“Sir?” “You heard me. I'll speak to your sergeant.” McKnight pulled the cross and chain out of his pocket and handed it to the startled constable. “Ask around, find out if anyone's seen LeBlanc with this thing. Can't imagine that if it belongs to LeBlanc, and it innocently broke from around her neck when she fell over the body, how it would wind up clutched in a dead woman's hand, but we have to ask all the questions. Then find this Indian Mary. I want to talk to her. You can use young MacGillivray here; the woman might show herself if she sees him. Should have asked Mrs. MacGillivray if she knows where this Chloe lived. I'll find out and head over to talk to anyone who knows her.”
Without another word or a backward glance, McKnight carried on up the street.
Sterling and Angus looked at each other. A man staggering under a weight of crates marked “canned tomatoes” almost collided with them and yelled at them to “Get the 'ell out o' the way, bloody fools.”
Angus was grinning from ear to ear. “Did Inspector McKnight ask me to assist you, sir?” he said.
“I believe so. But you're not coming with me to talk to any of Joey LeBlanc's associates.” The boy's smile disappeared. Sterling dangled the necklace by its chain, watching as the cross twisted in the wind. “You're pretty sure this belongs to your friend, Mary?”
Angus grimaced. “It looks exactly like the one she was wearing when I pulled her out of the river. There must be lots of crosses like that one around, like Ma said. It's not as if it's covered with diamonds or nothin'.”
“Or anything,” Sterling said. “You know how to talk properly, so don't pretend you don't.”
“Sorry, sir. Inspector McKnight did think it might be Mrs. LeBlanc's necklace, right? Accidentally torn off when she fell over the body. I bet that's the answer. Mrs. LeBlanc has the same necklace as Mary.” Angus grinned, happy to have solved the problem of his new friend's possible guilt.
Sterling didn't bother to correct the boy. Let him think, for a while, that Mary was in the clear. If Joey LeBlanc hadn't planted the necklace, and he reminded himself he had no reasonâother than his own intense dislike of the Québécois whoremistressâto think so, and if the necklace found clutched in Chloe's dead fingers belonged to Mary, the Indian woman would almost certainly hang.
“We have to find Mary,” Sterling said. “Are you working this afternoon?”
Angus's eyes opened wide, and the colour drained from his face. “Oh, no. I forgot. Miss Witherspoon invited Ma for tea, and I forgot to tell her. What time is it now?”
Sterling checked his watch. “Quarter past one.” “Miss Witherspoon has appointments with menâ¦I mean appointments to interview men about their experiences in Dawson, I mean, their experiences with mining and⦔
“I know what you mean, Angus.” “She's paying me two dollars a day to show her around town.”
“Escort your mother to tea and tell Miss Witherspoon you have to assist the North-West Mounted Police for a while this afternoon. She'll have to excuse you. I'll meet you at four o'clock in front of the Savoy, and we can start our search for Mary then.”
“But she pays me two dollars a day!”
“Two dollars, or service to her Majesty, Mr. MacGillivray?
Whether Mary did this or not,” he held up one hand to silence Angus's objection, “she's probably hiding and won't be forthcoming to the police. Inspector McKnight is right: she might come out of hiding if she sees you.”
“Four o'clock it is then.” “Good boy.” Angus dashed off. Despite what he'd said to Angus, Sterling knew they had very little chance of locating Mary. A white woman would be easy to find; she'd have to confine herself to the few square miles that made up the city of Dawson. A few square miles of light and noise, laughter and tears, surrounded by the northern wilderness. In the early hours of a rare night, when the drunks quieted down and the dance hall singers and musicians paused to take a break, and the noise in the street stopped, you could hear the wolves howling in the hills. Mary was an Indian. Even without the support of her tribe, she should be able to survive, at least until winter, in the wilderness. If she were guilty, she'd have been long gone, probably before Fiona MacGillivray tripped over Chloe's body. And even if she had nothing to do with Chloe's death, as soon as she heard, as everyone in town would soon hear, that the Mounties wanted to talk to her, she would leave town.
He'd liked Mary, in the brief time he'd known her. She had a lot of fight in her.
