Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery (9 page)

Saturday night, we close at two minutes to midnight for the Lord’s Day. Every week there are incredulous Americans who think that arguing with Murray will persuade him to keep pouring drinks, or having a winning streak at roulette will mean Jake will keep the game going, or having finally snagged a dance with their favourite percentage girl will mean the musicians will keep playing.

But the Mounties are ruthless, and no matter how much of a bribe we’ve been offered, and it’s sometimes a considerable amount, we would never agree to lock the doors and draw the drapes (not that there are any) and keep the party going.

Ray had lost patience with a fellow who was arguing that he’d only gotten off the boat three hours ago, and what the hell else was a man supposed to do in this god-forsaken town, and thrown the man into the street. Many a man had learned too late not to scrap with the diminutive Scot.

So strict was the law that even Ray and I dared not linger after midnight to so much as sweep the floor or count the night’s takings. I carried the money upstairs to lock it in my desk drawer. When I came down, only a couple of the performers and Ray were still in the front room.

“Wasn’t that a beautiful wedding, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Ellie, the oldest of the dancers, said.

“It certainly was,” I replied. I was still wearing my wedding attire, complete with new hat.

“Not as nice as my wedding though,” Maxie put in.

“I didn’t know you’d been married,” Betsy said.

“Oh, yes. So sad.” Maxie touched a handkerchief to her eyes. “George was his name. The dearest man who ever lived. Absolutely adored me, he did. He died of consumption only two weeks after our wedding. I’ve been asked many times since, of course, but no man can measure up to my dear George.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. If the conversation was about a barn cat, you could be sure Maxie had once owned the biggest and smartest barn cat that ever lived.

“Wonder when there will be another wedding,” Ellie said, with a noticeable glance at Irene, standing close to Ray.

Ray beamed and puffed up his chest, just a bit. Irene threw Ellie a look that would curdle milk, and Betsy glowered.

Which reminded me.

“Betsy, if you will stay for a moment, please. Good night, ladies. Ray.”

Betsy had not been happy when Irene took up with Ray, nor at the speed with which Ray threw her over. Her resentment was beginning to affect her work. Perhaps suspecting I’d be preoccupied with the wedding guests in the balcony and not paying quite as much attention to the activities on stage as usual, she’d almost tripped Irene earlier tonight. They’d been acting out the climax of Macbeth. Irene played MacDuff (earlier she’d been Lady Macbeth, wandering the stage in her night-gown), with Ellie as the Thane of Cawdor, while Betsy and a couple of the other girls waved wooden swords and pranced about in their bloomers, shouting encouragement. As Macbeth said the immortal words: “Lay on, MacDuff, and damned be he who cries hold enough,” somehow Betsy’s sword found itself between Irene’s knees. MacDuff stumbled, but managed to keep herself upright. The men in the front row, who’d seen what happened, roared their disapproval. Irene stopped dead, lowered her sword, turned to face Betsy, and gave her a look that would melt the ice on the Klondike River in February. Only when Betsy slunk behind the other actors did Irene resume the play. By that time, the men were stomping their boots on the plank floors and hooting.

If Betsy wanted to remain in my employ, she’d better keep her resentment to herself.

The girls filed out. Maxie wanted to talk about her wedding to the doomed George, but Ellie cut her off, beginning a story about the time Big Gertrude married a donkey on the stage of a dance hall in Leadville, Colorado. Ellie was the oldest, by far, of the performers, and the younger girls loved to hear stories of the places she’d worked and characters she’d known.

Ray and Irene followed. The door was swinging shut behind him when I remembered something. “Ray, did you lock the back door?”

He half-turned. “Don’t think I did.” He started to come back, but Irene pulled away from his arm. “I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going home. Good night.”

Ray looked at me. Then he looked longingly at Irene, heading off down the street.

“Very well,” I said with a martyred sigh. “I’ll get it.”

My partner scurried off and disappeared into the shuffling crowd. The night was warm, and the fresh air flowing down from the mountains felt good on my face and in my lungs. I took a few deep breaths and moved to shut the door. Then I remembered the sulking Betsy and turned to face her. She tried to keep her head up and her look defiant, but after one sharp glance from me, her eyes slid away. She studied the pattern in the boards at her feet. “We’ve had words before,” I said. “I believe I told you if there was one more occasion, I would let you go.”

