The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

  She gave him a smile that was half a grimace. “I think you’ll regret that promise, but you’ll honor it. Ask your questions.”

  “When did you last see Jackson?”

  “That evening, the night he was killed.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Scott said he was your pimp?” Granville felt a brute, but he had to ask.

  She shook her head, her breathing shallow. Granville watched her face, and the pieces began to fall into place. “He was your lover.”

  She nodded.

  “And the father of your child?”

  Another nod, then a choked sob. “Yes.”

  “What did Jackson say when you told him she was his child?” Granville asked softly.

  “He denied it. Then he said she was the daughter of a whore and deserved to grow up like the filth she was.”

  “And is Jackson the reason you don’t know where she is?”

  Gracie choked on a sob, nodded. “We lived in Denver before we came here. He made me leave my baby behind, said we’d bring her later. Then he refused, wouldn’t tell me where she was. I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

  It was as well that Jackson was dead, Granville thought. “I’ll find your baby for you, Gracie. Sam will help me.”

  There was no answer but another choking sob.

  “Is that why you shot Jackson that night?”

  “He said I’d never see my baby again.”

  “What happened then?”

  “He . . . he put a hand to his shoulder and swore at me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran.”

  So she hadn’t seen anything. Granville nodded, hoping his expression hid his disappointment. “What time was this?”

  “Ten. Maybe a little after.”

  “Ten? Not earlier? You’re sure of that?“

  “Maybe it was a little earlier.”

  The timing concerned him. “Do you know whom Jackson was meeting that night?”

  “No, I couldn’t recognize him.”

  “You mean you saw him?”

  She nodded.

  “Who was it?”

  “I just said I didn’t recognize him.”

  “But you saw him. Clearly?”

  She gave a faint shrug. “It was snowing.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He looked short beside Jackson. He was stocky, and wearing some kind of dark jacket and trousers; black, or maybe navy. His hair was white. I couldn’t see anything else.”

  “How short?”

  “My height. Maybe a little more.”

  So five foot four, perhaps five-five. Too short to be Gipson, unfortunately. “And he wasn’t wearing a top hat?”

  “A top hat? No.” A puzzled look crossed her face.

  “Could he have been carrying one?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. He had nothing in his other hand when he was hitting Jackson.”

  “Wait a minute? Do you mean you saw Jackson killed?”

  She nodded. “He was sort of bent over. This other person came up behind him and started hitting.”

  There was no point asking why Gracie hadn’t tried to stop it or gone for help. The point was, she’d have killed the villain herself if she’d had the strength. Or better aim. “What did he hit him with?”

  “Some kind of short stick.”

  “A stick? Did you see him pick it up? Did he leave it there?”

  “No, no, he brought it with him. And took it with him when he left. Maybe it was a club.”

  “Not a bat?”

  “No, shorter than that.”

  “And this was when? What time?”

  “It had to be nearly ten thirty, because it was eleven when I got back here.”

  “And the killer. His hair was white?” None of his suspects had white hair; no one he could think of did.

  “It was snowing,” Trent reminded him.

  “You’re sure you didn’t recognize him?” he asked Gracie again.

  She shook her head.

  “Could it have been Benton?” He was the only man shorter than Jackson who came to mind.

  “Benton? No. Him I’d have recognized.”

  There was pain in her voice. He wondered what had gone on between them, and if it had anything to do with Frances. There was no time to find out now; Scott was his focus, had to be. “What was Jackson doing there that night?”

  “He was looking for information on the ship. I think he was still hoping to unload merchandise through the tunnels.”

  “Tunnels?”

  Wearily she said, “Ask your friends in Chinatown about the tunnels.”

  “What tunnels? What about the tunnels?” he asked urgently. But her eyes had suddenly closed and she was breathing shallowly. Granville knew the interview was over.

  As they stepped out into the icy wind, Trent looked at Granville. “Are we going to Chinatown?”

  “We have one stop to make first.”

  Frances opened her dressing-room door to Granville’s knock and scowled at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “Is this about Sam?”

  “No.”

  She started to close the door, but Granville stuck his foot in the way. Pulling the door wide, she glared at him. “What?”

  “Please, Miss Frances, you have to listen to us. And you don’t want to hear this standing in the hall.” Trent’s face was earnest and his eyes pleaded with her.

  Her expression lightened as she looked at the boy. She turned and walked into her dressing room, leaving them to follow. Seating herself, she looked from one to the other. “I’m listening.”

  “Frances, did you know Gracie has a child?” Granville asked bluntly.

  “Gracie . . . you mean Lizzie? Has a child? Oh, God! No, no, I didn’t know. But how do you know?”

  “She told me,” Granville said.

  “She told you? Why? Where is it?”

  Assuming Frances meant the child, Granville said, “She’s probably in Denver.”

  “She? A girl? But I don’t understand, why is she in Denver?”

  “Jackson made Gracie leave her behind. Gracie’s asked me to find the child for her.”

  “Jackson? What does he have to do with this?”

  “He fathered your sister’s child.”

  “Jackson did? The swine! If he wasn’t already dead, I’d shoot him myself.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t?”

