Gold Fever (25 page)

“Mother!” Angus pulled away, flushing a deep red. He peeked out of the corner of his eyes to see if the Mountie was watching him being hugged by his mother. He was.

“Take care, dearest,” I said, leaving for my appointment. The crowd outside the Richmond had largely dispersed once the body had been removed. A few layabouts with nothing better to do lingered, hoping for a fresh flash of excitement. Graham Donohue stepped into my path.

“Fiona,” he said. “This is ridiculous. I represent a prominent American newspaper, and McKnight won't give me even a hint of what is going on in there.”

“Perhaps the good inspector doesn't give a fig for your prominent American newspaper, Graham. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an important meeting to which I am dangerously late.”

He fell into step beside me. “We can talk on the way. That Witherspoon woman was inside the entire time. Do you think she got the whole story?”

“I don't know, Graham.”

“What happened? Angus was there when they found the body, the men say. Weren't you talking to Jannis last night, Fiona? In fact, you ordered him out of the Savoy. Think that has anything to do with his death?”

“If he'd killed himself, I would consider it a perfectly natural reaction to being expelled from the Savoy. However, it doesn't appear he did himself in, so I don't see that I have anything to tell you. Oh dear, I did just tell you it wasn't a suicide, didn't I?”

“That you did, Fiona.” The streets were full of mud. I had to lift my skirts to indecent heights to get from one boardwalk to another. More respectable women dragged their hems through the muck.

“Not much blood on the floor, though,” Graham said cheerfully, “least as far as I could see. But some, so he wasn't likely strangled. Must have been a knifing or a shooting. And as no one appears to have heard a shot— which would have been a pretty unusual sound around here—I'm guessing it was a knife.”

“A very small knife,” I said. McKnight had told Angus and me not to talk to anyone about what had happened. As if anyone in Dawson could keep such a thing secret.

“A small knife.”

“Angus said it made a small neat hole in the neck. It was covered by that scarf Jannis always wore, which is why no one noticed him bleeding.

“Interesting,” Graham said. “A well placed strike. Someone who knows anatomy then.”

“Don't get too carried away with speculation, Graham. Everyone brought up on a farm or a woman who's attended a birth knows the rudiments of anatomy.”

“You've never told me about your childhood, Fiona. Were you raised on a farm? I can see you running through fields of yellow corn and amongst the grazing cattle, your long black hair streaming behind you in the wind.”

“Do I sound like my parents were farmers?”

“Your father was a horse breeder perhaps. Thoroughbreds. And you raised colts from birth and hung over the fence to watch them break records. With your long black hair streaming in the wind. Do they have racehorses in England?”

“No. Only fat ponies that pull straw-filled wagons full of apple-cheeked children at county fêtes.”

It was almost four thirty when we arrived at the “dresmakers”. Irene was standing outside, looking quite annoyed. No doubt she'd allowed adequate time for me to be late, yet still arrived first and had to cool her heels on the sidewalk. Ironically, since for once I'd planned to be punctual.

“Graham,” I said with my most charming smile, “it would be better if you don't mention anything to the Mounties about Jannis and I having a slight altercation yesterday.”

He pressed his hand to his heart. “As if I would do anything to draw their unwanted attention your way, Fiona.” “Humph,” I said. Graham adored me, but he'd sell me down the river fast enough if there was a story in it.

“Mrs. MacGillivray,” Irene said, “couldn't you have been on time? Maggie's a busy woman.”

“Sorry, Irene,” I said, trying to look contrite. “Couldn't be helped. Shall we go in?”

“Lucky for you, Maggie had an unexpected errand to run this afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Graham,” I said firmly. Never one to take a hint, he followed us inside. The shop was small, but the south-facing windows were large and filled with panes of high-quality glass, which let in excellent light. A long table ran down the middle of the room, and dresses in various degrees of quality and completion hung from hooks around the room. Bolts of cloth and a scattering of hats lined the shelves in a waterfall of vibrant colour and texture. I sighed happily. Maggie stood beside her cutting table, tapping her toes on the floor. Quite rudely, she glanced at the watch pinned to her chest. I scarcely noticed—a stunning length of pale blue satin had captured my attention. I closed my eyes and stroked the bolt. If I concentrated on the feel of the fabric and the scent of new-cut cloth, I might be back in London, in the exclusive shop of one of the best dressmakers in the city.

