The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

  Emily wanted to leap forward and explain herself and Mr. Granville, but held her tongue. The environment was too alien; she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. She would have to trust Bertie to speak for her. But it was harder than anything she’d ever known not to go to the figure on the floor.

  Bertie spoke again, his voice a little louder. He was not giving up, or so it seemed to Emily. The old man’s response was softer, but it seemed menacing to her. Bertie asked something. The answer was short, the tone ruthless.

  Mr. Granville was in trouble, she could sense it. Taking a deep breath, Emily stepped forward, mentally rehearsing the name Bertie had so painstakingly taught her. “Mr. Wong Ah Sun? May I say something?”

  “Miss Emily, no.” Bertie grabbed for her arm, but missed.

  The eyes watching her widened slightly, but he made no move. Emily gave a little bow, not knowing if she was doing the right thing. She had no idea what they had been arguing about, but given his anger, she guessed it must have to do with the old man’s son. All she could do was give them the information she had, and hope it would help.

  “Four hours ago, Mr. Granville believed that Jackson had arranged to have your son killed and the opium stolen. When last I saw Mr. Granville, he was tracking down Jackson’s accomplices. If he has told you something different about your son now, he must have discovered more information. Trent would know.” She looked behind her. “Trent?”

  Trent stepped forward, his expression determined, but Emily could sense his fear. “Yes?”

  “Did you and Mr. Granville talk to anyone before coming here?”

  Trent nodded. “A gentleman named Smythe.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That Jackson had asked him to get a man named Wong Fung and his belongings to San Francisco. And that he did so.”

  “My son,” Wong Ah Sun said softly. His gaze moved from Trent’s face back to Emily’s. “Perhaps your Mr. Granville told the truth about my son, though it pains me to think it, but there are other matters he spoke of, thing he has no business knowing.”

  “Trent?” she said. “Was there something else Granville learned of that might concern Mr. Wong Ah Sun?”

  “We were told of the tunnels,” Trent said.

  Beside her, Emily could feel Bertie tensing. “Would that be a concern?” she asked the old man.

  “Perhaps.” There was no emotion in that voice, nothing showing on his face.

  “He is only interested in looking for Mr. Jackson’s killers.” She paused, then decided the gamble was worth the risk. “He is a man of his word. He did not ask again about the woman you told him of, did he?”

  Wong Ah Sun’s gaze flicked to Bertie, then returned to her. “No.”

  She nodded again. “No. I thought not. He has already found her. And she did not kill Jackson.”

  A groan distracted her; it came from where Granville lay. Well, at least she knew he was still alive, Emily thought. Now all she had to do was convince a man more alien to her than any she’d ever met that they meant no harm. All!

  She’d have laughed if she dared, but instead drew in a long breath, willing her nerves to steady. She could almost feel the presence of death in the room, hovering. Mr. Granville had come too close to things that needed to stay hidden.

  Wong Ah Sun watched her. “And who are you to him, that he should tell you these things?”

  “I am his fiancée. We are to be married,” said Emily recklessly, ignoring the little start Bertie gave beside her. Somehow she had to convince this man to take her seriously, to believe that Granville meant no harm.

  “I see.” His eyes searched her face, then shifted to the still body on the floor. That piercing gaze snapped back, fixed itself on Bertie’s face. “Is this true, nephew?”

  He hadn’t missed Bertie’s reaction, either, Emily realized. “Bertie doesn’t know. Neither do my parents. I . . . we kept it a secret.”

  There was no chance that Trent wouldn’t react to her lie, but she felt sure he was intimidated enough by their surroundings to save his comments for later.

  Wong Ah Sun’s glance now turned to him, but Trent was staring at the floor.

  In silence they all stood there. It seemed like forever to Emily. Her heart jumped when Bertie’s uncle suddenly spoke. “Nephew, escort Miss Emily and Mr. Granville and their friend wherever they wish to go. Though you may have to assist Mr. Granville. He is feeling rather unwell.”