Sterling dropped the necklace into his pocket. He'd spend a few hours in the cheapest of the saloons that backed onto Paradise Alley asking a few innocent questions. Joey LeBlanc normally wore dresses as prim as his own mother's, but occasionally they would be cut with a bit of a neckline. If she'd worn this necklace, someone would have noticed it.
Once everyone had left, I discovered that I was simply ravenous. The house was quiet; Mrs. Mann had returned to her laundry shed. I considered summoning her to fix me something but decided I would try to be an independent Canadian woman. There was a good-sized piece of last night's tough, stringy roast remaining in the ice box and a nice fresh half-loaf of bread in the bread box. I sliced off a generous hunk of the meat and cut, after several attempts, two rather crooked slices of bread, then added plenty of mustard. I put all the ingredients away and rinsed the dirty knife in the water bucket. Standing in front of the counter, I took an enormous bite of my sandwich, feeling quite proud of myself, as well as a bit avant-garde eating while standing over the sink.
The front door slammed, and Angus shouted for me. I grabbed a plate from the shelf, slapped my sandwich onto it and collapsed into a proper sitting position at the kitchen table. I was dabbing mustard off my lips with my handkerchief when Angus came in.
“Good,” he said. “You're still here. Ready for tea?”
“Tea? Why should I want tea? Would you care for a sandwich, dear?”
He glanced around the kitchen, perhaps expecting Mrs. Mann to be hiding behind the stove.
“I made it myself,” I said. “Would you like me to make you one?”
“I'm sorry, Mother, but I may have forgotten to tell you. Miss Witherspoon and Miss Forester invited us to join them today. At two. It's one thirty now.”
“Angus, I can't possibly have tea with your friends today. What were you thinking? I'm exhausted. And this dress is not at all suitable for tea.”
He picked the sandwich off its plate and handed it to me. “Finish your lunch, Mother. You'll feel better. You've told me many times that no one here worries about following convention. That dress will do. Although the skirt is a bit dirty around theâ¦uhâ¦middle bit.”
“Perhaps we can have tea tomorrow,” I suggested, biting into my sandwich. A piece of beef refused to budge under the force of my teeth, and I shook my head back and forth to wrestle it from between the bread.
“It's our duty, Mother, to keep an appointment. I told the ladies we would join them. I myself should probably change.”
I hate it when he's right.
Euila and Miss Witherspoon were waiting for us. They were staying at the Richmond, which tried to be the best hotel in town, but somehow everything managed to fall short. Not far away, Belinda Mulroney was building the Fairview Hotel, which was due to open next month and which promised its prospective guests the best of everything.
Belinda and the Fairview were the talk of the town, People were saying the hotel would even have electricity!
The drawing room of the Richmond always reminded me of a country estate gone to seed. The sort of place the heirs of medieval bandits could no longer afford to keep up, but tried terribly hard. I'd been to a few places like that when I'd travelled with the Prince of Wales's party. The family would literally bankrupt themselves to put the Prince, his household, and useless hangers-on (like me) up for a week or a month. It was no fault of the Prince that I'd relieve the long-suffering family of the smaller pieces of silver and some of her ladyship's jewellery the night before we all grandly took our leave.
But I wasn't at the Richmond Hotel in Dawson, Yukon, on this pleasant day in June 1898 to steal the cutlery.
The moment we walked through the hotel's drawing room doors, Euila was on her feet squealing like a schoolgirl. She threw her arms around me and hugged me heartily. Trapped under the force of her embrace, I patted her back a few times. At last she released me, only to go through the same performance with Angus. He stood as still as a Greek statue under the power of her greeting. The entire drawing room watched us. Angus's face was as red as my late-lamented Worth gown, and Euila was sobbing heartily.
My son and I scurried to take our seats.
Euila collapsed into hers without looking. Fortunately no one had moved her chair in the meantime. She was dressed like an English lady making her afternoon calls in a gown, somewhat out of date, of pink satin and white lace topped by an extravagant hat crowned with a garden of pink flowers. I hadn't seen a hat quite so elaborate since I'd left Vancouver.
Martha Witherspoon, in contrast, wore what appeared to be her usual ensemble of stiff brown tweed suit and porkpie hat. She wore no jewellery, not even earrings, save a heavy watch pinned to the centre of her prominent bosom.
