“What do you want with Sterling?” Graham said.
“Is it something about Mary?” Angus's eyes lit up. “Have you learned something?”
“I believe I might have, dear. You get off to work, and I promise you can hear about it when the Mounties do.”
“Can I bring Miss Witherspoon? She's real interested in the case.”
“Most interested,” I corrected. “Yes, she can come.” Once she got word of a meeting, I doubted I could keep the dratted woman away.
“What's all this about, Fiona?” Graham said, neatly slipping back into newspaperman mode.
“Good day, Graham,” I said.
Angus slammed the door shut behind them.
I sat at what passed for my dressing table in front of what passed for a mirror and brushed out my hair, thinking about the cancellation of Graham's story. I was disappointed not to get the chance to mess with Joey LeBlanc. Oh, and to help the unfortunate women of the Yukon. Should I wear the blue teardrop earrings? They didn't match the dress I was planning to wear, but they did bring out the highlights in my hair.
Angus spent the morning in a fever of excitement. He hated working at the store, but he kept reminding himself that before much longer he'd be earning his living as a writer. A real writer like Miss Witherspoon, a writer of books, not a newspaper hack like Graham Donohue. Who, unbelievably, had managed to convince Angus's mother that he was going to expose the sordid situation of women forced into prostitution in return for their passage to the Yukon. Angus snorted, startling a lady who was examining a collection of cracked and mismatched dishes. “Is there something wrong with these?” she demanded.
“No, ma'am. Sorry, I was thinking of something else.” The lady bought the plates, but watched Angus out of the corner of her eye as he took the money and wrapped her purchases in used brown paper and the end of a scrap of string.
His mother was the smartest person he knew. Why she believed a word Graham Donohue said, Angus simply didn't understand. Perhaps his friends were right when they said women weren't as intelligent as men. They needed a man to look after them all the time: left on their own, they were likely to do something stupid.
At long last, the morning's work ended, and Angus dashed home for his lunch. Then he was off to the Richmond to collect Miss Witherspoon. They spent a couple of hours interviewing anyone she could find who might know something about the two murders. Angus could tell mighty fast who truly knew something and who was prepared to string Miss Witherspoon a story to get a free coffee, pass the time of day, and perhaps later enjoy a laugh with his friends at the woman's expense. Miss Witherspoon wrote everything they said in her notebook, and again Angus wondered about the intelligence of women.
He'd come to realize that the only way he'd be able to free Mary would be if he could find the killer of Chloe and Tom Jannis himself. The observations and opinions of everyone they'd spoken to were so vague, and so contradictory, he despaired that he would ever be able to help her.
“That was completely useless,” he said, kicking at an empty blue tobacco can as they walked to the Savoy for his mother's four o'clock appointment.
“Not at all,” Miss Witherspoon said, sounding quite cheerful. “I got some truly valuable insight into the minds of these men who have come so far in search of gold.”
“Gold! I'm not interested in gold. I thought we were trying to find the killer so they'd let Mary go.”
“Well, yes. That too,” Miss Witherspoon said hastily. “That would make a marvellous ending to my bookâthe dramatic freeing of the innocent woman. But a hanging is equally dramatic, don't you think, dear?”
“A hanging!” Angus stopped in the middle of the street. “What are you talking about?”
“If Mary's found guilty of the killing of Chloe, she will hang. Surely you knew that, Angus?”
“But she didn't do it.”
“That's for the law to decide. And for us, as writers, to record.”
A cart driver yelled at them to get out of the way. Miss Witherspoon didn't move fast enough, and the hooves of the horses kicked mud all up the front of her dress. She shrieked and bolted for the boardwalk, where she tried to wipe the muck away. Angus didn't think it mattered much against the spotted-brown fabric of her dress. He didn't bother to tell her that drops of mud decorated her chin and cheek.
When they arrived at the Savoy, Murray told them that Mrs. MacGillivray was waiting in her office. Fiona sat behind her desk, drumming her long fingers against the big blue book that served as her accounts ledger.
