On our arrival at Union Station, while Angus patted the horses’ noses and thanked them for bringing us, and the cabbie went in search of a porter, I slipped into the building alone, telling Angus to deal with the porter and meet me inside.The cavernous station was dark and quiet. The sound of my footsteps disappeared into the great vaulted stone ceiling.
I changed into a plain dress of brown cotton, wrapped my long black hair into an exceedingly tight bun and topped it with a most unattractive hat, propped a pair of spectacles containing plain glass onto my nose, and slipped a cheap wedding band onto my finger. I rubbed a bit of dirt, scooped up while waiting for Angus, onto the hem of the dress. To his credit, Angus barely batted an eyelid when I emerged in my new costume. I purchased our tickets in a flat Canadian accent, blinked myopically at the man behind the counter, and fumbled through my reticule for a few coins to tip the porter.
“What have you done this time?” was all Angus said as we boarded the train.
During the long journey across the continent, I’d decided to head for the United States. San Francisco, perhaps. It was supposed to be a rough-edged town. I had sufficient funds to find a place for Angus in a good boys’ school, rent a house in a respectable part of town, and hire an adequate household. Whereupon I would make my living as I had since I’d been eleven years old.
Stealing.
* * *
Standing in the hotel lobby in Vancouver I changed my plans.
Enough of climbing up drainpipes and escaping by the skin of my teeth. Enough listening to fat old men snore in the night.
And enough of missing my son. Angus was eleven years old. I hadn’t wanted to put him in boarding school, but once he reached the age of awareness I could hardly have him living with me when I entertained the gentlemen who, usually unwittingly, provided my income.
We’d left London four years ago with as much haste as our recent departure from Toronto. It was time to provide my son with a bit of stability.
“Angus,” I said, as we stood in the lobby of the second-rate Vancouver hotel. “How would you like to go to the Klondike?”
“That’d be grand, Mother.”
“Where,” I asked the hotel clerk, “is the shipping office located?”
I hadn’t intended to actually go to the Klondike. It sounded like a most difficult trip. I certainly had no intention of prospecting for gold. Unlike what had been suggested by the talk I heard in Vancouver, then Victoria, and then on the Bristol, heading for Alaska, I suspected that gold nuggets were not lying about on the ground waiting to be picked up by men who’d last week been bank clerks or cooks or farmers.
But where there were men, lots of men, away from their homes, full of dreams, there was always money to be made.
And legally, too.
I’d find a profession in Alaska that would allow me to have my son living with me, and not necessitate bracing myself every time I saw an officer of the law heading my way.
This place called Skagway seemed like a good destination. I’d open a theatre and employ women to dance and perform stage plays. I exchanged Mrs. McNally’s jewellery for cash and bought supplies and two boat tickets to Skagway.
Skagway turned out to be more than even I had bargained for, and eventually Angus and I joined the long line of fortune-seekers climbing the Chilkoot trail.
Chapter Six
Corporal Richard Sterling had told his constables to be on the lookout for the tall thin man and to let him know if they spotted him.
Settled down to dinner in the back room of the detachment office, which served as the dining hall, Sterling decided to confront Mr. Paul Sheridan personally. He told himself it wasn’t because Sheridan had offended Fiona MacGillivray — definitely not, he would never let his personal feelings interfere with the performance of his duties. But if Sheridan was a scout for Soapy Smith, this needed the attentions of someone more experienced than a raw constable fresh from the Outside, still shaking the dust of the Chilkoot off his scarlet tunic.
Dinner consisted of the ubiquitous beans, this time served with a slab of overcooked meat of indeterminate origin. At least the bread was hot and fresh, and it came with a scraping of butter.
“Sir,” Constable McAllen came in. He didn’t look quite old enough to shave yet. “Sorry, don’t want to disturb your supper.”
Sterling pushed the plate away. “Not worth worrying about. What is it?”
“I think I spotted the guy you’re after. Tall, very thin. He’s in the Monte Carlo. Playing roulette. Losing big.”
“Thanks. Let’s look into it.”
* * *
It was six o’clock in the evening and the Monte Carlo was busy. Men eyed the police officers as they came through the front doors. Sterling nodded to the man behind the bar and kept walking. The gambling room was about half full. Still early for some of the bigger players.
Gambling, like prostitution, was illegal in Canada. But when the men in charge of this tiny police force, in the town fast becoming one of the biggest — certainly the busiest — in Western North America, realized what they were about to be faced with, they decided it was better to control vice than to outlaw it. The authorities in Ottawa were a very long way away, and the officers and men of the North-West Mounted Police were on their own. So they allowed gambling and prostitution but kept a strict eye out to ensure business was as properly conducted as possible. Places could be and were shut down if they stepped too far over the line.
A crowd had gathered around the roulette table. As Sterling and McAllen entered, a man placed a pile of chips onto the table. “Seventeen,” he said.
“You been playin’ seventeen all night,” a grizzled sourdough said. “It ain’t come up yet. When you gonna try somethin’ new?”
“That’s my plan, old fellow. At some point seventeen will come up. And then I’ll be a winner.”
The old man’s face said what he thought of that plan.
The croupier spun the wheel. He passed his hand over the table and said, “No more bets.”
Everyone, Sterling and McAllen included, watched the ball.
“Sixteen,” the croupier announced in a flat tone. He scooped up most of the chips, then counted a couple out and placed them beside the ones on red.
The old sourdough, the owner of that bet, chuckled and collected his winnings. He put them in front of the man who’d bet on seventeen. “Luck ain’t with you tonight, my boy. Why don’t you quit while you can?” With that, the sourdough stood up from the table and took his leave, passing the two police officers standing in the doorway. “Corporal,” he said in greeting.
Sterling knew the man — one of the very few who’d actually found gold. Lots of it. He’d prospected up and down Alaska and the Yukon for more than twenty years and was lucky enough to be close to the Creeks when word spread of the great discovery. He had staked his claim within days and pulled a great deal of the gold metal out of the ground since. He came into town once a month, stayed for two days, showered his favourite dance hall performers with gold nuggets, visited the cribs on Paradise Alley, gambled at the Monte Carlo and the Savoy, usually losing all the gold he’d dug up since he’d last been in town, and then disappeared back to his claim with a month’s worth of supplies, empty pockets, and a smile on his face.
Sterling approached the roulette table as Sheridan was placing the chips the old miner had given him onto number seventeen. The croupier lifted one eyebrow when he saw the police.
“Mr. Paul Sheridan,” Sterling said.
The