by Sharon Rowse
“He did?” O’Hearn stared at Granville. “I wonder why? There’s no shortage of handy planks down on the dock.”
“Maybe the killer planned the murder,” Trent said.
Granville nodded. “Or perhaps the weapon is something he habitually carries.”
“Like a cane?” Emily said.
“Possible, though my informant seemed to think it was shorter than that. She was uncertain on the details, but the coroner told me a little of the shape of weapon.”
He described it to them, but no one had any further insights into possible weapons. Trent seemed to be the only one who had any familiarity with cudgels. “The weapon may or may not help us. So after I’ve talked to Gipson, I’m off to Chinatown.”
“Chinatown? Why there? Isn’t it dangerous?” O’Hearn looked intrigued.
“I have a contact there. Scott’s sister said something about Jackson using tunnels from Chinatown to the docks that night. Have you ever heard of such tunnels?”
“There has been the occasional rumour, but most consider it nonsense,” O’Hearn said.
The others shook their heads.
“Well, it may be nothing. But I think it worth looking into.”
Avoiding the puddles of slush that spilled onto Seymour, Granville considered how best to approach Smythe. Beside him, Trent seemed deep in thought.
“What if it was Smythe?” Trent suddenly burst out.
“What if what was Smythe?”
“That killed Jackson. He was gone long enough. He’s short.”
“He’s too thin,” Granville reminded him.
“He could have been wearing an overcoat. If he was bundled up enough, he could have looked stocky, and besides, it was snowing, remember? Hard to see.”
“All good points. You’ll just have to trust my instincts on this one. Smythe didn’t kill Jackson.”
Trent didn’t look satisfied. “Then why are we going to see him?”
“To see what he’ll say.”
“Hmmp. I thought we didn’t have time to waste.”
T H I R T Y – T H R E E
In Smythe’s office, Granville ignored the clerk’s “Mr. Smythe isn’t available,” and walked straight into the inner office. A frantic squawking followed him, and Granville’s eyes glinted. Seated behind his wide desk, Smythe gave them a disdainful look. “I will have to ask you to leave.”
“We know you saw Jackson the night he was murdered, Smythe,” Granville said. “You met him on the dock.”
Smythes’s distant expression cracked. “I . . .”
“Don’t bother to deny it. You were seen.”
“Please close the door,” Smythe said, then waited until Trent had done so.
“Yes, all right, I was there. But I didn’t kill him.”
“Why not tell us this before?”
“Would you have?”
Granville regarded the man in front of him. He probably wouldn’t have said anything either, but that wasn’t the point. Scott’s life was the point. “Why did you meet Jackson, Smythe?”
“I will tell you, but you have to promise not to bring in the police.”
“I’m not promising anything. But if I can keep your name out of it, I will.”
“Fair enough. It was part of our partnership agreement. And I needed the money.”
“Why?”
“I owe Gipson.”
Gipson again. “How much?”
“More than I can afford to pay.”
“So you borrowed money from Gipson?”
“At his terms? My foolishness was of a different sort, Mr. Granville.” He sighed. “My venture with Gipson was intended to make money as a cushion to see me through periods when my primary sources of income were adversely affected.”
Granville knew what was coming. “You bought mining stock from him.”
“To my shame, yes. And I bought more against what he told me was the greatly increased value of the shares I held.”
“Then he told you the stocks were worthless, and you ended up owing him money.”
“A great deal of money.” Smythe looked at him in surprise. “Have you invested with Gipson also, Mr. Granville?”
“No, but I have had dealings with him in the past. I know his methods.”
“I see.” Smythe looked at his hands as they lay resting on his desk. “When I owed so much, Gipson suggested I invest with Jackson. He even loaned me the money to do so,” he said with a bitter laugh. “And indicated that he would be more lenient with my interest if I could persuade several of my friends to invest also. Lenient. My God, he could foreclose on my business if he chose to, so I betrayed my friends to save my living.”
Granville said nothing; Smythe would not want expressions of sympathy, but Gipson deserved to be behind bars, and Granville would be pleased to put him there.
Smythe’s thoughts had apparently been following a similar line. “When you say you’ve had experience with Gipson’s methods . . . do you imply the failure of the mine could have been a setup?”
“The mine probably didn’t exist.”
For the first time, a flush brought color to Smythe’s face. He said something beneath his breath.
“Have you copies of your share certificates?” Granville asked.
“Yes. But bringing action will take time, and I suspect Gipson will simply leave town if I get too close.”
“Not if he is behind bars he won’t.”
Smythe met Granville’s eyes. “What can I do?”
“I need to know what happened that night, what you saw or heard. Everything, right down to the smells.”
Smythe nodded. “Jackson insisted I meet him, said I had to help him if I ever wanted to see a penny.”
“Help him? How?”
“He sent word when he realized the India wouldn’t be docking till the following day, in daylight. He wanted me to help a passenger and his luggage get to San Francisco. Jackson said his face was too well known for him to do it personally, and he couldn’t afford a delay.”