Angus bent to kiss her on the cheek. She smelled of soap, fresh-laundered clothes and traces of smoke from the customer's cigars. It made a pleasant change from the stench of the streets and some of the men they had been interviewing. “Can you tell us what this is about, Mother?”
Miss Witherspoon sank into the couch and continued sinking, looking rather surprised at how badly sprung it was.
Heavy boots sounded on the rickety stairs, and McKnight and Sterling walked through the open door.
“This had better be important, Mrs. MacGillivray,” McKnight said, not bothering to say hello.
“I would have thought any pertinent information a prominent member of the citizenry might wish to bring to the attention of the constabulary would be important.” A mischievous light danced behind Angus's mother's eyes. She used big words when she wanted to be difficult.
McKnight struggled to regain his composure. “Quite correct, madam.” Sterling looked at the ceiling. Miss Witherspoon scribbled.
Angus's mother let the silence linger for a few seconds. Then she said, “I heard something Saturday night that I thought you'd be interested in. It seems, according to dressing room gossip, for whatever that's worth, that Chloe had come to an understanding with Tom Jannis.”
McKnight's head snapped up. Sterling stopped his examination of the ceiling. “Indeed?” Miss Witherspoon whispered, looking up from her notebook.
“What sort of an understanding?” McKnight asked. He leaned forward, as if he were about to grasp the answer.
“The girls are saying he had arranged to be her protector.”
“Protector from what?” Miss Witherspoon asked. They all ignored her.
There were lots of lonely men in the Yukon, some with a good deal of instantly-earned money, all of them looking for female companionship. Particularly when they thought ahead to the long, dark winter nights, when even the heaviest bag of gold or title to the best claim on the Creeks didn't bring a man much comfort. It was the dream of many women in the dance halls to be taken under the wing of a man with money enough to provide for them. The word “marriage” was rarely mentioned. What they hoped for was a handsome something to remember him by when winter ended and life, and everyone involved, moved on.
“Your girls know this how?” McKnight asked.
“Supposedly from Chloe herself. I can't say whether or not the wretchâ¦uhâ¦poor thing simply imagined his interest. Because it was Tom Jannis paying her attention, I thought you'd be interested.”
McKnight said nothing. Sterling spoke up. “We certainly are, Mrs. MacGillivray. Thank you.”
“Who told you this?” McKnight asked.
Fiona gave him Besty's full name. “I don't know where she lives, but if you want to talk to her, she starts work at eight.”
“You learned this on Saturday, Mrs. MacGillivray? Why didn't you bring this matter to our attention earlier?”
Fiona's eyelashes fluttered. “Dear me, should I have contacted you on a Sunday? I was unsure if the police offices were open.”
McKnight barely suppressed a growl.
Fiona stood up. “In light of this news, Inspector, we can conclude that there's a definite connection between the murders of Chloe Jones and Tom Jannis. And as Mary has what I understand the penny-dreadfuls call a cast-iron alibi for Jannis's murder, being under lock and key in your jail at the time, she's clearly not responsible for Chloe's murder either.”
“We can conclude that, can we?” McKnight said.
Fiona smoothed down the front of her dress. Her eyes took on the colour of coal. “Well, some of us can think things through in order to arrive at that conclusion.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray,” McKnight said, a vein throbbing in the side of his neck, “I'm conducting this investigation. Although it was nothing less than your duty to do so, I thank you for informing us. We'll be back at eight to speak to the girl Betsy.”
“You can't continue to hold Mary in light of this evidence,” Fiona said.
“Good day, madam.” McKnight stalked out.
For a moment Angus thought his mother was going to run after the inspector. Instead she looked around for something to throw.
“Don't try him, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Sterling said. “McKnight came out of the boss's office this morning looking considerably worse than when he went in.”
Fiona pulled her eyes away from the door. “I'm sorry. His officiousness does get somewhat overbearing at times, and that gets my Scottish back up. Will you forgive me, Richard?” A strange light shone in the back of his mother's eyes that Angus hadn't seen before.
“Of course,” the big Mountie almost purred.