“That colour isn't for you,” Maggie said, sounding not at all like a sycophantic London seamstress. I opened my eyes. Instead of an indulgent patron, there was only Graham Donohue, gazing at me in an unguarded moment. Instead of a fussing lady's maid, there was Irene Davidson, looking like the cat who'd not only swallowed the cream but bought the whole dairy.

“Why not?” I asked. “It's beautiful.”

“The colour of your hair and eyes and that complexion, you're way too dark to wear it. You need dark blues, navy'd be good, vibrant reds, even yellows. And black. You can get away with lots of black as well as pure white. Not pale shades. And never, ever, wear green, orange or mustard.”

“Is that so?” My best evening dress was a pale green satin. Maybe that was why I never felt particularly good wearing it, whereas I was still in mourning for the crimson Worth. “What would you suggest?”

“First tell me what you're wantin'. Day dresses, gowns?”

I wanted to shout “everything”. Instead I told Maggie I was in need of one day dress and two evening gowns. We set about selecting fabric and discussing style. Maggie might not like me—aristocratic English bitch indeed!—but when it came to clothing, she was all business. Irene watched us as if she were a mother hen guarding her single chick, and Graham grew increasingly bored and fidgety, interrupting us to offer suggestions we ignored. When Maggie told me to go into the curtained alcove at the back so that she could take my measurements, he brightened up considerably.

“Have you nothing at all to be doing today, Graham?” I said.

“Nothing better than watching you, my dear.”

He was staring out the window when we returned from the measuring. I had been prepared to pay heavily, and I was not to be disappointed. Maggie scribbled in her ledger, told me the total cost for three dresses, and demanded a good portion of the money up front. I dug into my reticule. No doubt the prices had shot skyward the moment I'd walked through the door.

“If you come back on Monday, the red dress'll be ready for a fitting,” Maggie said. She buried her head in her ledger, and I was dismissed.

I nodded to Irene and said something silence-filling. Graham held the door open for me, but before I could step through it, a diminutive bundle of pure malevolence slipped in.

“Well, if it isn't Mrs. MacGillivray,” Joey LeBlanc said, baring her teeth at me. “I've been talking about you.”

“That I do not doubt,” I said. “If you'll excuse us.”

“I 'ear your boy, Angus isn't it, such a dear, I see 'im around a lot, is mixed up in another murder.”

“Good heavens,” Irene gasped. “There's been another one?”

Maggie pulled a parcel wrapped in brown paper out from under the counter. “Five dollars, Mrs. LeBlanc,” she said.

“My son was unfortunate enough to be present when the body was discovered, yes,” I said. With the height difference and the fact that my nose was high in the air, it was difficult to see Joey's expression. Probably malicious, as always. “But he was not involved in any way.”

“That's not the way some see it,” Joey said. “Some are asking why Angus MacGillivray is always around when something bad 'appens.”

My nose dropped, and I stared into her ugly, beady brown eyes. “By some, I assume you mean you are spreading vicious rumour and innuendo, Joey. Which you can do all you want; no one of any consequence will pay the slightest bit of attention to the likes of you. But if you ever dare to interfere with my son…”

Joey gave me the nastiest smile I hope to ever see. “I never bother boys, Mrs. MacGillivray. No need—they come to me readily enough soon as they're able.”

Before I could rip her hair right out of her head, Graham took my arm. “Leave it, Fiona. Let's go.”

I allowed him to lead me away. Maggie handed the parcel to Joey. “Five dollars,” she repeated.

“I also 'ear that your protégé, the ugly little Indian, is gonna 'ang for killing poor Chloe,” Joey said to my retreating back. “Didn't you take against Chloe, Mrs. MacGillivray? Maybe you put 'er up to it, eh? Wonder if the redcoats 'ave thought of that? 'Course some are saying it coulda been you, Irene. Weren't you and Chloe very close friends once?”