  “Yes, Honorable Uncle,” Bertie said with a deeper bow.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wong Ah Sun,” Emily said, copying Bertie’s bow. “But if I may, there is just one thing?”

  He did not reply, only waited.

  “We still need to know if Jackson was here the night he died. Not about the tunnels,” she added hastily. “Just if he was here. And when he might have left.”

  When she’d finished, there was a tense silence. Emily wanted very badly to look away, but she forced herself to meet Wong Ah Sun’s eyes.

  “You have courage,” he said slowly. “Yes, Jackson was here, though he did not get what he came for. And no,” he said, holding up a hand as Emily began to speak. “Do not ask me what he came for. He took a shortcut to the docks. He would have been there by eight o’clock.”

  “Thank you,” said Emily. But what did it mean? she wondered as she went to help Bertie lift Mr. Granville, who came to his feet with a low groan.

  With Mr. Granville held up by Bertie on one side and Trent on the other, the four of them made slow progress down Dupont Street. Emily was horrified to see how badly he had been beaten. The right side of his face was battered, his lip was cut and swollen, and a bruise darkened his cheekbone. He moved awkwardly. Every step seemed to cause him pain and she wasn’t sure he was entirely conscious, shuffling along in what seemed to be a dazed state.

  “Mr. Granville, can you walk any faster?” she begged. “We have to get you out of here.”

  His head turned slowly toward her. Two gold-flecked hazel eyes laughed at her. “Don’t you think you could call me John, now? Since we’re engaged?”

  T H I R T Y – F I V E

  Sunday, December 17, 1899

  “What do you have to say for yourself, girl?” Emily’s father thundered, his face red.

  She had been so intent on getting Granville to the hospital alive, she hadn’t even thought about being recognized. Emily took a shaky breath. She’d never seen her father like this. A glance at her mother was no help. She hung her head and waited for the tempest to blow over.

  But Papa hadn’t finished. “You’re confined to your room, and you will stay there until I decide what to do with you. I’m thinking about a convent. It seems the only solution.”

  “But, Papa, we aren’t Catholic.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Emily took a deep breath. Clearly there was no reasoning with her father now, but she doubted he could get any angrier. Perhaps this was the time to ask him about Mr. Jackson’s name on that list. And she had to know. “Papa, why were you so interested in Clive Jackson?”

  Startled by the abrupt change of subject, he gave her a hard look. “What makes you think I was?”

  “I accidentally saw a list when I was tidying your study. His name was on it, and since he is now dead . . .”

  “You shouldn’t even know of such things, much less be asking questions about them.”

  “I am sorry, Papa. I was worried about you.” It was true.

  “Worried? What, that I’d killed him?” When Emily didn’t deny it, he glared at her angrily.

  “But, Papa . . .”

  “Enough. I won’t hear another word. Go to your room. Now.”

  “But . . .”

  “Go.”

  Emily went.

  Reaching her bedroom, she began to pace, wondering what would happen next. She’d probably be sent away, somewhere miserable; too many people would know of her adventuring for Papa to let her stay. And she’d never be allowed to see Mr. Granville again, or to find out wh
at happened with their investigation. She sighed, and walked slowly to the window, peering out into the darkness.

  T H I R T Y – S I X

  Monday, December 18, 1899

  They’d strapped his ribs too tightly, Granville thought as he entered Stroh’s Tea Shop, but at least he could walk without wincing. He was looking forward to seeing Emily, and he wanted to thank her for what she’d done. At the time he’d been too groggy to recognize how brave she had been, and how much she had risked by helping him.

  He ignored the other patrons gaping at the sight of his bruised and battered face. His eyes went straight to her table, but she wasn’t there. O’Hearn sat there alone, looking oddly bereft. No sign of Trent, either, though he was supposed to meet him here.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Emily’s being held prisoner!” Trent said, arriving out of breath to provide part of the answer. His cheeks and nose were red from hurrying in the cold air.