  “Didn’t what? Kill Jackson?” Frances gave a hard laugh. “Yes, I’m sure. Though I’m rather flattered you think I’m that tough.”

  She looked back at Granville and her face darkened. “Lizzie was our baby sister. She was adorable. She had the biggest brown eyes and masses of golden curls and a dimple when she smiled. Sam adored her.”

  She stopped speaking for a moment, looking down at her hands lying slim and still in her lap. Finally she looked up. “If her daughter is anything like her, she’ll be a little angel. How could Lizzie . . . Gracie leave her behind?”

  “Jackson gave her no choice. And when Gracie wanted to send for her, Jackson told her she’d never see her baby again.”

  Her lip curled. She shook her head. “If Benton had known, he’d have made Jackson acknowledge his child. He’d probably have forced him to marry Gracie as well.”

  “Benton?”

  She nodded. “Yes. His father abandoned him and his mother when Benton was very young. He considers abandoning a child one of the few things that are unforgivable.”

  “Could Benton have forced Jackson to find Gracie’s child and acknowledge her?”

  Frances mouth formed a cruel smile. “Oh, yes.”

  Granville wondered what it would have been worth to Jackson to make sure Benton never found out about the child. Who else had known about her? “Did Sam know?”

  “About Gracie’s child?” She sho
ok her head. “No, of course not.”

  Granville nodded, then he said what he’d come to say. “Your sister is very ill, perhaps dying. I think she might accept your help now.”

  One of Frances’s hands flew to her throat. “Dying? Little Lizzie? No! I won’t have it.” Standing and tossing off her shawl, she motioned them to the door. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “I thank you for that information.”

  Emily and Clara sat by the fire in Emily’s bedroom. At Emily’s insistence, they’d retreated there to discuss all that they had learned. Clara was humoring her, she knew. But someone must have left the Opera House to meet Mr. Jackson, she thought. Who?

  There was no way of guessing, but surely someone had noticed his absence. He had to have been gone for longer than the twenty-minute intermission, it seemed, but how to find out? She sighed heavily. “Clara, how am I to track the movement of one man in that crush? Everyone in Vancouver seemed to be there.”

  “I wasn’t,” Clara reminded her. “I had the headache that evening. But I do have a idea. . . .”

  “Tell me,” said Emily.

  “Why not ask your sisters? After all, they’re among the most prodigious gossips in the city.”

  “Clara, that’s brilliant.” Mentally apologizing to her friend for every harsh thought she’d had, she leaned forward. “But I need your help. Join us for tea?”

  It was Clara’s turn to sigh. “Jane and Miriam are so boring.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, very well, for your sake I will endure it.”

  Sitting in the front parlor, Emily watched her mother pour tea from the silver pot. The room was over-furnished and overdecorated, but no one except herself seemed to mind.

  “How have you been, Clara?” Miriam was asking.

  “Very well, thank you, Miriam. And you?”

  “I’m also well.”

  “Did you enjoy the play at the Opera House the other night?”

  Good for you, Clara, Emily thought.

  “Brown’s in Town? Yes, I enjoyed it very much. Yourself?”

  “I’m afraid I had to miss it, and Emily is not the most reliable critic.”

  “No, indeed,” said Jane, with a sideways glance at her sister. “Sometimes I wonder if she even attends the same performance we do.”

  As if her taste was so wonderful, Emily thought.

  Clara’s face showed nothing of her thoughts. “So you enjoyed it also?”

  “Yes, I did,” Jane said.

  Clara had brought the conversation round quite nicely, Emily thought, sitting forward. They’d not suspect anything now. “It was unevenly performed, you must admit,” she said.

  “I thought it amusing enough,” Jane said.

  “Then why did so many people leave at the intermission?”

  “No one left. The men just went out for a cigar.” Miriam explained. “They all returned.”

  “Except for the Dunsmuirs’ guest,” Jane said, turning to face Miriam. “Don’t you remember? Mary told us he came back after the second act started. She was so embarrassed.” Jane’s eyes gleamed at the tidbit.

  Miriam brightened. “Oh, now I remember. How rude.”

  Clara and Emily’s eyes met. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing,” Clara said. “Who was this guest?”

  “A Mr. Smythe,” Jane said.

  “I’ve not heard of him. Who is he?” Clara shot Emily a glance.

  “I believe he’s a business partner of Mr. Dunsmuir’s. Rumored to be very well-off. Of course they’d invite him,” Miriam said.

  “And of course they’d overlook any rudeness,” Jane finished.

  “More tea, girls?” Mrs. Turner asked.

  It was like her mother to change the subject when the gossip grew too personal, Emily thought. “No, thank you, Mama,” she said. “Clara has to leave early.”

  “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Turner,” Clara said, standing on cue.

  “Smythe,” Emily hissed as soon as she and Clara were in the hall. “Did you hear? He was one of the investors that Mr. Granville talked to. Do you think he’s the one who killed Mr. Jackson?”

  “We must wait until tomorrow and see what Mr. Granville thinks,” Clara said.

  T H I R T Y – T W O

  Saturday, December 16, 1899

  Catching sight of Emily and Clara sitting at their table, Granville made his way to them. Emily smiled back and her eyes lit up. Once again, he was surprised and amused at how much her welcome pleased him.