“That's outrageous.” Irene's voice broke on the words. “Five dollars,” Maggie said.

Angus tapped lightly on the door to the ladies' sitting room. Miss Witherspoon threw it open. “How dreadfully exciting,” she bellowed, dragging Angus into the suite. Miss Forester lay on the settee, and the doctor was gathering up his bag. He nodded to Angus. “Shock can come on at any time, young man. If you have reason to believe your mother is experiencing the delayed effects of shock, come and fetch me, any time day or night.”

“Yes, sir,” Angus said, wondering why doctors were never concerned about
his
well-being. He was the one present when Jannis had toppled over, not his mother.

Miss Witherspoon placed her hat on top of her head and stabbed it with a hat pin. “Let us continue our adventures, so rudely interrupted, young Angus.”

“I've been thinking, Miss Witherspoon, ma'am.”

“Yes?”

“I don't want to be a Mountie, after all. I'd like to be a writer.” Angus's tongue stumbled over the words. “Would you teach me, ma'am?”

Miss Witherspoon's eyes lit up. “Of course, Angus, of course. Shining the light of the truth into dark corners to reveal sordid matters some would keep quiet is the noble occupation of the writer. As we were so fortunate as to be at the scene of this dreadful killing, it is clearly incumbent upon us to follow, no matter where our investigation might lead.”

“Okay.”

“Euila!”

“What is it now, Martha?”

“Young Angus and I are off. Please have my notes written up by the time we get back.”

“You know I will.” “Good, let us be off then.” When they came down, the last Mountie had left the hotel. The wooden floor was still damp. Angus and Miss Witherspoon avoided the wet spot.

“This means that Mary didn't kill Chloe,” Angus said. “Why do you say that?” “Two killings in two days? They have to be connected.

And as Mary's in jail, she couldn't have killed Mr. Jannis, could she?”

“Apparently not. But aren't you jumping to conclusions, dear? There is nothing to say, at least as far as I can see, that these two incidents are connected.”

Angus took Miss Witherspoon's arm to help her cross the duckboard in front of the hotel. The afternoon sun was doing a good job of drying out the mud, but the streets were still treacherous. A single boot was firmly planted in the middle of the street, as though waiting for its owner to return and put his foot back in. “I know it, Miss Witherspoon, I just know it. Mary can't have killed Jannis, so she can't have killed Chloe either. We have to find Inspector McKnight and explain it to him. Come on.”

Angus practically dragged Miss Witherspoon to Fort Herchmer.

Constable Richard Sterling and Inspector Rupert McKnight had spent the remainder of the afternoon attempting to find someone to interview about the killing of Tom Jannis. Hard to believe that in the middle of the day, in the middle of a town packed as full as Dawson, a man could be stabbed in the back of the neck and left sitting in an arm chair in the lobby of a reputable hotel, yet not a soul would know anything about it. But that was the way things seemed to be. The desk clerk had been running errands, the guests were either in their room or in the dining room, the bar of the hotel opened directly onto the street, so anyone in search of a drink would have had no reason to cross the lobby. There was no trace of blood at the lobby entrance or anywhere on the floor except around the chair in which Jannis had been sitting when Angus had first seen him and where the body had fallen. Which made it unlikely Jannis had been killed elsewhere and brought to the Richmond: he would have left a trail of blood behind him.

Jannis had been killed sitting in the lobby of the Richmond. His assailant had likely walked behind his chair, and with one stab between the vertebrae at the base of his skull, killed the man. No one had seen, or heard, a thing. No one who was prepared to speak to the police at any rate.

“If we could locate that knife, we'd be a long way to having this solved,” McKnight said as they crossed the parade ground, heading back to the inspector's office. “It had to have been pretty small.”

“And sharp,” Sterling said.

“And sharp. Owned by someone who either got lucky, or knew exactly where to strike. Go around to some of the miner's supply stores, see if you can find a blade or tool long and thin and sharp, of the sort that might have done the job.”

“You think a miner did this?”

“No reason to, but I don't know much about what sort of tools they use. I've never watched a miner work, have you?”