She mumbled something that might have been, “I didn’t do nothin’.”

“You almost tripped Irene.”

“Was an accident. You told me not to be friendly with Mr. Walker, well I ain’t bein’ friendly no more, now am I? So you got no call to let me go.”

Perhaps I was still in a mellow mood after the wedding. And the two glasses of Mouse’s excellent Champagne for which he’d paid full price. I said, “This is your last warning. Beware, Betsy, I want no more trouble. Now get off home and be smiling and presentable on Monday.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” She bolted for the safety of the street. I headed for the back and did not hear the door click shut as Betsy left.

The windows were small and dirty, but some light seeped into the room. I knew every inch of the place intimately, so it wasn’t necessary to bother relighting a lamp.

The gambling room had no windows, but my feet could find their own way into the dance hall without the aid of my eyes.

My footsteps echoed on the bare boards. It wasn’t often the Savoy was a quiet, still place. The shadows were as long as the silence, and I felt a knot of quiet satisfaction in my stomach. This was my Empire. I wondered if the Queen felt the same sense of pride looking at a map of a pink-coloured world, alone in her study in Balmoral.

My mind wandered to Martha’s wedding. She’d been so happy. I myself have never had a wedding. Angus believes I’d been married to his father, but MacGillivray was my own dear parents’ name.

I reached the back door and pulled my keys from the deep pockets that had been sewn into my skirts.

“Ready to go?” A voice came from behind me. I almost leapt out of my skin.

I whirled around. All I could see was a shape, a very tall thin shape standing at the doors to the gambling hall. Paul Sheridan. Deep in contemplation, I hadn’t heard him behind me. Foolishly, I’d left Betsy to close the front door.

“Good heavens,” I said in my sternest dance-hall owner voice, the one I copied from the governess who’d ruled the schoolroom of my childhood. “You can walk quietly. What do you mean coming up behind me like that, Mr. Sheridan? It is after hours. The Savoy is closed.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Precisely. Which is why we’re closed and you must leave immediately. If the Mounties come along and find you here, they’ll think we’re conducting business and they’ll shut the Savoy down.”

Curses! I’d forgotten all about pesky Mr. Sheridan and his crazy notions. I hadn’t seen him since buying my hat on Thursday, and his plans had completely slipped my mind.

“Sunday,” he repeated. As my eyes became accustomed to the lack of light, I could see his face. His mouth was set into a firm line.

“We’re leaving today.”

“So we are. But I have not yet slept and I’ve had an exceedingly busy day. There was a wedding, you know.”

“You looked beautiful.”

He’d been watching me. A shiver crawled up my spine. Sheridan filled the doorway leading through the building to the safety of Front Street. I put my hand on the door behind me, feeling for the knob. This exit led to the back alley. “You said you’d collect me at eleven in the morning.”

“I heard you.”

“Heard me what?”

“Talking to that man, the American. You invited him around for breakfast this morning. Ten o’clock you said.”

I tried to laugh, but the sound caught in my throat. “It’s going to be a quick breakfast.”

“Don’t lie to me, Fiona,” Sheridan shouted. The sound cracked through the empty dance hall like a gunshot. He took a step forward and then another. The veins in his neck bulged. “That waffle shop next door’s a nice place to watch the comings and goings in the Savoy. I heard you make plans with that man, and I knew you don’t intend to be ready for me at eleven o’clock. We’re leaving now. A horse and wagon’s waiting next street over.”

My fingers found the doorknob. I tried to turn it, but my hand was slippery with sweat. “Very well. I’ll go for Angus and meet you back here.” I wiped my hand on my skirt and tried again. This time the knob moved. It didn’t make a sound.

“Do you think me a total fool?” Sheridan shouted.

I refrained from saying “yes.”

“We’ll go without Angus. The boy wants to come, but he’ll have to wait here. If I let you go you won’t come back to me, will you Fiona?”

“You got that right,” I said. I pulled the door open and ran out. Boots pounded on the loose wooden floors of the dance hall. I pulled the door shut behind me, but felt resistance and let it go. I looked in either direction. Across the alley, the mortuary was to my right, the dry goods shop to the left. Needless to say, there would be no one there at this time on a Sunday morning. I’d hoped to find a group of drunks sharing a bottle, a couple who couldn’t wait to get to a room, or best of all, a patrolling policeman.

