Gold Fever (14 page)

Angus gulped, turned and ran.

Graham took my arm. “Why don't we stand over here, Fiona? We can be out of the way and keep others away at the same time.” I allowed him to lead me a few short steps back into the street.

Seeing that one of us had left and the others weren't doing much, the bystanders lost interest. Women slammed their doors, and men drifted off.

“She looks a mite familiar,” Graham said. “Hard to tell though, with the bl…mess.”

A mangy dog, all bones and matted fur and shaking legs, crept towards us. Graham snatched up a stone and hurled it. His aim was good, and the creature squealed once and disappeared. I thought I could hear vermin crawling out from under the buildings, and I held my hand over my mouth and tried to think about what plans I had for the day ahead. I had been told there were no rats in the Yukon. I didn't know if I believed it: where there are people, there are bound to be rats.

Angus was back so soon, he must have found Constable Sterling in the next street. Which turned out to be the case.

The light was getting better as the sun climbed, and it was easier to see into the alley. Richard stepped forward and crouched down. He didn't touch anything, just looked.

With a sigh he got to his feet, wiped his hands on his trousers and faced us. “Angus, go to the Fort and get Inspector McKnight.”

“Yes, sir!” Angus rushed to do as he was asked. The arrival of the Mountie brought the curious back out.

Some of the bolder men edged forward, necks craning to see what we were looking at. Richard ordered them to stand back, and with ill grace and some muttering, they did so.

Graham smiled at me. It lifted the corner of his mouth but didn't reach his eyes. He took my hand and squeezed it. I was pleased he was writing a story about the conditions in which some of the Dawson prostitutes were kept, although I doubted if any newspaper would be so daring as to publish it.

Graham nudged me lightly, and I realized Richard was speaking. “Sorry, Constable, I'm a bit, uh…”

“That's understandable, Mrs. MacGillivray. You know this lady?”

“She's one of my dancers. That is, she was one of my dancers; I fired her on Tuesday. Or was it Monday? Can't have been Sunday, of course, we're not open on Sunday. Wednesday, perhaps. No Tuesday. Hard to tell sometimes, the way the days all run into each other without true night time. Her name is Chloe. I don't know her surname, but it will be in my files back in my office if you need it.”

“We probably will.” The rapidly growing crowd edged back fractionally to let Angus through, and behind him came Inspector McKnight. McKnight was a small man whose red jacket didn't quite fit, making him look like a boy playing dress-up in his father's old uniform. His spectacles were so thick, he must have been nearly blind, but they served to emphasize the keen intelligence in his eyes and the way they were always moving, always watching everyone and everything. He was besotted with Ellie, one of my dancers, and would hang around the Savoy hoping for a smile or a nod.

He touched his hat. “Mrs. MacGillivray, a pleasure.”

“Unfortunately, Inspector, the pleasure is not at all mine. If you don't mind, I am feeling quite unwell and need to go home and lie down.” I've often used the delicate, fainting female trick to get out of unpleasant, or exceedingly boring situations, but this time it was no trick. I desperately needed to get some sleep and to stop the throbbing in my head, which was now accompanied by the churning in my stomach.

“If I have any questions, I know where to find you.”

“Thank you, Inspector. Angus, you may take me home.”

“Mother!” Angus protested.

Before I could argue with my son, everyone's attention was distracted by a cry of deep grief as Joey LeBlanc, of all people, dashed out of the crowd and threw herself into the alley. So sudden was her appearance, neither Sterling nor McKnight had the presence of mind to stop her. Her tiny body fell to its knees beside Chloe, and she wailed and cried out in French. Something about youth cut down and innocence destroyed and vows of retribution. She tore at her hair and grabbed the front of her dress, careful not to rip anything, and moaned and sobbed. All in all kicking up an unseemly fuss: wasn't that just like a Frenchwoman!

The crowd was growing exponentially as people were attracted by the noise and the general excitement of a mob gathering for something—anything. Mounties came running from all directions and attempted to keep some sort of order. Puffing and panting with the exertion of getting there, Sergeant Lancaster arrived and asked no one in particular what was happening.

