The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany

      Ray stifled a laugh.

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      The bank clerk winked at me. He was a good-looking young man, French Canadian, who had always greeted me with scrupulous politeness and a no-nonsense attitude as befits two educated persons of business conducting important financial matters.

      “I beg your pardon,” I said, my chin up. “Are my books not in order?”

      “Everything is in perfect order, Madame MacGillivray, as always.” He leaned closer to the iron grill separating us. “I ’eard you fought a few rounds with a drunk the other night.”

      The line behind me curled out of the ramshackle building and snaked a long way down the street. The people closest to me shifted. Sensing that some confidence was being exchanged, they edged closer.

      “Broke ’is nose with an uppercut, eh?” The clerk practically drooled.

      The things that excite men.

      “Most certainly not.” I tossed my head. “I merely explained to the gentleman in question that his behaviour was not at all proper, whereupon he left.”

      “Fellows who were there say after you put ’im on the floor, ’e returned after closing to get vengeance, and Walker killed ’im. Non?”

      “Non! Absolument, non! Give me my account book. Don’t you dare be repeating that sort of malicious gossip. I didn’t break any noses, and Ray Walker didn’t kill anyone. You tell people we did and I’ll…I’ll…be cross. That’s it, I’ll be cross.”

      I snatched up my banking book and whirled around.

      Every person in the bank, and a few who stood outside peering in through the windows, watched me.

      “What nonsense. Foolish nonsense, like a pack of ill-raised children calling each other names in the park while their nannies’ attention wanders,” I muttered, passing through the crowd. As I hoped, a great many of the onlookers, particularly the handful of women present, took up the words. “Nonsense,” they whispered to each other. “Childish.”

      I walked away from the centre of town, heading back to my lodgings on Fourth Street, for no other reason than it was my custom to do so. I didn’t feel much like a nap. Angus would be at work. I contemplated making a detour and dropping in to the store. Would he be pleased to see me or embarrassed that his mother was keeping an eye on him?

      I hesitated at the cross street in front of a small shop advertising its purpose as “Sewing done here. For Ladies and Gentlemen”, wondering which way to go.

      Irene and Chloe came out of the shop, Irene turning a hat in her hands. It was a nice hat, with a few feathers stuck in the band and a broad brim offering protection for a lady’s face from the effects of the sun. Badly-made stitches tried, and failed miserably, to disguise a wide rip across the crown. But Irene placed the hat on her head with satisfaction. I would have tossed it into the garbage before even leaving the shop, but in Dawson one makes do.

      “Mrs. MacGillivray,” Irene said with a bright smile. Chloe showed her teeth. “Don’t you love what she did with my hat? Why, you can scarcely see the stitches. Right as rain, ain’t it?” She touched the hat brim and gave me a pleased-with-herself smile.

      “Lovely.” “I’m glad I ran into you.” She grabbed my arm in a gesture that came perilously close to familiarity. Wasn’t that like an American! I shook her hand off, but she didn’t take offence, scarcely seeming to notice.

      “We’re on our way to the Savoy,” she breathed. “The seamstress said Jack Ireland was found dead in the dance hall last night. Is it true?” Irene wore a practical day costume of soft pink blouse with generous sleeves above a cream skirt.

      A wide black belt wrapped itself tightly around her waist. The hat, unfortunately, had a purple ribbon drooping down the back that didn’t go at all with the pink blouse. Her cheeks were a too-bright red, and her eyes flashed with enjoyment at the news. She patted her generous chest, the dream of many a man working out on the creeks.

      Plain Chloe wore a cotton dress of an unattractive plum, which clashed with her complexion, and an unadorned straw hat.

      “Unfortunately, it is true,” I said.

      Irene leaned closer, out of the hearing range of the small crowd of men surrounding us. The moment we stopped walking, they had gathered around, as eager to soak up the presence of the most-popular dance hall girl in the Yukon Territory and (if I may say so) the most beautiful woman. They were like a litter of new-born puppies pushing and shoving each other aside to get at their mother’s teats. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “Do you think Ray did it? For me?”

      I stepped back. “I most certainly do not. And there was nothing wonderful about it in the least.” I looked her up and down. “You seem to be much improved this morning. Aches and pains gone away, have they?”

      Chloe tugged at her friend’s arm. “Come on, Irene.”

      Irene shook her off.

      “I tell you, Mrs. MacGillivray, as soon as I heard the news, my bruises seemed to heal themselves. Ain’t that right, Chloe?”

      One old fellow, braver than the rest, had edged forward. He shivered at the mention of Irene’s bruises. I turned to our crowd of admirers. “If you gentlemen are looking for somewhere to pass the time this morning, the Savoy is open for business. Please tell the bartender that Mrs. MacGillivray sent you.” They scattered, a few of the men who were newer to town naïvely thinking that mention of my name would give them a discount.

      I lowered my voice. “If you know anything about Ireland’s death, Irene, you had best speak to the police.”

      She adjusted her hat ever so slightly and pouted. “Me? Heavens, Mrs. MacGillivray, I don’t know nothing. I’m just glad he’s dead. The bastard. See you tonight.” She waved her fingers cheerfully and walked past me.

      I watched her go. Another person not too sad at the demise of Jack Ireland. A young dandy, dressed like a proper English country gentlemen in a tweed suit with gold-topped walking stick, stepped up to offer Irene his arm. She accepted it, and they strolled down the street, the feather on her hat bobbing with enthusiasm as she chattered away. Chloe, forgotten, tagged along behind.

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      He had only been working at the hardware store for ten minutes before Angus MacGillivray knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the life of a shopkeeper wasn’t for him. He stuck it out through the morning, dragging stock from boxes stacked at the back of the tent as the stuff up front was sold off, and waiting on customers, although Mr.

      Mann wouldn’t let him handle any money or gold dust. Mr. Mann’s shop was down by the waterfront. It fact, it sat smack dab on the waterfront, on a marshy patch of land that had been underwater during the spring floods. But it was close to where the steamboats and rafts tied up after their trip up the Yukon River.

      More than a few men staggered off the boats, took one look at the town they’d tried so hard to reach, and offered to sell the nearest merchant all they had. For pennies on the dollar. And merchants such as Mr. Mann were more than happy to help them out. There were as many men eager to buy as to sell, and at the highest prices in all of North America. Mr. Mann specialised in hardware— construction supplies such as nails, hammers and saws— although he was agreeable to handling anything and everything that he could buy for one price and sell for a higher amount. His canvas tent was one of the largest of the multitude that stood storage-box-to-storage-box, guyrope-to-guy-rope, and tent-peg-to-tent-peg all along the sandbar. The tent on one side of them sold tinned goods, on the other, men’s clothes, most of which were heavily worn and many-times repaired.

      When Angus and Mr. Mann left for work that morning, Mrs. Mann had handed Angus a large package, wrapped in brown paper, and Mr. Mann had told him that he would have half an hour for his lunch.

      He’d