The passenger would be Jackson’s insider, the man who killed Bertie’s cousin, Granville thought. “What passenger?”
“A Chinaman.”
“He was Chinese?”
“Yes. Name of Wong Fung, or something like that.”
Bertie’s cousin. Alive? “And his luggage?”
“Mostly opium, I think, but I saw him on his way. And don’t ask how, for I shan’t say.”
Wong Yu Fung had betrayed his own father? From the little Granville knew of Chinese culture, such a thing was almost unheard of. What kind of persuasion had been used to cause such a betrayal?
It was a piece of news he wasn’t looking forward to conveying to the young man’s father. “So you did what Jackson asked.”
“Yes.”
“And when did you last see Jackson?”
“It must have been nine fifteen or so. I was back at the Opera House by nine thirty.”
It galled Granville to realize he and Scott had been less than four blocks away while all this was going on. “Did you see or hear anyone else when you were on the dock?”
“No one.”
“Did Jackson say anything about meeting anyone else that night?”
“Not to me.”
“Thank you, Smythe. I think we’ll pay a call on Gipson now and see what he can tell us.”
“Good luck. And be careful.”
“Do you really expect to get answers from Gipson?” Trent asked as they left the building.
“No, I just want to rattle him a little.”
Granville strode up the stairs and into Gipson’s office, slamming open the door. It was late and this time there were no thugs to stop them. Gipson’s face didn’t even register surprise, and his smooth expression made Granville even more furious. He kept picturing the resignation he’d seen on Scott’s face as he sat in that tiny jail cell. It was time to stop Gipson’s little game.
His glance moved to the chunk of fool’s gold sitting on Gipson’s
desk and he thought how apt it was. Gipson had made a business out of turning men into fools, chasing after gold in all its forms. It was time someone turned the tables on him. “I’ve just come from an interesting meeting with Smythe,” he said.
“Interesting?” Gipson raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t know he had invested with you.”
Gipson looked at him calmly. “Many of the key people in this town have invested with me. My transactions are, of course, private.”
“Naturally. There is one thing you could help me with. Without breaking the confidentiality of those transactions, that is. I am looking for a short, stocky killer. I wondered if you happened to know such a person?” Granville watched the tiny muscles around the man’s eye twitch, though his expression didn’t change.
“I don’t know why you’d think I would.”
“I’ll take that as a no. Well, my thanks for your time, in any case. Come along, Trent. Oh, and by the way,” Granville said, stopping with one hand on the doorknob and turning to face Gipson. “If you plan to send someone to attack us after we leave, I will infer that you do know the killer. I think Chief McKenzie may have a question or two for you after that.”
“He really hates you, doesn’t he?” Trent asked as they went down the stairs.
“The feeling is mutual, believe me.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long, and not very edifying story. I’ll tell you one day. But, right now, I’m going to Chinatown and you are going home.”
“What? But why?”
“I don’t know what I’ll be walking into. It may be dangerous.”
“All the more reason to take me with you.”
Granville looked at Trent’s determined face; he wasn’t going to give up easily. “Very well, you can be my backup, but if it is dangerous and we both go in, we’ll neither of us return. You can come with me, but only as far as the bar at the Carlton. I’ll meet you back there in an hour. If I don’t show up, you go get Bertie. All right?”
Trent sighed. “All right,” he finally agreed. But his expression was mutinous.
T H I R T Y – F O U R
Emily couldn’t sit still; something was wrong. She’d spent most of the day wishing she could go to the meetings Mr. Granville had planned, and had been feeling impatient since Clara left, but this was different. She didn’t quite know how to explain it. What was wrong with her?
She had a sudden vision of Mr. Granville’s face and the unease she was feeling deepened. Was something wrong with him? Perhaps Trent would know; Bertie would know how to find him. She left her room and walked to the servants’ uncarpeted stairs, not caring for once what her mother would say.
“Trent!”
Bertie and Trent were standing just inside the kitchen door, heads close together. The stone sink was half full of the china Bertie had been washing. Trent started, but didn’t turn to face her. “Yes, Miss Emily?”
“Did Mr. Granville go to his meetings without?” She could feel their tension rise. “Trent. Look at me.”
He wouldn’t meet her gaze, which was unlike him. And why was he here? “Trent, something has happened with Mr. Granville, hasn’t it?”
Trent looked at Bertie then back at her. He nodded slowly.
“Where is he?”
“Chinatown.”
“Is he in trouble?”
“I think he might be, Miss Emily.”
“So what are you doing about it?” Her eyes went from him to Bertie, and narrowed. “The two of you were going to rescue him, weren’t you?” Neither answered her, neither of them met her accusing gaze.
“Take me with you.”
Bertie met her gaze, a look of shock in his eyes. “Miss Emily? You cannot go to Chinatown.”
“What kind of trouble is Mr. Granville in, Bertie?”
His eyes darted away. “I do not know.”
“I think you do. Take me to Chinatown, Bertie. Take me to your uncle.”
He turned back to the sink, as if to finish washing the dishes, and Trent leaned back against the kitchen door, tension in every line of his body. “I cannot,” Bertie finally said. “Is not safe for you.”
