“Yes, sir.” Sterling turned and placed one hand on the door knob to let himself out.
“Oh, one other thing, Sterling. It's common knowledge that you're soft on Indians. Don't let that blind you to this Mary's character.”
Sterling shut the door behind him with great care. It was the only thing he could do other than rip it off its hinges.
Although the afternoon's rain didn't last long, it was enough to turn Front Street into an almost impassable sea of mud. Men's trousers were thick with it up to the knees, the shorter men's at any rate, and women's hems deposited black globules of muck across the floor.
I felt a good bit better, having gone home for a longawaited nap after spending an hour in the afternoon, trying to do the accounts while gorging on the chicken soup Helen brought me.
When I got back to the Savoy, the bar was full of talk about Chloe's death, everyone having an opinion as to the cause of the matter. Men were asking Murray about her, and I told Ray to order his staff not to discuss it. We were busy that night, the increase in custom largely due to the notoriety the Savoy had obtained by its relationship to the dead woman.
The more theatrical of the dancers and performers insisted they needed an armed police escort when walking home after work. I managed to calm them down by implying, without coming right out and saying it, that Chloe had been up to no good.
The orchestra were in the back warming up (a relative term, as most of them do their “warming up” in other bars) prior to advertising our evening's performance, when Inspector McKnight and Constable Sterling arrived at the Savoy. It was Sterling's job to keep an eye on the dance halls up and down Front Street, but I wasn't happy to see McKnight with him.
I approached them with a welcoming smile. “Inspector McKnight. How nice to see you this evening. The show will be starting shortly.” Richard tossed me a warning frown. I ignored him. “Would you care for a drink before taking your seat?”
“Regretfully, I'm here on business,” the inspector said without preamble. “I want to talk to Irene Davidson.”
“I don't believe Miss Davidson has arrived yet.” The words hadn't even left my lips when she walked in, tossing smiles right and left, along with hair and shoulders.
Richard nudged McKnight, and the inspector turned.
Irene tried to duck around a group of drinkers when she saw McKnight, Richard, and me watching her. McKnight had a soft speaking voice, but he could raise it when he wanted to. Perhaps he'd been a drill sergeant at one time.
“Miss Davidson,” he called, “might I have a word?” She could hardly pretend she hadn't heard; every man in the saloon looked up from his drink, and a few stuck their heads out of the back room.
Irene attempted a smile, but the edges were brittle and her eyes wary. She had changed her dress and was wearing another wonderful gown: a jet black silk with flashes of scarlet in the skirt panel, the folds of the sleeves, and across her breasts. The dress was so well made that the fashionable forward-tipping waistline took about three inches off her more-than-adequate middle. Ray was pouring a glass of whisky as he watched Irene cross the room. He watchedâ¦and watchedâ¦and watchedâ¦until the liquor spilled over his hand onto the bar. I felt the first uncomfortable stirrings of jealousyâIrene was dressing better than I! The only way she could possibly afford such extravagance would be if she had a rich lover. Could she be seeing a man as well as the woman Maggie?
Ray shoved the overflowing glass towards his happy customer and came to glower within ear shot of us.
All business, McKnight didn't pause to appreciate the beauty of the black and red gown. “I have a few questions for you, Miss Davidson.”
Beads of sweat broke out above Irene's upper lip, and she wiped her hands on her hips. Her eyes settled on the middle of McKnight's chest.
“Perhaps later,” she said to the buttons on his uniform jacket. “I've got to prepare for the show. We're doing scenes from
Macbeth
tonight.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray, if we could make use of your office⦔ “Uh,” I said. “What's this about, anyway?” Irene asked, in a poor attempt to sound indignant. I hadn't hired her for her acting abilities.
“Now see here.” Ray stepped forward, bristling with manly concern. “Miss Davidson doesn't have to talk to ye, if she doesn't want ta.”
“You were friends with Chloe Jones,” McKnight said. “That's none of⦔ Ray said. “Stay out of this, Walker,” Richard said. “No,” Irene said. “Perhaps we should all go upstairs for some privacy,” I said.
