey, you have a visitor.”
“Go away,” called a hoarse voice.
“He’s willing to pay, dear. Just sit up, we’ll be right in.”
There was a groan, which Flo ignored, pushing the door inward and sailing into the room, Granville right behind her. The sight of Gracie was enough to make him wince. The ravages of opium were clear; even in the kind light of a brace of candles, her skin was so pale it looked green and her eyes seemed to have sunken back into her skull.
She was propped against a padded headboard that had once been white, wearing something girlishly pink and covered with frills that made her look even more grotesque. Flo poured a glass of water from the glazed pitcher on the dresser beside the door and handed it to her.
“Just talk with him a few minutes, dearie. You’ll soon feel better,” she said as she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Granville looked at Gracie with compassion. Avoiding his eyes, she swallowed a mouthful of water. Even the process of swallowing seemed painful, he noted with a mixture of pity and repulsion. If this was Lizzie, he knew exactly what and who had brought Scott’s sister to this pass, and the knowledge made him so angry he had to fight to keep it out of his voice.
“Lizzie?” he asked, keeping his tone as low and gentle as he could.
She flinched, spilling water on herself and on the sateen comforter. “My name’s Gracie.”
“Sorry, my mistake.” Granville paused, trying to get her to meet his eyes. “Did I ever tell you why I came here, Gracie?”
“You wanted to know about Jackson’s death.”
“Do you know why?”
“No. Don’t care, neither.”
Granville looked at her gravely. “The man accused of Jackson’s death, the man they will hang for it next week, is my partner. His name is Sam Scott. Does any of that mean anything to you, Gracie?”
“No. Why should it?”
“No? Well, because I’ve heard rumors it was a woman who really shot Jackson,” he said. “A woman with brunette hair.” She refused to look up, her eyes fixed on the water in the glass she still held. Her dark tresses fell unbound past her thin shoulders. “Scott’s sister Frances thinks he is trying to protect their sister, Lizzie, who is an opium-smoker.”
He let the silence thicken between them. “Do you know a Lizzie, Gracie?”
“That’s the name you just said, but I’m Gracie.”
“You never met her in any of the opium dens you frequent?”
“No.”
“That’s odd. I’m told of only three white women in the city here who smoke opium, Gracie, and you’re the only one with dark hair. Is there nothing you can tell me of Lizzie?”
“No.”
“What about Jackson’s death?”
Her skin turned gray beneath its pallor and she barely looked well enough to sit upright. “Nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
She gave a slight nod.
“Sam Scott’s life may rest on your answer.”
A slight shudder raced through her wasted frame, but her voice was firm, “I can’t tell you anything.”
Who was she protecting? Granville wondered in frustration. “Are you Scott’s sister Lizzie?”
She shook her head, as vehemently as she seemed able.
“I see. Then I’ll go. I�
�ll leave your money with Flo,” he said. She cringed back against her pillows at the anger in his voice and turned her face toward the wall.
Scarcely more than an hour later, Frances was following Granville down the same hallway. She was soberly attired, her face lightly painted and very pale. It had taken some effort to convince her to come, but once he’d told her why he thought Gracie might indeed be Lizzie, she hadn’t hesitated.
She didn’t hesitate now, either. Throwing open the door, she marched in and first dragged open the window, then turned to the bed, hands on hips. She stopped as she saw Gracie’s face. “My God! What have you done to yourself?”
Since Gracie, blinking against the light, seemed unable to answer, Granville turned to Frances. “Is this Lizzie?”
She seemed unable to tear her eyes away from the living skeleton on the bed. “Yes,” she said, her voice catching. “Yes, this is my sister.”
Frances sat down on the edge of the bed and took one of Gracie’s hands in her own. “Lizzie, how did it get this bad? What can I do to help?”
Gracie looked at her sister and a tear rolled from the corner of her eye. “You can’t do nothing. And call me Gracie,” she said, snatching her hand away. “Now go, why don’t you?”
“Lizzie, I can’t leave you like this.”
“It’s not up to you. So just go.”
“Gracie, if you won’t help yourself, will you help Sam?” Granville asked.
“Why should I?”
“Because he’s your brother,” Frances said.
“So?”
“Your brother is prepared to die because he believes you killed Jackson,” said Granville. “Do you want that on your conscience? Or perhaps you did kill Jackson—and now you’re happy to have your brother die in your place.”
Gracie looked down, her fingers plucking at the coverlet, and murmured something.
Granville leaned forward. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Then who did?”
She shrugged.
“Lizzie.” Frances’s voice held a warning.
Gracie looked up. “What?”
“You owe him. Don’t you remember? He’s the one who made sure we got enough to eat when we were both too small to fend for ourselves. Is this how you repay him?”
Gracie’s voice broke. “He left me there alone when they died. You both did.”
Frances swallowed hard. “By the time we got the news our parents had died, we couldn’t find you.” She moved to put an arm around her sister, but Gracie cringed back against the headboard.
Frances sighed. “At least let me take you out of here.”
“I don’t want to go. Not with you.”
Granville watched them, a sense of pity mingling with surprise. Were all families so tormented as the ones he knew?
“Gracie, I have to know who killed Jackson,” he said. “Can you at least tell me whom I should be talking to?”
“Talk to my brother,” she said.
T W E N T Y – N I N E
Friday, December 15, 1899
Clara reached for a petit four. “You have cream on your nose.”
Emily swiped at her nose. “There. Better?”