  “What?” Granville exclaimed.

  “And Clara?” O’Hearn asked at the same time.

  “I don’t know about Clara,” Trent said. He was relishing his role as bearer of such dramatic news. “I’ve just come from the Turners’. Her father is furious; he’s locked Emily in her room.”

  “I see.”

  Trent went on. “Cook says her reputation is ruined and no one will ever marry her.”

  “I’ll marry her myself.” Granville had never thought to hear himself speak those words. But he realized he didn’t regret having uttered them.

  Trent widened his eyes. “But they blame you. I know that much.”

  He wasn’t surprised to hear it.

  “Cook says her parents accused Emily of consorting with Chinamen and criminals. Like you,” Trent said.

  Granville ignored this. “She’s all right, though?”

  “She’s just being kept in the house. Cook says nothing like this has ever happened before, and that it’s for her own good . . .”

  He nodded. “Then she’ll be all right until tomorrow. I’ll deal with her father then.”

  “But that’s not all!” Trent said. “She smuggled me a note to bring you!”

  He handed a folded paper to Granville, who opened it and read:

  I’m sorry I can’t meet with you this afternoon. Trent will explain why.

  I have been doing some thinking about the murder weapon. If it was heavy, shorter than a cane and something someone always carries, could it have been a nightstick? The kind police carry?

  E.

  Granville read the note, and read it again. He could almost hear the click as all the pieces fell into place. “It was Craddock. He’s the killer,” he said.

  O’Hearn and Trent both stared at him.

  “Craddock? Who’s he?” O’Hearn asked.

  “One of the constables who was first on the scene of Jackson’s murder. He’s short and stocky and he hates Scott.” He handed the note to Trent, and waited while the two of them read it.

  “A policeman?” Trent said.

  “Sure,” O’Hearn said, nodding. “We’re still waiting to hear the results of the latest judicial enquiry into police doings. Being sworn to uphold the law’s only words to some of them.”

  “But why would this fellow kill Jackson?” Trent asked.

  “According to Scott, Craddock lived in Denver before he moved here. So did Jackson.”

  “So?”

  “So Jackson and Gracie had a child together. Jackson has kept the whereabouts of that child from her mother. And I’d be willing to bet Craddock knew about it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Trent said. “Why does that matter?”

  “Blackmail is one possibility?” O’Hearn said.

  “Yes,” Granville said. “According to Scott, Craddock has a gambling problem, which probably means he’s short of money. I’d be willing to bet he tried to blackmail Jackson. It would explain a few things.”

  “So what do we do now?” Trent asked.

  Granville turned to O’Hearn. “That judicial enquiry. Where does it stand on McKenzie? Is he clean?”

  “McKenzie? Not exactly,” O’Hearn said. “He says he is, but from what I hear the evidence is piling up against him. I, for one, will be very surprised if he holds his position into the new year.”

  “So we can’t trust him.” The line of Trent’s jaw was hard as he said it.

  “But McKenzie won’t stand for murder,” O’Hearn said.

  “Are you sure of that?” Granville asked.

  “Pretty sure. His problem is in discerning the line between collecting fines for the city and collecting them for himself. Murder’s something different.”

  “You sure enough to risk Scott’s life?”

  “Not that sure.”

  “No, I thought not.” Granville stopped to think, saying nothing for a few minutes.

  “So then what do we do?” Trent asked.

  “We dig up everything we can find on Craddock. Then we hire someone smart to defend Scott, and we fight this out in court.”

  “In court? Are you crazy?” O’Hearn said.

  “That depends. Is the judge honest?”

  “It’s Thompson, right? Yeah, he’s honest. Unforgiving, but honest.”

  “Good. Then the only thing we need is a really good barrister. Somebody who knows how to argue and to convince a jury.”