“Good idea,” McKnight said. “Ray, tell Ellie that Irene might be late. They're to go on with the first dance, and then that dreadful act with the dummy. Move Ellie's song forward. Irene will be ready to continue with the show at that point.”
“Why don't you speak to Ellie,” Ray said. “I'll make sure these officers don't browbeat Miss Davidson.”
“Don't be ridiculous. Irene can't be unchaperoned in the company of three men!”
Even Irene raised her eyebrows at that. “You can fetch Helen on your way,” Ray suggested sensibly. “Perhaps Miss Davidson would prefer Mrs. MacGillivray's company while we talk,” McKnight said, cutting off debate. “Ladies.” He gestured to us to go ahead.
Irene tossed Ray a weak smile which went some way towards soothing his disappointment at not being allowed to act as protector. I considered sticking my tongue out at him, but we'd made enough of a spectacle of ourselves for one evening.
No one made themselves comfortable in my office. Irene walked behind my desk and stood by the window to stare out onto what must have been a miserable sight, what with all the mud. Richard stood with his back against the door, and McKnight planted himself in the middle of the floor. The room was electric with tension between the two Mounties. I wondered how I could turn their problems to my own advantage as I sat on the couch. A spring poked into my bottom.
McKnight pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and began cleaning his glasses. “I want to ask you about your relationship with Miss Jones. Then you can get to your show.”
“I didn't have a relationship with Miss Jones. I didn't even know that was Chloe's last name,” Irene told the window.
“I've been informed you were good friends. Was that not the case?”
“Sorta,” Irene said. “Until we had a falling out.”
“Oh?”
“Well, not really a falling out. More like we drifted apart. We weren't that much of friends to begin with. Isn't that right, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Irene turned to face me.
“Uh⦔ I said. So this was what had Irene so spooked. I'd assumed McKnight wanted to ask her who Chloe's friends were, if she had any enemies, any bad habits, that sort of inanity. Instead he wanted to know why Irene and Chloe had argued only a few days before her death. Heavens, women argue with their friends all the time. A few days pass, then everyone is crying and hugging and saying how sorry they are. Not that I would knowâI've never had any female friends. Not since Euila and I were children.
“âInseparable' is how your friendship was described.” McKnight held his glasses up to the dim light coming in through the window. Not satisfied, he rubbed at them again. “Perhaps you can think of a reason why your âinseparable' friend met her untimely end?”
“I'd like to know who's been gossiping about me. Who was it? I'll set her straight, no matter who it is.” She glared at me. Truly innocent, I shook my head.
“That's of no consequence.” McKnight plopped his glasses back onto his nose. “I am asking you what happened between yourself and Miss Jones to end your friendship.”
Irene collapsed into my chair in a storm of black silk. Her scarlet bosom heaved. “I thought she liked me, but she only made friends with me because she thought I'd get her better parts in the show. She was horribly jealous of me.” Irene held a red handkerchief, a perfect match to the scarlet in her gown, to her face. “When I told her I couldn't do anything to help her, she took a knife to one of my best costumes. The Helen of Troy one. She was a mean, nasty girl. I'm not sorry someone killed her. So there.” Irene burst into tears.
McKnight and Sterling had the grace to look uncomfortable.
The whole building started to shake. It wasn't an earthquake, it was the men below us hooting and stamping their feet. The music had started in the dance hall.
“Do you know where Miss Jones was the night before her death?” McKnight asked.
“No.” Irene spoke into her handkerchief. “I didn't see her after Mrs. MacGillivray fired her.”
“Do you know where she lived?” Irene peeked out from behind the square of cloth. “She had lodgings on Harper Street.”
“She vacated those rooms on Tuesday around noon, without informing her landlady that she was leaving. She didn't even collect what remained of the rent she'd paid in advance.”
“I didn't know that.”
“Very well, Miss Davidson, that's all for now.”
“I didn't like her,” Irene said, “but I didn't kill her.”
“Thank you, Miss Davidson.” Irene sat there, blowing her nose into her handkerchief.