The alley was deserted. The door to the Savoy flew open. I headed left toward York, the shortest route to the street.

Sheridan yelled at me to stop. I’ve learned a few things in my day, including how to fight a man. If I had to, I would turn and stand firm. Despite the earliness of the hour, the streets were busy and I could reach them in seconds. I felt a tug at the back of my dress, heard satin rip. I screamed, trying to attract attention.

“Goddamn you, woman. You’re coming with me,” Sheridan roared.

I reached the corner of the building. I heard a man laugh and a dog bark. I’d worn evening shoes to Martha’s wedding and not bothered to change into the practical boots I’d recently purchased to wear at work. My foot slipped in a patch of mud, and I stumbled forward. Off balance, I crashed into a wagon wheel leaning up against the wall and went down.

I hit the ground hard, but instantly rolled onto my back, braced myself on my forearms, and grounded my feet to propel me back up. Sheridan stood over me. He looked rather startled to see me on the ground. I pulled my left leg up and launched the foot straight into his knee. He screamed in pain and staggered backwards. I tried to get myself to a seated position, from which I could kick out while screaming my head off and hoping for someone to come, but the ridiculous leg-of-mutton sleeves of my dress had snagged on something. I grabbed a handful of fabric and pulled. It tore and I was free, but too late. Sheridan was back. His eyes shone with a red rage, and a line of spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth. He fell on me, his knees digging into my stomach, knocking all the breath out of me. I lifted my hand to my head and sought a hat pin. Long and deadly sharp, a hat pin makes a formidable weapon — some small degree of compensation for being forced to fight in a long dress, corset and petticoats, and shoes with high heels. I jerked my hand back and the pin came with it. I drove it upwards aiming for Sheridan’s eye. Anger made him quick and he grabbed my hand and twisted. I clung to the pin but felt my arm being gradually pushed toward the ground. I saw the blow coming but could do nothing to get out of the way. He punched me full in the face with his free hand. Propelled by the impact, my head snapped back and smashed into the ground.

And all the world went dark.

Angus MacGillivray had had a grand time at the wedding, so important in his new shirt and oiled hair, giving away the bride! He’d even had a small glass of champagne at the reception after. He hadn’t liked the taste much, but the bubbles in his glass were fun. Of course, he told Mr. O’Brien it was excellent stuff.

Angus had never asked his mother about her wedding. She didn’t like to talk about his father, who died several months before he, Angus, was born. She didn’t have a picture of him, but she said he was tall and blond and blue-eyed, and Angus looked a great deal like him. Then she turned away, swallowing her words, and asked if he was ready for tea. She’d given Angus his father’s watch recently, and he carried it proudly everywhere he went.

Tonight seemed like a good night to sit her down and find out what he could about his father and how his parents had met and the years of their marriage.

He said good night to the Manns — Mrs. Mann flushed beet red from her single glass of champagne — and went to his mother’s tiny sitting room to wait. Her book was on the table, her bookmark close to the end. It was called
Anna Karenina
. He sat in the room’s single chair. There were two photographs on the table: one of himself as a baby and another of the two of them at a park outing when Angus was young enough to be dressed in a sailor suit with a stupid hat.

A painting hung on the wall. He’d been with his mother down at the waterfront when she’d seen it. She told him it was of the Black Cuillins, the mountains on Skye where she’d been born. He imagined his father striding manfully across the bare hills, his head high, his back straight, his step firm. Angus’s mother waiting for his father, all girlish giggles and sideways glances. He shook his head, picked up the book and began to read.

The next thing Angus knew, someone was banging on the door, his neck ached, the book was on the floor, and the light streaming in the window came from the east.

He stumbled to the front door and opened it.

“Morning, Angus,” Graham Donohue said. His cheeks glowed pink from a recent shave, his hair was still wet, and his moustache neatly combed.

“What time is it?” Angus said.

“Ten o’clock.” Donohue stepped forward as though he intended to enter. Angus stood firm.

“What brings you here at this hour?”

“I’ve come for breakfast. Didn’t your mother mention it?”

“Breakfast? My mother doesn’t eat breakfast on Sundays, much less invite company.” Saturday night was the only night of the week Fiona got a full night’s sleep. She often didn’t rise until late afternoon.