  “A barrister!” O’Hearn repeated, shaking his head. “I think I know someone who meets your requirements, but he won’t come cheap. And he may not take the case.”

  “Let me worry about that,” Granville said. “We have to convince him to go into court tomorrow morning, and he has to be willing to do as I say.”

  “Sounds risky.”

  “It is. But give me his name anyway.”

  “Randall. Josiah Randall.”

  T H I R T Y – S E V E N

  Tuesday, December 19, 1899

  The courtroom was narrow and crowded. Granville crossed his arms and shifted in one of the hard chairs they provided for spectators. From his front row seat, he could feel the anticipation in the eight rows behind him, hear the excited whispering. In front of him was the witness stand, with the judge’s bench to the left and the jury stand to the right. The bewigged lawyers and the defendant sat at two tables set in front of and facing the judge. Granville could see only the back of Scott’s head, held at a defiant angle.

  Despite the number of people who had squeezed inside, the room was cold and the air felt damp. Most of the spectators had kept their coats on and the few ladies huddled their fringed shawls more closely around themselves. The jurors, seated on hard benches against the wall, looked pinch-faced and miserable. Rain formed a gray stream on the windows and from somewhere there came an insistent dripping; the courtroom leaked.

  As he watched Josiah Randall cross-examine Constable Myers, Granville began to hope for the first time that his friend would be set free. Randall’s questions were incisive, and his slow but insistent manner that seemed to draw out answers the witness had never intended to make.

  “Constable Myers, you have testified that the defendant came and found you and your partner to report a murder, did you not?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what time would that have been?”

  “Six or so.”

  “I see. And you and Constable Craddock had been on duty all night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Together?”

  “Yes.”

  “So when Mr. Scott came to tell you he had found the victim’s body, he found both of you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And was there any point during the night in question that you and your partner were not in sight of each other?”

  Myers flushed slightly. “Well, of course, there was the occasional . . . necessity.”

  “I see. But when Mr. Scott came looking for you, you were together?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And between, s
ay, ten and eleven the previous night, were you together then?”

  The Crown Prosecutor hastily stood up. “Objection. This cannot be relevant.”

  Randall turned to the Judge. “Your Honor, I am looking to establish patterns of behavior.”

  “I’ll allow it for now. The witness will answer the question.”

  “Well… no,” said Constable Myers. “We were not together.”

  “Not during any of that time?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Thank you, Constable. Now, when Mr. Scott reported the murder, did he show any signs of violence?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Were there any bloodstains on Mr. Scott?”

  “No.”

  “Did he show any signs of bruising?”

  “No.”

  “Was his clothing disheveled?”

  “Well, it was damp.”

  “But not torn, or in disarray.”

  “No.”

  “I see.” Randall nodded slowly, then fired his next question. “Then why was Mr. Scott arrested?”

  “What?”

  “If Mr. Scott bore no sign of violence, why was he arrested for this very bloody murder?”

  “Well, he . . . Scott carried the weapon.”

  “Which weapon was that?”

  “The baseball bat. The one marked Exhibit A.”

  “Ah, yes, that baseball bat. And was there blood found on that baseball bat?”

  “He’d had time to clean it off.”

  “I take it that is a ‘no.’”

  “Yes. I mean, yes, it’s a ‘no.’”

  “I see. Thank you, Constable Myers. You may step down now.”

  Myers had slunk from the stand, with Craddock glaring at him. Chief McKenzie had not looked too pleased, either. Now Randall was cross-examining Dr. Barwill, and the coroner looked as if he’d give anything for a stiff drink.

  Granville’s glance flicked from Judge Thompson’s narrow, expressionless face to the intent expressions of the jury and he smiled to himself. Josiah Randall was good. He’d liked him immediately on meeting him the previous day, but seeing him at work confirmed everything Granville had hoped. If anyone could put Craddock and Gipson behind bars in exchange for Scott, this man could.