The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany

facing the first day of a real job was hard on a young man, had prepared him a special breakfast of eggs and fried bread.

      I was served porridge as usual for a Monday morning. But as it arrived in a deep bowl full to the brim with fresh cow’s milk, I was more than happy to dig in. Besides, don’t they say that bacon is not good for a lady’s figure? I was past thirty years of age; time to start taking care.

      Thirty! Heaven help me!

      My own mother was married, mother of me—her only living child—with death breathing heavily down the back of her neck when she was but the age I am now.

      * * *

      I carried my big ledger down to a table in the saloon, in order to keep an eye on the door while I worked and to catch Mrs. Saunderson as soon as she arrived. I didn’t bother to check on the state of the stage, feeling strangely reluctant to venture into the back by myself. Angus had told me the doctor had come and the body had been taken away. The men who’d gathered to investigate wouldn’t have troubled themselves to clean up the mess.

      “Good morning.” Mrs Saunderson burst through the door, catching me wool-gathering. “It’s looking to be a lovely day.” She took off her plain straw hat. “Strange to see you sitting down here, Mrs. Mac. Something the matter with your office, or are you just waiting for a cup of coffee? Won’t be but a minute. My Luke said the funniest thing last night, let me tell you about it, he said…”

      “Mrs. Saunderson, Helen, I have something to talk to you about. Even before we have our coffee. Please have a seat.”

      The blood drained from her face, and she clutched both hands to her chest. Her eyes filled with water. “Oh, Mrs. MacGillivray. Please, no. The little ’uns are only just now getting some colour back into their sweet faces, what with good food and all.” The tears started to fall. She collapsed into the chair and buried her head in her hands.

      “What on earth are you talking about, Helen? I’m pleased to hear your children are eating well. I’ve noticed the same with Angus, that as soon as fresh food started getting through, he perked right up. He’s probably grown another couple of inches in the last month. Why, we had milk from a cow for our breakfast this morning. It was wonderful.”

      “Fresh milk,” she said, through her tears. “Even now I can’t afford no fresh milk. And without this position, I won’t even be able to afford tinned milk. Please, Mrs. MacGillivray, give me another chance.”

      At last I understood. I pulled a handkerchief out of my skirt pocket and handed it to her. “Do stop crying, Helen. I’m not about to sack you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

      A glimmer of hope flashed behind her red eyes. “You’re not?”

      “Certainly not. I simply have an unpleasant task to tell you about.”

      “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Mac. Thank you.” She blew her nose heartily and handed back the handkerchief.

      “You can return it once it’s been laundered,” I said. “Now, as to the matter at hand. There is a… considerable… mess…in the dance hall.”

      “Mrs. Mac, I’ve seen me share of men’s messes in this life. I’ll make your coffee, then I’ll go clean it.”

      I stood up. “This isn’t a normal mess, Helen. You’d best come with me.”

      She looked at me.

      “Someone died yesterday. In the dance hall. On the stage.”

      “Died? Here in the Savoy? Oh, my goodness. But how? We was closed yesterday.”

      “I don’t know how, or why.”

      “Will you be wanting me to lay him out, then, Mrs. Mac? That’s no job for a stranger. Don’t he have no kin, no friends?”

      I wasn’t explaining this very well at all. “No. That’s not it. The body is gone. Taken away.”

      She heaved a sigh of relief. “That’s good then.”

      “He didn’t just die. He was murdered. Stabbed.”

      “My goodness.” She crossed herself.

      “I haven’t dared go back there this morning, and I’d feel more comfortable if you would accompany me, Helen.”

      “Surely I will. But murdered! Mother of God.”

      “There’s some blood and…such like to be cleaned up.”

      “Why didn’t you just say so? Blood’s a right problem to get rid of.”

      Mrs. Saunderson, now that she was faced with a simple task of cleaning, as normal a part of a lower class woman’s life as breathing or cooking, ignored my miserable attempts to soften the bad news and charged on ahead.

      Not wanting to appear any more muddleheaded than I already had, I attempted to keep up.

      The gaming room was dark and empty. Difficult to even imagine how full of colour and movement, smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies, the unabashed joy of the winners and quiet despair of the losers, it would soon be. Men would be pouring through the door in less than two hours, all of them ready to throw their money, very hardearned money at that, into my bank account.

      “Do you know who the dead gentleman was?”

      “Jack Ireland.”

      She stopped walking so abruptly I bumped into her. “Ireland? The newspaper feller?”

      “Yes.” She crossed herself again and turned to face me. The look of polite sorrow had been replaced by a smile. She placed her hands on her hips. “Is that so? Jack Ireland. I’m a good Catholic woman, Mrs. Mac, and it’s a sin to be happy at another’s misfortune. I’ll take it to confession and ask forgiveness, but I don’t mind tellin’ you that I’m right glad to hear it.”

      “Helen, you can’t mean that. Ireland treated you badly, to be sure. But to be happy at his death?” Of course, I myself was quite pleased that the detestable Mr. Ireland had been prevented from causing us any more trouble, but I wasn’t about to express in public my quiet satisfaction at his untimely demise.

      Helen, on the other hand, virtually rubbed her hands together in glee. Chuckling, she led the way into the dance hall.

      Jack Ireland’s lifeblood had splattered across the boards, and there it had dried, staining the wood dark. No one would be able to notice it from the audience. And it wasn’t as if the stage wasn’t stained already, with everything from tobacco juice to vomit and urine. The vomiters we couldn’t do much about, save toss them into the street, but the man who’d unbuttoned his trousers and urinated on the stage when his favourite girl accepted a dance with his rival? He was still spending his days chopping wood in Fort Herchmer.

      Vomit and urine and tobacco juice were one thing, but my girls would balk at dancing on the stage if they saw bloodstains beneath their feet.

      Helen Saunderson and I stared at the dark patches. I’d thought it would be much worse. In my imagination I’d seen the stain covering the entire stage, perhaps even dripping down the stairs and spreading across the dance floor.

      Helen might have read my thoughts. “This ain’t nothin’, Mrs. Mac. A few drops. You had me thinking there was a flood or something.”

      “Can you get the stains out?”

      “Probably not entirely. But enough so’s it won’t show worse than any other mark.”

      “Good. Thank you.”

      As I turned to leave, Mrs. Saunderson reared back her head and let loose with a mouthful of spittle, aimed directly at the heart of the stains.

      I tried to say something, but my mouth simply hung open, a most unladylike position. I snapped my jaws shut.

      She saw me watching her. “Fellow ruined my good name. Mighta ruined my daughters’ chances for a good marriage. I’ll fetch