  “O’Hearn not here?” Trent asked as he and Granville sat down.

  “He’s right behind you,” Clara said, nodding towards the door.

  “You’ll never guess what I found out,” O’Hearn said as he reached their table. His red hair stood on end as though he’d run his fingers through it.

  “Blayney was killed in the same manner as Jackson,” Emily said.

  The reporter’s face was almost comical in its disappointment. “You knew?”

  “I guessed, but only when I saw your excitement. Then I knew there had to be a connection.”

  “Oh.”

  “I, for one, would never have guessed,” Clara said. “How did you find out?”

  “I started with what we’d published on the death, which wasn’t much. Then I talked to the coroner, Dr. Barwill. Did you know the man’s a raving idiot?” O’Hearn grimaced, then went on. “Blayney died from a head wound. He was hit with a heavy rounded implement, and so was Jackson. So I think we’re looking for one killer.”

  Granville was still annoyed with himself for missing the true method of Jackson’s death for so long, but Scott’s time was too short to waste on regrets. And this gave them another avenue to pursue. Who had hated or feared both Jackson and Blayney enough to kill both of them?

  “I think I know who that killer is,” Emily was saying.

  Every head except Clara’s turned toward her. Clara calmly spooned sugar into her tea.

  “Mr. Smythe,” Emily said. “He disappeared during the intermission of Brown’s in Town and didn’t return for nearly an hour. And he was wearing a top hat.”

  “So it was Smythe Jackson was talking to, was it? I’ll have to have another chat with the man,” Granville said. Smythe was too skinny to be the killer, but it was good to have that detail resolved, and the man might know more about Jackson’s death than he’d admitted to. “Thank you, Emily. That’s good work.”

  “It was Clara’s idea.”

  “We did it together,” Clara said.

  “I’m glad to have the name. Unfortunately I don’t believe he’s the murderer. I don’t think it’s Gipson, either, much as I’d love to see the man hang.”

  “Why not?” Emily asked.

  “I have an eyewitness,” he said, then held up a hand before they could say anything. “She saw Jackson being hit and she says the killer was a short, stocky man. Which lets out Gipson, who is too tall, and Smythe, who is too thin. Also, whoever it was wasn’t wearing a top hat, wasn’t even carrying one. And the timing does not fit.”

  “But isn’t your partner a tall man?” Emily said. “Doesn’t that exonerate him also?”

  “It would, except that my witness would have no credibility in court. She’s a prostitute and an opium-smoker.”

  “How did you find her?”

  “She’s Scott’s sister.”

  “Oh, the poor woman,” said Emily. “But isn’t Mr. Scott’s sister the woman rumored to have shot Mr. Jackson?”

  “That’s right. And she did shoot him. Only she didn’t kill him.”

  “Oh.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So where does that leave us?” O’Hearn asked. “We have two murders, an unreliable witness, and no killer.”

  “What do the police tell you about Blayney’s murder?” Granville asked him.

  “Not much. The case is still open, but they have no leads and they don’t seem to be looking hard for a killer.”

  “I wonder why might be.”

  O’Hearn shook his he
ad. “What’re your thoughts?”

  “Blayney was Gipson’s man,” Granville said. “And Gipson is not one to overlook an insult, which is how he’d see the murder of one of his key men. So why is he not raising hell with the police?”

  “Maybe he wanted Mr. Blayney dead,” Trent said.

  “Perhaps he did at that.”

  “But you said Gipson didn’t kill Jackson. And Jackson and Blayney were killed the same way. So Gipson couldn’t have killed Blayney,” O’Hearn said.

  “Unless he hired someone to do it for him,” Emily suggested.

  “True enough. If we assume Gipson wanted Blayney dead, where does that take us?”

  “Maybe Mr. Blayney knew too much,” Trent said.

  Granville nodded. “It’s possible. So Gipson hires the same man who killed Jackson. Why?”

  “Maybe he paid for Jackson’s killing, too?” O’Hearn said.

  “Or he found out who killed Mr. Jackson, then blackmailed the killer into killing Mr. Blayney,” Clara said. They all looked at her in surprise.

  “Yes, that’s possible,” O’Hearn said, leaning towards her. “Perhaps Smythe was a witness? Was he still at the docks when Jackson was killed? Could he have told Gipson?”

  “What time did Smythe return to the Opera House?” Granville asked Emily.

  “Around nine thirty.”

  “Then no, Smythe could not have seen the murder. Jackson was killed closer to ten thirty. But Gipson might have other ways of finding out who the killer was.”

  “So how do we find out?” Trent asked. “There’s no other way of getting Mr. Scott out of jail, right?”

  “Right. I’ll need to talk to Smythe again. He may not have seen the murder, but he did meet with Jackson. He may have seen something that will help us. Then I think I’ll ask Gipson who our killer is.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he would be happy to tell you,” said Emily.

  “Perhaps not. Though it might be interesting.” He grinned, then voiced a thought that had just occurred to him. “It might be even more interesting to ask him about the murder weapon. For some reason the killer carried it with him,”