“Angus,” I ordered, “you will take me home.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said, so meekly I thought I might have misunderstood.

“
You.
You did this,” Joey LeBlanc stood in front of me, although at a considerably lower level. Her scrawny chest was puffed up with indignation, and her face was mottled red with rage. She poked her forefinger into the front of my lovely clean white blouse.

Of course, I should have simply walked away. But, of course, I didn't. Instead, I removed her finger from my bosom and tossed it back at her. “Pardon me, but you have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

“You toffee-nosed bitch,” she shouted. Joey's English is excellent, but when she gets upset, the Quebec accent tends to take over. Which is fortunate, as I believe that she went on to offer opinions on my ancestry and my motives for being in Dawson.

“Now see here, madam,” Graham said. “How dare you talk to my mother like that,” Angus said. “Really,” Sergeant Lancaster said. The crowd edged closer. A well-dressed dandy made a break for the alley to get a better look, but a Mountie headed him off and told him to get out of the way, or he'd spend the rest of the summer chopping wood at the Fort.

“I suggest, Mrs. LeBlanc, that you step back.” Constable Sterling said. “If you have something to tell the Inspector, he will be conducting interviews shortly.”

“Are you going to talk to 'er?” she demanded, sticking that damned finger in my chest again.

“If we think it's required. If you'll step over here, please.” He grabbed her arm and, very politely of course, almost jerked her off her feet.

Joey is no favourite of the police. They put up with her while waiting until they get a complaint they can act upon. Which never comes, her customers being generally satisfied and her girls being generally frightened into submission.

Joey tossed me a look, more crafty than nasty. Instead of meekly shutting up, she turned to the crowd. She shook her arm out of the constable's grasp and waved it in a great arc that encompassed Constable Sterling, Inspector McKnight and me. “They'll protect 'er,” she said, speaking to the back of the crowd like a good theatrical actress. “Sweet Chloe, lying there, brought down like a dog, they don't care about the likes of 'er and me.”

That was so patently ridiculous, I wanted to laugh. A few of the men in the crowd exchanged glances and muttered. Newcomers mostly—you could tell by their clothes they had recently stepped off the boats. Americans likely, ready to believe everything they were told about police corruption and influence. But the old-timers laughed. Even the whores snickered.

“Joey, the only sweet thing you seen the last ten years was a child's lollypop,” a voice in the crowd shouted.

“Yeah, what you stole from him and then charged a dollar to give it back,” someone else joined in. I couldn't see who the speaker was, but the voice sounded a lot like my favourite of the regulars, old Barney.

Joey's face turned red. It was unlikely she was blushing. She whirled on one of her whores, a fat old thing with a pasty face puffed up from too much drink and not enough good food. “What are you laughing at? You get back to work or I'll…”

The whore ran, leaving the threat unfinished.

I took the opportunity to grab Angus's arm and slip away. Graham followed. I was well liked in this town, and Joey generally wasn't, but a friendly crowd can turn into a howling mob in no time at all.

Behind us, the Mounties were asking everyone to move along. The crowd grumbled and complained, but in Dawson most everyone did as the Mounties asked.

We scurried back to Fourth Street, moving against the crush of people hurrying to find out what all the excitement was about. Who on earth would care enough about poor, stupid Chloe to kill her? I thought. At a quick guess, I'd say she'd tried turning tricks on her own, and someone had proved to be a-not-very-good customer. Which was, thankfully, none of my concern.

“What about Mary, Mother?” Angus said. “Aren't we going to find her?”

“Not now, Angus. We have enough worries for one morning.”

“You mean Indian Mary?” Graham asked. “What about her?”

“She didn't come to work this morning,” Angus explained. “Mother is worried about her.”

I didn't bother to mention that it wasn't I who insisted on stomping through the streets of Dawson in search of a single small woman. “How do you know Mary anyway, Graham?”

“Uh,” he said, tugging at his tie, “I interviewed her for my exposé on the conditions of the Dawson fairies.” He used the local slang for a prostitute.

“That's great!” Angus said. “In the process of your… interview…you might have learned something about her habits, the places she likes to go. So you can help us search.”

“Later, dear. Please.”