“He can be pigheaded, your inspector.”
“I can't comment on that, Fiona.”
Angus wondered if he and Miss Witherspoon had dropped off the edge of the earth without his being aware of it.
A bellow from the hallway brought Sterling back to his senses. “I have to be going,” he said, clearly not wanting to. “Take care, Fiona, Angus. There's still a killer out there.”
So many people passed through Dawson in a day, it was likely that before the week had passed, a good portion of the population wasn't even aware of the murders, and talk of the killings died down.
McKnight and Sterling interviewed Betsy, and she confirmed what I'd told them, but it didn't seem to matter much. My son and Miss Witherspoon continued to scour the town for clues, but it was obviousâto me at any rateâ Angus was the only one still attempting to prove Mary's innocence. I heard talk that the police were making preparations for a trial. If she were found guilty, Mary would hang. There were people looking forward to the event. I'd had Ray toss two men out by their ears for taking bets as to how long she'd twitch before falling still. I silenced Martha Witherspoon with a glare when she askedâin my son's hearing!âabout the procedures involved in conducting a murder trial in a frontier town.
Angus continued to visit Mary every day. He'd managed somehow to talk Mrs. Mann into doing Mary's laundry and fixing an extra portion of dinner. Martha stopped going with him. Instead Euila accompanied Angus most evenings as he brought clean clothes and supper, carefully wrapped in a towel to keep it warm. I couldn't bear to think of what it would do to my huge-hearted son if Mary were to be found guilty and hanged. He'd told me Mary's explanation for how she came to be running from Tom Jannis on the night of Chloe's killing. I wouldn't necessarily have believed her, except that at the moment of being arrested and charged with murder, she'd gone to the trouble of asking Angus to send me her apologies. That in itself convinced me that she was telling the truth and that she hadn't been selling herself in the alley behind the Savoy.
As for the killing of Tom Jannisâthat investigation also appeared to be going nowhere. No one they spoke to, Richard Sterling confided in me, could think of any reason anyone would want to kill him. Largely because no one appeared to care about Tom Jannis one way or the other. The hotel reported that he'd checked in a few days prior to his death, paid his bills, didn't cause any trouble (save for getting himself killed in the front lobby) and never had any visitors. There'd been one unpleasant altercation in the street with an Indian, but no one had seen the Indian in question in town since he'd gone back to his village. Jannis had been seen around town a few times with Chloe, confirming Betsy's story, but even that lead led nowhere.
That appeared to be the end of that. I sighed with pleasure as the soft red silk caressed my
shoulders and slipped over my petticoats to skim the floor. Maggie ordered me to stand on a stool, then she crouched at my feet with a mouthful of pins to set about nipping and tucking. The dress was almost a perfect fit already, an indication of the skill of the dressmaker; only a few adjustments were needed to the hem and the bosom.
I'd expected Irene to join usâif only to keep an eye on me. “Where's Irene?” I asked.
“Don't know,” Maggie grumbled around a mouthful of pins. “Stand still or I'll prick you.”
It sounded more like a threat than a warning. I stopped talking as her competent hands folded a sliver of fabric that would form a dart across my chest. The dress was dangerously low cut, revealing the swell of my bosom. The cut running down from the base of my throat, which I'd earned not long ago, was still red, but men seemed to find that sort of thing fascinating.
Finally Maggie grunted that I could relax. Considering my chest was covered in pins, I took a cautious breath as I stepped off the stool. The fabric whispered seductively as it moved around my legs. I admired myself in the cracked mirror, twisting every which way to get a look at it all. Even without jewellery, hat and properly dressed hair, I looked wonderful.
“It's beautiful,” I said.
The slightest touch of a smile turned up the edges of Maggie's mouth. “It'll be ready tomorrow.” The smile faded. “She was out late last night.” She spat out a pin. “Went on the riverboat with some of her friends.”
“You didn't go?” I asked, quite innocently, not paying attention to Maggie's grumbles as I was busy admiring myself from all angles. The dress curved into the small of my back like a second skin, flaring out inches before it reached my backside.