Angus narrowed his eyes and stared at Donohue. At one time, he thought his mother might marry Mr. Donohue, and he’d take them to America. Angus hadn’t been sure if he either wanted Mr. Donohue as his father or to go to America, but then he’d found out the man frequented prostitutes. From that moment on, Angus was determined to keep the newspaperman away from his mother. “Mrs. Mann’s gone to church and my mother doesn’t cook. There’s nothing to eat. Goodbye.” He began to shut the door. Donohue stuck his foot in it.

“I know it sounds strange. I thought it somewhat unusual myself. But she did invite me to breakfast and she did say ten o’clock. Really, Angus.”

Angus relaxed his grip on the door, thinking. It did seem odd, but Donohue had no reason to lie. Easy enough to check, and if Fiona was woken on a Sunday morning without reason, it would be Donohue’s scalp she’d be after.

Anything that made his mother angry with Graham Donohue was, in Angus’s opinion, a good thing.

“I’ll go and ask her,” Angus said.

“Thank you.” Donohue stepped into the hall.

The Mann’s house wasn’t much larger than the common room in Angus’s school back in Toronto. Four rooms plus the kitchen and a privy in the back yard. The Manns’ room was at the back, beside the kitchen. Angus and his mother each had a tiny bedroom at the front of the house, and Fiona enjoyed a private sitting room where she could, in theory, entertain visitors. That she never had any visitors didn’t really matter. She loved sitting there, curled up in a big chair with the horsehair stuffing escaping, reading. Fanning herself absentmindedly in summer or wrapped in a colourful quilt beside the iron stove in winter.

Angus tapped lightly on his mother’s bedroom door. No answer. He knocked harder and called out, “Sorry to bother you, Mother, but Mr. Donohue’s here. He says he’s been invited for breakfast, is that right?” No answer. He felt Donohue behind him.

“Step back, Mr. Donohue,” Angus ordered. “I’m going into my mother’s bedroom.” He’d have been embarrassed to realize just how much he sounded like Fiona.

Donohue gave way, about the width of a hair, and Angus slowly opened the door while attempting to use his body to block the man’s view. The room was neat, the bed made, blanket and pillows in place.

Angus took a step forward and Donohue followed. It took no more than a second to ascertain that Fiona was not hiding behind the door or concealed in the closet.

“What on earth?” Angus said. “She’s not here.”

“That bed hasn’t been slept in.”

They jumped as the back door opened. Footsteps sounded on the bare wood of the hall, and Mr. Mann’s baritone grumbled something in German.

“My mother,” Angus shouted. “She’s gone. Did you see her last night, Mrs. Mann? Sir?”

Mrs. Mann raised her hands to her face. She threw a worried look at her husband. “No. We were tired after the wedding and went to bed early.”

“Fetch the police, Mrs. Mann, please. Quickly.”

“Not again,” Mr. Mann said with a shake of his head as his wife fled. “Okay. Yous goes to Savoy, Angus. Ies checks seh waterfront. Likes seh last times.” He followed his wife.

“Tell the Mounties to meet me at the Savoy,” Angus shouted.

“You suspect something,” Donohue said.

“Last time Ma disappeared, we waited too long before starting a search. But it’s this breakfast invitation that worries me. So completely out of character something must be up. And I’m afraid I know what it is.” Angus thought back to the conversation with Paul Sheridan while they ate Angus’s lunch over a boulder by the Yukon River. Sheridan was determined to follow his treasure map and equally determined that Fiona and Angus would accompany him. Angus asked her why she was encouraging the man, and she replied that Sheridan wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer, so she’d given him the answer he wanted. She’d stay out of his way and he’d soon give up and head off into the wilderness by himself. If necessary, she added, she’d drop a hint that she was considering outfitting an expedition of her own. That would get him out of town fast enough; he was terrified someone else would reach his mountain first.

Angus had his doubts about that. He’d seen the fire in the man’s eyes as he talked not only about Gold Mountain but also about making Fiona his queen.

But he’d kept his misgivings to himself.

That had, obviously, been a mistake.

He ran out of the house, Donohue hot on his heels, shouting, “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“Later. I know … but I don’t have a bloody clue how we’re going to find them.”