“Is it safe for Mr. Granville?”
No answer.
“If I asked you to go, to protect him, could you do that?”
Still no answer.
“Bertie, if you have any respect for me at all, please take me to him.”
“I cannot, Miss Emily. Your papa be very angry. Chinatown is not safe.”
“If I were with you, I would be safe, wouldn’t I, Bertie?” She could see him hesitate. “Please, Bertie. Please.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “You know what you ask?”
Trent was watching the both of them, and his uncharacteristic silence said more to Emily than anything else.
“Probably not,” she said with a shaky half-laugh. “But I ask it anyway. Please, Bertie.”
His expression was grave. “Very well. You need a coat.”
She ran to get it.
Emily found Chinatown as unsettling as she’d imagined. She’d entered a world that was foreign to her, and she felt out of place and vulnerable, conscious of eyes watching them, watching her. Every time she looked behind her she saw no one, but they were there, watching, she could feel them.
The streetcar had let them off at Carrall. Though it was already dark the wide, well-lit streets had felt safe enough. They’d passed by the opulent Alhambra Hotel, where every window was glowing with light, and the sounds of the orchestra and men laughing floated on the chill air. She had even felt a frisson of excitement at the forbidden nature of it all; being out alone, after dark. The fact that Bertie and Trent were with her didn’t count. If this little escapade were discovered, she would be worse off for having been with the houseboy and the odd-jobs boy than if she had been totally alone. That didn’t matter now. The urgency she felt, the sense of danger for Granville, eclipsed everything.
Turning onto Dupont, the feeling changed; being here with only Bertie and Trent for company suddenly seemed foolhardy, not brave. I won’t change my mind now, she thought. I cannot.
“Miss Emily. This way.”
She responded instantly to Bertie’s hand on her arm, the urgency in his soft-voiced command. “What is it?” Heart pounding, she drew in a shaky breath, conscious of the cold air, freezing in her nostrils and the back of her throat.
“Do not look ahead. We go this way.” His hand on her arm tugged her firmly toward a narrow passageway between two rickety buildings.
Despite his warning, Emily took a quick look in the direction they had been going. Three men were coming toward them, none of them tall or heavily built, but they exuded an air of menace that had the breath stopping in her throat. Emily quickened her step.
Before the three men grew too close, Bertie stopped at a small gate and rapped four times. The gate swung silently inward, as if someone had been standing waiting for them.
Emily looked, but saw no one. Bertie bowed as he went through, and Emily tried to copy the motion, though it felt awkward to her.
The room was long and narrow, the near end brightly lit, the other end in shadows. On the side wall was a fireplace, flanked by dragon statues. Candles flickered in long holders, and Emily smelled some sweetish incense she couldn’t name. The room seemed empty.
She looked over at Bertie. His eyes were fixed on a dark shape lying along the side wall. She stared at the bundle for a long moment, unable to decipher what she was seeing. Then a tiny movement showed her the bend of an arm against dark cloth. Her breath caught in her throat. It was a man, lying there draped in some kind of dark cloth, nearly motionless. Could it be Mr. Granville?
She fought back the urge to scream and rush to his side. There was no sound from Trent behind them, so he must be feeling equally cautious. She looked over at Bertie. He was bowing toward the farthest, darkest end of the room. Then he stood statue still. The look on his face froze Emily where she stood.
Unnerved by the silence, she glanced sideways at Bertie, who didn’t seem to have moved. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. For the first time since she had proposed coming here, Emily felt truly afraid. Her stomach clenched painfully tight and her legs felt shaky. Seeing Bertie’s fear, she realized how little she knew about this world, how little right she’d had to demand to be brought here.
I assumed Angus Turner’s daughter would be safe anywhere, Emily thought in sudden terror. I had no idea anyplace in Vancouver could feel so alien.
Bertie moved then, bowing his head low, and Emily’s heart pounded so loudly she was sure she would faint. I can’t faint now. I never faint, she thought. Never.
“Honored Uncle,” Bertie said, his head still bowed.
The response, in a voice as dry as spider’s silk, was incomprehensible to Emily.
Bertie said something else, but he was no longer speaking English. His tone sounded harsh to her unaccustomed ears. His posture was subservient though, even nervous.
Bertie’s uncle replied sharply. He was angry, Emily thought, watching both of them closely. Very angry.
There was a long silence. Emily was aware of crackle of flames devouring oxygen, loud in the stillness. Suddenly breathless, she put a hand to her throat, and those dark eyes watched the movement.
The old man said something else. There was no emotion in his voice, but Emily’s heart began hammering again. With an effort, she held her head high. Showing her fear could not help Mr. Granville.
There was another exchange. Emily sensed Bertie was talking about her. Whatever he said was not well received. She drew in a quick breath, held it, as Bertie’s head turned, ever so slightly, to look toward the corner where Granville lay. Bertie said something else. His uncle’s reply was long and Bertie seemed to Emily to cringe back, though he didn’t actually move.