The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany

a bribe to the orchestra to keep playing or to the dealer to keep dealing or to the bartender to keep pouring.

      As was my custom, I walked behind the exiting crowds, starting at the back of the dance hall, making sure that no dead-to-the-world-drunk got left behind, or that no Englishman or American unfamiliar with the laws of the Territory would try to stay one minute past midnight.

      On this night, the men were particularly polite. “Lovely evening, Mrs. Fiona,” they said, doffing their caps. “Such a pleasant night. See you Monday.” Or, “You look particularly beautiful tonight, Mrs. MacGillivray. That shawl certainly becomes you.” Barney, the old drunk, winked so broadly that I wondered if his face might collapse under the effort.

      It didn’t, but I turned to see Constable Richard Sterling standing behind me.

      “Peaceful night, Mrs. MacGillivray,” he said. “Everyone filing out like they did leaving my father’s church after a sermon about the Hell that he says so eagerly awaits most of them.”

      “Didn’t know you had a father, Constable. Don’t they churn you fellows out of Mountie school like sausages, all in a neat row?”

      “A bar in the Prairie town where I had my first posting had a lot of trouble one night,” he said. “They tried to hide it from us, but it was hard to keep the secret after the troublemakers torched the place.”

      “Nice quiet night, eh, Constable?” The fellow who dressed like an Indian fighter shouted at us as he made his way to the door, barely held up by his friends. “Pretty boring, ain’t it?” He and his mates all sort of collapsed into the middle together, thus supporting each other and keeping themselves upright at the same time.

      “Don’t talk ta the coppers,” one of the friends muttered as he tripped over a loose floorboard.

      Sterling raised one dark eyebrow and looked down at me. “It was quite the mess, burned lumber and scorched furniture everywhere. Fortunately no one was hurt, but the smell of shattered whisky bottles and the end of someone’s dreams lingered over the town for weeks.”

      “Fascinating story. You must tell me more. When I have time. If you’ll excuse me, Constable?”

      The yellow patches gleamed in his brown eyes, but he said nothing further.

      That wasn’t the first time trouble had accompanied Jack Ireland into my place. But tonight I was sure I’d seen the last of him—he’d hit the most popular dance hall girl in the Yukon in full sight of a packed hall. He was finished as a newspaperman here; once word spread of what had happened, no one in town would talk to him.

      He’d be on the next steamboat out of town. Guaranteed.

      Chapter Eighteen

      The rare smell of frying bacon, sausages and fresh eggs wafted through the house, and Angus climbed eagerly out of bed. They were getting heartily sick of bacon, one of the staples of both the trail and the winter of near-starvation, but eggs were a rare, expensive treat. Anyone arriving late at the Sunday breakfast table would find himself eating the scraps, if he were lucky enough to have been left some.

      Angus scooped a handful of cold water from the basin that rested on the table beside his bed, splashed it on his face, hastily pulled on trousers and a shirt and made his way to the outhouse.

      When he returned, Mr. Mann was sitting at the table watching Mrs. Mann crack eggs into the huge, battered frying pan. A glass of pure white milk waited at his place.

      “Only three places set? Where’s Ma?”

      “Your mother left a note,” Mrs. Mann replied. “She wasn’t feeling well and asked me to leave her sleep this morning.”

      “But she’ll miss her eggs!”

      Mr. Mann slurped his coffee and leaned back to allow his wife to place a brimming plate in front of him. Bacon fried to a crisp, the plump sausages she called wurst, eggs with cheerful yellow centres and pure white edges. Plus two thick slices of fried bread.

      “And the milk. She was looking forward to having real milk in her coffee today. She won’t mind if I wake her.”

      “You shush and eat.” Mrs. Mann began preparing another plate, one containing almost as much food as Mr. Mann had been given. She tossed a generous hunk of bread into the pan. It sizzled and spat and drank up the grease.

      Angus downed his entire glass of milk without pausing for breath.

      “I’ll make your mother’s breakfast later,” Mrs. Mann said.

      “If I’m late, I don’t get no breakfast.”

      “Yous don’t pay for your breakfast, boy,” Mr. Mann said.

      “You don’t get any breakfast, Angus.” Fiona stood in the doorway. The hair on her head poked into the air, and dark circles emphasized the tired droop to her eyes. She wore her red dressing gown, the one with a bold gold Chinese dragon streaking across the back, and she hugged it closely to her thin frame.

      “You go back to bed, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Mrs. Mann ordered. “You don’t look at all well.”

      “I’m fine, thank you. It’s hard to sleep when your cooking smells so wonderful.” She planted a kiss on the top of Angus’s head and took her seat.

      Mrs. Mann handed him his plate, and Angus dove in head first.

      The landlady poured a cup of coffee. “Milk’s on the table.”

      “Milk,” Fiona repeated. “Real milk?”

      “Inside the udders of a cow only yesterday.” Fiona lifted the blue pitcher and held it under her nose. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

      Angus laughed. “You don’t smell milk, Mother. You pour it into your coffee and drink it.”

      “Sometimes you have to stop and appreciate the moment.” Her tired eyes crinkled up at the edges, and the dark circles faded.

      Mrs. Mann placed another sausage in the pan and sat at the table with her own coffee while it cooked.

      “My red silk dress, the best one, with the lace skirt panel, was ruined last night,” Fiona said. “I’ll give it to you after breakfast. Perhaps you can cut it up and salvage some of the lace or the plumes.”

      “I can repair,” Mrs. Mann said.

      “Not this time, I’m afraid. It’s beyond saving.”

      “What happened?” Angus’s fork chased down a liquid patch of egg yolk with a hunk of fried bread.

      “A man fell down, far too enthusiastic on the dance floor. I tried to help him stand up, and he was bleeding from a bad crack on his forehead. Blood stains, you can’t wash them out, not once they’ve dried. And then he grabbed at me to steady himself and ripped the dress right down the front. It’s fit for nothing but rags.”

      “Gee, that’s too bad.” Angus scraped the tines of his fork across his empty plate, trying to gather up every last bit of egg and grease. “That was great, Mrs. M. Any more?”

      “No.” The landlady went back to the stove and tossed bacon into the pan.

      “I’m sure Mrs. Mann and I won’t be able to manage to eat all of that bread.” Fiona nodded towards a tower beside the stove, awaiting its bath in bacon and sausage fat. The landlady always prepared extra for Angus, although she never admitted it.

      “Thank you, Mrs. Mann, that smells like heaven.” Fiona picked up her fork. Mrs. Mann served them both and sat down. The frying pan popped and sizzled with grease and a new batch of bread.

      “Hurry, woman,” Mr. Mann said. “Church time.”

      She popped a slice of sausage into her mouth. “Plenty of time, dear. Plenty of time. But as you’ve finished already, perhaps you’ll fetch some water from the well.”

      Mr.