The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany

McKnight didn’t bother to turn around to look at me. Graham studied his hands, his expression unreadable. If I said I didn’t remember, then I would be the one looking as if I had something to hide. “I took a stroll through town. I spoke to Mr. Alex McDonald and Miss Belinda Mulroney. Among others. I then…”

      “Thank you, Mrs. MacGillivray. That will suffice.”

      “Do you want to tell me what you were doing yesterday, Sunday, between noon and three o’clock, Mr. Donohue?”

      Graham looked up. His eyes darted around the room. He looked at Richard; he looked at McKnight. But he didn’t look at me. One of the people I’d seen on my Sunday stroll had been Graham Donohue, slipping down a side street as if he wanted to avoid me. I gripped my hands behind my back and said nothing, willing Graham to speak up. He had been out for a walk on a pleasant afternoon. Like half the town, including me. Why wouldn’t he say so?

      It was very close to the Savoy that I’d seen him.

      “Writing.” He shouted out the word. “I remained at my boarding house, writing my regular dispatches to the paper. All day Sunday. Until about six, when I put down my pen and went in search of my dinner. There. Now I remember.” He looked at me at last. His smile was sickening.

      Not one of us believed him.

      “Can anyone confirm that? Your landlady, or a fellow border?”

      “Nope. No one. When I’m writing, I keep to myself. Don’t want to be disturbed.”

      “Did you send a boy to get you food, perhaps?”

      “Didn’t see a soul, not all the day long. Not till dinnertime. That’s how I always spend the Lord’s Day.” He looked pleased with himself. If I couldn’t tell by the expression on his face that he was lying, the story was proof enough. He’d told me he got ravenous when writing his newspaper stories and kept a messenger boy occupied most of the day running back and forth to his favourite restaurant, ensuring he was constantly supplied with a stream of hot meals and sandwiches, snacks and coffee.

      “Very well, Mr. Donohue. That’s all for now. You can leave.”

      They weren’t arresting him? “I would hope so.” Graham got to his feet and tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat. He stroked his moustache and pulled his watch out of his pocket to check the time. “Won’t say I’m sorry the son-of-a-bitch is dead. But if I’d killed him, I’d be bragging about it all over town.”

      I opened the door and stepped aside, searching Graham’s handsome face to see if the truth were carved there. He avoided looking at me, which was enough to convince me of his guilt. Graham loved looking at me.

      “One more thing, Mr. Donohue.” Graham stopped but didn’t turn around. The tension running across his shoulders and in the hand that rested on the doorknob was almost painful to observe.

      “Don’t leave town.” Graham didn’t shut the door behind him. Downstairs, a >man called for a round for everyone. In the dance hall the lively music ended abruptly, and the orchestra picked up a sad, melodious tune. Time for Irene’s big number, the one that always left the men sobbing into their dust-covered shirtsleeves and unwashed handkerchiefs.

      “He’s lying,” McKnight said.

      “Yes, sir. I’m afraid he is.”

      “But men have lots of reasons to lie, Constable. And not all are to do with murder. Find out where he was yesterday.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      But while we’re here, let’s talk to Walker.”

      “Sir?”

      “Walker, the bouncer. Go and get him.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      We listened to the heavy tread of Sterling’s boots on the loose floorboards, followed by the creak of the steps.

      “What do you think happened here yesterday, Mrs. MacGillivray?”

      “You’re asking me? Why?”

      “Because I sense you’re a woman who notices everything that happens around you. You may pretend to be the empty-headed, self-obsessed beauty, but you wouldn’t be here, in Dawson, owner of this establishment, if such were true, now would you?”

      I smiled at him. “You never know, Inspector. You seem to think everyone is the possible killer. Why not me?”

      “Because you’re much too intelligent to leave a body on your own doorstep, Mrs. MacGillivray. I have not the slightest doubt that had you decided Ireland needed to die, he would be so. This town hangs on the edge of the wilderness. Plenty of ground in which to hide a body, plenty of wildlife to make sure it stays hidden.”

      “You flatter me, Inspector.”

      “That is not my intention.”

      I smiled again and dipped my head, disguising, I hoped, the shiver of fear that passed through me. I hadn’t met many men who didn’t try to flatter me, and few of them meant me any good. If the Inspector decided to investigate my past, I might have to vacate town without delay. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I liked it here. And Angus loved it.

      Leaving town in a hurry was almost a habit of mine. When I was ten years old, frightened and confused, I’d left Bestford, the great estate on Skye where I’d been born, in the company of a group of travellers, with nothing to call my own except the clothes my mother had laid out for me that morning, the last morning of her life. At twenty-seven I had departed London ahead of a particularly vengeful Lord of the Realm and his team of hired inquiry agents. But that time I was not alone: I had a diamond and emerald necklace concealed in my petticoats to smooth the way and a seven-year-old child to complicate matters. I sailed to Canada and settled in Toronto under a new name, but four years later I was on the first available train out of Union Station, which happened to be going all the way to Vancouver, with a scented cedar box crammed with jewellery and a son of eleven.

      Every time I’m driven out of town, I do at least manage to leave in a better situation than the last time.

      We heard Ray complaining all the way up the stairs. “Busiest night of the year so far, got to keep an eye on the lads every minute.” He burst through the door in a whirlwind of tiny Scottish fury. “I’m a busy man, Inspector. Make it fast. Fee. Wondering where you’d gotten to.”

      “We can make it as fast as you want, Walker. Please sit down.” McKnight gestured to the chair behind the desk.

      Ray sat. His small eyes moved from one of us to the other, wet with suspicion. Sterling took his post against the wall, and I settled back into the door. Interesting that McKnight again took the visitor’s chair, the one facing away from the room, looking out over the street, instead of the much better one behind the desk.

      Interesting also that he allowed me to remain in the room.

      “As soon as you tell us where you were yesterday in the early afternoon, you can get back to your business.”

      Ray’s face almost collapsed in relief. “That’s it? That’s all you want to know?”

      “We talked last night. So for now, yes, that’s all I want to know.”

      “I got outta bed around ten. Had breakfast at the Regina Café, good food there, and lots of it. Met a man from my hometown, can ye believe it? an’ we spent most of the day walking around town, talking about Glasgow and the old days. Turns out we know a lot o’ the same people. His granny was great friends with me aunt. Small world, isn’t it?”

      “This fellow’s name?”

      “Johnny Stewart. Nice lad.”

      “What time did you and Mr. Stewart part company?”

      Ray shrugged. His face was unlined, untroubled; his eyes were clear. He was telling the truth: I would bet my life’s savings on it. Come to think of it, Ray and I were so intertwined in the business,