I collapsed into a chair at the Mann kitchen table. Three loaves of bread that had been left to rise sat on the counter covered in cloths. The whole house smelled, as it always did on baking day, of fresh yeast and old grease. My stomach churned. Angus stoked the fire under the stove and moved the kettle onto the hob. Uninvited, Graham dug through the shelves. He found a tin of biscuits and put them on the table.

I picked up a biscuit and nibbled on the edges, realizing that my headache was gone. Now I knew what to do the next time one comes on—trip over a dead body and be accused of being the killer in front of the entire citizenry by the nastiest madam in town. Realizing I was starving, I downed the rest of the biscuit.

Angus busied himself with the tea things. “Why did Mrs. LeBlanc think you had something to do with this business, Mother?”

“Because she wanted to kick up a fuss,” I said, snatching the tin out of Graham's hands before he could help himself to the largest biscuit. “And generally cause trouble and embarrass me. She can't be the least bit concerned about the death of a stupid slag…uh, woman…like Chloe.”

“Seems out of character for Joey,” Graham said. He placed his hat on the table and loosened his tie. Making himself quite at home, Graham was. “To draw attention to herself, I mean. Joey keeps to the shadows. Where she belongs.”

“True,” I said as Angus poured water into the big, chipped brown teapot. “Please go and find Mrs. Mann and tell her I'd like lunch early.”

“I'm sure Mrs. Mann is busy, Mother. I'll fix you something.” He took a slab of bacon out of the icebox and pulled a can of beans down off the shelf. Once I leave the Yukon, I will never eat bacon and beans again. I poured three cups of tea.

“Thanks, Angus.” Graham said. He hadn't been offered lunch. He alternately sipped his tea and stroked his generous moustache. “As for Joey, what do you suppose her relationship with Chloe was?”

“Cobra and mesmerized mouse,” I snapped, suddenly weary of the whole subject. “I don't want to talk about it.” I stood up, clutching my teacup. I was deathly tired, but I'd never be able to sleep. Although I'd heartily disliked Chloe, no one deserves to die abandoned in a back alley, left for the insects and the rats. And then to be mistaken for a dog—I felt a frisson of guilt over that. Poor Chloe, now reduced to nothing but a lump of meat, leaking blood into the good Yukon earth. “Angus, I'll be in my sitting room. Good day, Graham.”

I dropped my teacup, not caring if it landed on the table, covered my mouth with my hands and dashed for the privy rather than the sitting room.

When I finally returned to the kitchen, Angus handed me another cup. Graham cocked one eyebrow but wisely said nothing. Bacon was hissing and popping in the big iron frying pan.

“I don't feel much like lunch any more, dear,” I said and made my way on unsteady legs to my sitting room.

The Manns' boarding house is very small and very plain and will not withstand a strong wind, but in this town that almost literally was thrown up overnight, a good many people lived in accommodations a good deal worse: oneroom cabins with gaps a healthy rat could fit through or tents clinging precariously to the hillside. Angus and I have bedrooms at the front of the house, one on either side of the front door. Angus's room is slightly larger than mine, but I have a cosy sitting room where, theoretically, I can entertain guests. The kitchen, on the other side of my sitting room, and the Manns' bedroom, next to Angus's, takes up the back of the house, and that's it. The privy is in the yard, next to the improvised laundry shed, almost leaning up against the back neighbours' privy.

I have a tendency to leave town quickly, usually with the forces of the law on my heels, so I tend not to accumulate too many material possessions. But I keep a precious photograph of Angus as a baby, all frilly white dress and lacy cap, and another of the two of us enjoying a boating adventure one lazy summer Sunday in High Park when he was four and dressed in a sailor suit with an over-large straw boater. I'd placed the two pictures on a wooden tea crate, covered with a linen cloth carefully arranged so the scorch mark left by an iron was not visible. It served as my tea table. I'd managed to purchase a comfortable chair for reading and kept a colourful quilt, made out of scraps of fabric in every shade of blue imaginable, tossed over the back in readiness for chilly winter evenings. A big iron stove took up almost half the room, leaving not much space for any visitors I might wish to entertain. It suited me perfectly.