The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany

      I was crossing the street on a duckboard when I almost collided with Joey LeGrand, who was coming the other way. The duckboards were narrow, and we were thus forced to acknowledge each other’s presence. We both knew that we had absolutely no need to pretend to be polite, which I found to be much more satisfactory than the salons of London, where a lady was expected to greet her most hated enemy with joy and pleasure. Joey grunted and stood firm in the centre of the board. She was so small that I could have pushed her aside with one stiff arm. But I believe in saving my fights for the important things. I stepped into the road without batting an eyelash and sailed across the street as if such had been my intention all along.

      A minute later, Dawson’s most famous citizens, Alex Macdonald and Belinda Mulroney, approached me, deep in conversation, clearly talking about business. Those two were not keeping the Lord’s Day.

      Big Alex tipped his hat. “Quite the night last night, Mrs. MacGillivray. The Savoy is once again the talk of the town.”

      Belinda tossed me a smile. “That’s a lovely hat, Fiona.”

      I thanked her with genuine warmth, exchanged a bit of empty conversation, and continued on my way.

      And so the boring stroll continued.

      At one point I was sure I saw Graham Donohue coming towards me, but when I lifted my hand in greeting, the man spun on his heels and took off down Queen Street. I must have been mistaken. It couldn’t have been anyone I knew.

      Men never avoid my company.

      Unless they owe me money.

      Or are accompanied by their wives.

      I went home, had a nap, and read a bit of Wuthering Heights, before joining my small household for a meal of stringy grey beef, over-boiled cabbage and tinned peas. As usual, Mrs. Mann served the Sunday supper at a most uncivilized time; in London it would be scarcely past tea time.

      I was settling into the comfortable chair in my sitting room prior to resuming the book when, out of nowhere, the idea popped into my head that I’d made an error in the accounts. If it had been an error in my favour, it would have waited until the next day. But as it was an error that was not in my favour, I wanted to check on it immediately.

      “I have to go to the Savoy,” I said to Angus. “I might have made a mistake in the ledger, and I want to check.”

      “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

      “It can, but I can’t. Do you want to come with me?”

      And so we came across the remains of the loathsome Mr. Jack Ireland, late of the San Francisco Standard.

      Chapter Twenty

      Angus ran to fetch the Mounties, and I cracked open a bottle of whisky and poured myself a good shot. Then I helped our watchman out of his disgustingly filthy flannel overshirt and handed him a glass of whisky. He was highly embarrassed at vomiting in my presence, but I’d come close to losing the contents of my stomach myself—those tinned peas! The very thought of it was enough to have me choking it all back. At least I’d been forewarned that I was about to encounter something unpleasant.

      I sat on the floor beside my employee with my legs stretched out in front of me, and we drank our whisky in companionable silence.

      “Mrs. Saunderson will not be at all happy tomorrow morning,” I said at last.

      “M’m?”

      “To find such a mess. In here as well as…in there. She may even threaten to quit. Upon which I’ll offer her an extra twenty cents. And she’ll say that isn’t enough for all she has to put up with, so I’ll up my offer to twenty-five cents—and not a penny more—and with a great sigh, she’ll fetch her cloth and mop and bucket.”

      “M’m?”

      “Never mind.”

      Angus burst through the doors, followed by Richard Sterling—is that man never off duty?—and Sergeant Lancaster. I struggled to my feet, using my Sunday watchman’s head as point of leverage.

      “You wait here, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Lancaster said. He had the sour expression of one whose ambitions have not quite panned out and who never allowed himself to forget it. “Your son can show us.”

      I ignored him. “Angus, go and get Ray.”

      “But, Ma.”

      “Now.”

      He ran out the door.

      The watchman gripped his empty glass and looked around for the bottle, which I’d closed and slipped under the counter before collapsing to the floor in a shocked stupor.

      “Gentlemen, follow me.” I led the way through to the back room and its macabre still life.

      “Jack Ireland,” Sterling said as the two Mounties approached the body. Despite my early outburst of bravado, I hung behind, back pressed against the wall.

      “You know him, Constable?” Sergeant Lancaster asked.

      “Yes, sir. American. Reporter. Only arrived in town day before yesterday. Saw him get off the boat myself.”

      “Pretty quick to make enemies, even for Dawson.” The sergeant chuckled. “Don’t suppose this was an accident, do you? Or a suicide?” His tone turned wistful.

      “’Fraid not.”

      “Someone had best fetch the inspector, then.”

      “Right.”

      “Won’t be happy to be roused out from his after-supper pipe.”

      “No, but he’ll be even less happy if we don’t call him.”

      This was starting to sound like a comedy act so dreadful, I wouldn’t allow it anywhere near my stage. I abandoned my refuge against the wall and stepped forward. I opened my mouth, while the words took shape behind my tongue. Don’t stand here blabbing, you fool. Find the killer! Arrest him! And I would have said something, had not Sterling looked at me. His face was wooden and more impassive than I’d ever seen it, but his eyes were full of compassion.

      “Someone has to go for the inspector,” Lancaster repeated.

      “I’ll fetch him,” Sterling said. “You guard the body.”

      The sergeant shivered at the thought. “No. I’ll go.”

      He touched his hat as he passed me. “What a fool,” I mumbled, once Lancaster was out of earshot.

      Sterling read my mind. Either that, or he has exceptionally good hearing. “He’s not a bad man, Sergeant Lancaster. They say he was headed for high rank, until he lost a company of new men, raw recruits, in a snowstorm.”

      “The boys died?”

      “No. Just fingers and toes lost to frostbite. But Lancaster blamed himself.” Sterling shrugged. “Killed his career all by himself, with regret and guilt. Or so they say. What do you make of this, Mrs. MacGillivray?”

      “What? Oh, Ireland. He’s dead.”

      “Thank you for that considered opinion.” Sterling knelt by the body. He didn’t touch anything, only looked.

      Reluctantly, I walked over to stand at the foot of the stage. “He was not a nice man, Mr. Ireland.”

      “You’re right about that. First, we’ll have to eliminate the handful of people who didn’t particularly want Ireland dead. Then we’ll be left with the majority of the population of Dawson.”

      Sterling stood up at the moment I leaned over to take a closer look, my churning stomach having settled down and my pesky curiosity taking control. Sterling was on the stage, and I stood on the first step. He loomed over me. All the inquisitiveness of a police officer fled from his perfectly structured face, his expressive eyes softened, and the edges of his mouth