The waiter hovered over us. He was young and freshfaced, with shaggy hair slicked back, dressed in a neat black suit and tie with a long white apron (on which there were only a few stains) wrapped around his waist. He smiled as if he genuinely wanted to please us.
Martha Witherspoon ordered tea for us all and whatever they had in the way of sandwiches and cakes.
“Fiona,” Euila said, as the waiter went to place the order, “after all these years.” She sighed happily and simultaneously sniffed into her handkerchief. It was trimmed with lace, and “EF” was written in the corner, the letters embroidered in a fine pink hand. Like the waiter's apron, the handkerchief was marked with stains that were never coming out. “You're soâ¦soâ¦beautiful,” she said. “I always knew you would be.”
I smiled in return; it
was
nice to see her. I shouldn't have been so apprehensive about this reunion. “Euila, how have you been?”
“Lonely, always lonely. I missed you so dreadfully, Fiona.” Water gathered in her eyes. “How could you leave me like that? Without a word. Didn't you care about me? Your parents, how could they be so horridly selfish as to take you away from me? Alistair told me I shouldn't have expected anything better from people of your parents' class, but youâ¦you were like one of us.”
I stared at her. The waiter arranged cups and plates at each place. Angus's mouth formed a question, but no sounds came out. Miss Witherspoon leaned across the table and waved her hands in front of my face. Euila droned on, her voice high-pitched, complaining. Now I remembered: Euila had always been complaining.
Alistair,
she was saying,
your class, your father, unfair. Unfair.
I hadn't slept properly in days; I'd tripped over a dead body; I hadn't even finished my beef sandwich.
Alistair.
Your father. Unfair.
I fainted. For real this time. I found myself on the floor, with an anxious Angus peering into my face, Miss Witherspoon calling for cool cloths, the enthusiastic waiter waving his apron over me, and all the while Euila whined on about how Alistair had warned her against becoming too close to people of “your class”.
My son looked so worried, crouched on the floor beside me, patting my hand, calling for water, that I thought I should let him know I was perfectly fine. I started to get up, but it seemed like so much trouble, I decided not to bother.
I am the only living child of my parents. My mother had numerous pregnancies before and after my arrival, but they all ended the same wayâin blood and tears. So they doted on me, the precious only child.
It was different up in the big house where Lady Forester cranked out a baby a year. To the delight of Sir William Forester, the Eighth Earl of Sleat, they were usually boys, but to Mrs. Forester's despair, there was, amidst eleven sons, only one daughter: Euila. Sickly from birth, not terribly bright, eager to please. Euila.
We lived on the Isle of Skye, off the west coast of Scotland. Not a very hospitable place, Skye. The big house was more of a castle, with a few modern bits tacked on over the years, which had escaped being burnt to the ground when the Forester ancestors had, through pure dumb luck, consistently chosen the right side (whatever that side might be) in the never-ending battles that plagued Scotland throughout the previous centuries. They certainly had been on the right side in the great uprising that ended with the terrible battle of Culloden, and an appreciative King George had added to the family's estates by handing them the property of those neighbouring landowners who'd supported the Bonnie Prince. My own family, the MacGillivrays, as my father never tired of reminding me, fought like true Scotsmenâto the last manâin the cause of the Prince. Thus, according to my father, we lost all our lands and barely escaped being sent off to the colonies. As my father told the story, a young Lord Forester was hunting companions with a young Master MacGillivray and persuaded his father to let the MacGillivrays remain on the land as crofters.
All of which may or may not be true and is of no relevance to the story of Euila and me and our strange friendship. My father had been groundskeeper of the estate, which they called Bestford, and was held in high regard by Sir William, who would occasionally sit by the peat fire in our neat white croft house, sharing a dram of whisky, and talk about preparations for a hunting party, what to do about poachers, or whether the salmon were less plentiful than in previous years.
My mother would take a chair at the well-scrubbed table and sew, and when I was very young I would sometimes be allowed to sit at the Earl's feet. He would stroke my hair and politely ask how my day had been. I would mumble something and enjoy the scent of him, of whisky and tobacco, horses and leather, with not a whiff of peat clinging to his clothes.