Clara nodded and took a bite of her pastry. She didn’t look in the least worried, Emily noted, in fact, she’d probably be relieved if neither of the men they were waiting for appeared. Emily knew she was lucky Clara had even agreed to come with her today.
Just as she was about take another look at the watch in her pocket, she heard her friend say, “Hello, Mr. O’Hearn.”
Emily turned her head. “Hello,” she said. “What were you able to find out, Mr. O’Hearn?”
“Wait till I sit down and I’ll tell you,” he said, proceeding to do just that.
“Well?” she prompted him.
Before he could respond, Mr. Granville and Trent appeared, both looking curious at the unexpected extra man.
“I see we have a party,” said Granville.
Emily introduced the three men. “Mr. O’Hearn has been looking for anyone who was working on the docks the night Jackson was killed,” she explained.
Granville regarded him with interest. “Did you have any more luck than I did?”
“Don’t know. Seems Jackson was in and around the harbor for most of the evening, though.”
“He was?”
“Yeah. I found a couple of longshoremen who remembered seeing him.”
“What was he doing?”
“Pacing. He seemed to be waiting for something.”
“Or someone.”
“Possibly.”
“When was this?”
“The night he was killed. It was dark but it wasn’t snowing yet, so they saw him pretty clearly.”
“Wait a minute. It snowed off and on all day, but I remember that by about half after nine it was snowing heavily. Are you telling me he was on the docks before then?”
“According to my witnesses he was.”
“So where did he go? He couldn’t have been standing around all night, it was too cold. Even Scott and I had a fire, and we’re used to Yukon cold. This damp imitation of winter you have here is pitiful.”
“You haven’t heard everything. I did find one witness who thought he saw Jackson meeting another man.”
“A man! Is your witness sure it wasn’t a woman?”
O’Hearn gave him an odd look, then threw another look at Emily. She could see he was wondering if this was a nugget of information she’d kept in reserve.
“Not unless she was wearing a frock coat and top hat,” O’Hearn said.
“A top hat?” Granville was taken aback.
“Brown’s in Town was playing at the Opera House that night,” Emily said. She turned to O’Hearn. “ Where was Mr. Jackson found?”
“Near the CPR docks.”
“It’s probably a ten-minute walk from there to the Opera House.”
“Did you attend that night?” Granville asked Emily.
“Yes, I did.”
“When was it over?”
“It started at seven thirty and ended at ten thirty.”
“And the intermission?”
“There were two, one at eight thirty and the other at nine thirty.”
Granville turned back to O’Hearn. “The timing fits. Do you have a more detailed description of the man Jackson met?”
“Not a very good one, I’m afraid. Jackson was taller than the other man. Both had beards. That’s about all.”
“It’s better than nothing. No one saw anything else?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t give us much to go on.”
“It was the best I could do,” O’Hearn said. “And I think it entitles me to hear some of the information I sense you’re holding back.”
Granville looked at Emily. “Can we trust him?”
Pleased by the sound of that “we,” Emily nodded.
“Trust me to do what?” O’Hearn asked.
“Not print anything until we get Scott out of jail.”
“Scott. That’s the one they’re holding for Jackson’s murder?”
Granville nodded.
“Then, sure, you can trust me. As long as I get the full story once he’s free.”
“You have my word on it.”
“Then you have mine.” The two men shook on it across the table.
“Jackson may have been meeting one of his investors,” Granville said. “They were smuggling opium to the States, and I’d wager it was coming in on the Empresses. The India was already late because of the storms she’d encountered at sea and Jackson’s contacts in the States probably weren’t too pleased by the delay.”
O’Hearn pulled out his notebook and pencil. “Jackson was smuggling opium to the States?”
Granville nodded. “That’s what I’ve been told.”
O’Hearn was scribbling quickly. “But why was he on the dock that night? The India didn’t arrive till the following day.”
>
“If Jackson had a contact in the CPR, he would have known she’d arrived in Victoria by midday on Wednesday. He probably expected she’d sail to Vancouver that evening. The railroad was as anxious to get their silk on the next leg of its journey to New York as he was to get his opium shipped. The plan may have been that if the India came into port, they could get the opium off and shipped out immediately. Unfortunately for all concerned, the weather didn’t cooperate, and she overnighted in Victoria.”
Trent’s face lit up. “I think maybe I know something that’ll help,” he said.
Granville shot him a skeptical glance. “And you just learned this something?”
Trent grinned and shook his head. “Nope. I just figured out it was important.”
“Go on.”
“That night you and Scott caught us? Down at the yards?”
“I remember.”
Trent flushed. “Yeah. Anyway, we weren’t really trying to break into the railcars.”
“No?”
“Nope. We’d been hired to create a distraction, draw your attention away from the cars.”
“A distraction?”
Trent nodded.
“And it was Jackson who hired you?”
“Well, Mr. Blayney paid us, but Mr. Jackson gave the directions.”
Granville smacked his hand against his forehead. “I’m a fool. How could I have not seen it?”
They all looked at him.
“What?” Trent asked.
“I’ve been paying no attention to who killed Blayney. Once the police decided it wasn’t me, of course.”
O’Hearn looked from one to the other. “There’s another murder involved in this?” he asked, then looked thoughtful. “Blayney. Blayney. I’ve got it. That was the English gent found dead down on Cordova. They haven’t caught anyone for that yet, have they?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know.” Granville admitted.
Emily was watching Trent. “Why a distraction?” she said. She looked at Granville. “You and your partner were guarding the silk cars, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So if you were to be distracted, presumably someone wanted access to the cars. But why?”