“Do you have anything further to tell us, Miss Davidson?” McKnight asked.
“Irene,” I said, “the show has started. Throw some cold water on your face and get downstairs.”
“Yes, Mrs. MacGillivray.” She scurried away.
“If you gentlemen have nothing more⦔ I said, standing aside to ensure they understood I was asking them to leave. “I have a business to run.”
They put their hats back on their heads.
“Who told you about Irene and Chloe having a disagreement?” I asked, following them to the landing. “I'd scarcely think girl talk of that sort would be of interest to the Mounties.”
“Everything is of interest to the Mounties,” McKnight said in his most pompous voice.
Richard Sterling lifted one eyebrow at me as he headed for the stairs. All through the interview, he'd looked miserable.
I watched them descend to the main floor. As I mulled over what I'd heard, the door at the end of the hallway opened, and a bleary-eyed, pot-bellied, hollow-chested, heavily-bearded, probably infested, naked man stumbled out into the corridor. I had never seen him before. We looked at each other. He scratched the blanket of hair coating his chest and politely touched one hand to his head as if he'd forgotten he wasn't wearing a hat. “M'm,” he burped.
Just another miner, one who'd hit paydirt, and was now desperate to spend every last cent he'd scratched out of earth and rock.
“Go back to bed.”
“Yes, m'm,” he said. He only collided with the doorframe once on his way to his room.
Angus kicked stones all the way to the Richmond Hotel. He was furious at the way in which Sterling had so casually dismissed him. As if he hadn't been a great help to the Mounties before.
The look on Mary's face when she'd been led away haunted him. He couldn't bear thinking about it. He didn't know Mary well, hadn't set eyes on her before a couple of days ago, when he'd pulled her out of the river.
She'd have been better off if he'd left her alone. Better to drown than be hung for a murder she hadn't committed.
He'd heard a saying once, something about being responsible for a person's life if you saved it. He'd saved Mary, and now he was responsible for her.
And failing. He asked the desk clerk to tell Miss Witherspoon he was
there and sat in the single horsehair chair in the reception area to wait.
The clerk returned to say Miss Witherspoon would be down momentarily. He held his hand in front of Angus's face, expecting a tip. Angus considered spitting in it, but being thrown out of the hotel wouldn't help Mary.
He settled back in the lumpy chair and ignored the clerk, who soon went back to his desk.
“Angus, what are you doing here?” Miss Forester stood beside his chair. Angus struggled to get up. So many springs were broken the chair almost devoured him.
“I'm waiting for Miss Witherspoon, ma'am.” “You needn't sit down here. We have a sitting room. You can wait for Martha there.”
Their sitting room was small, only two chairs, a table and a small writing desk. Two doors led off the room, and Miss Forester knocked on the door to the right. “Angus is here, Martha. Please, take a seat.”
Angus sat. Miss Forester took the other chair. She said nothing for a few minutes, simply studied Angus from all angles. “Your features are like your mother's,” she said at last, “but the colouring is all wrong.”
Angus blushed under the force of her inspection. “My father was fair with blue eyes,” he said.
“Where is your father now?” “Dead, ma'am. He died before I was born.” “How sad. I knew her when she was your age.” “I guessed that, ma'am. You talk so alike.” “Do we? I hope Martha is almost ready for dinner. Terribly early for dinner, but it seems that in Canada no one gives much mind to convention.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Angus strained his ears towards Miss Witherspoon's room, hoping to hear sounds of her coming out.
“Horrible place, Canada. Some of my brothers live in London. I'd like to live in London, it's so exciting. I was there once, for a few days, before catching the ship for America. Still, Canada is nicer than dreary old Skye. At least it doesn't rain all the time in Canada, although it gets exceedingly cold, they tell me.”
“No, ma'am. Yes, ma'am.”
“Tell me, is Constable Sterling married?”
“What?”
“Constable Sterling, the nice Mountie your mother and I met earlier today. Such an attractive uniform, that red jacket, the big hat and shiny boots.”
“Uh, no.”
“You don't like the uniform?”