“He’s gone up to the Creeks. Prospecting. That’s why he needed to get himself to bed early. He was leaving with a bunch of cheechakos this morning, first light. Told him the next time he’s in town, we’d treat him real special at the Savoy, Fee. Maybe even give him a room. That all right with you?”
“Any friend of your grandmother, Ray, is welcome here.”
“My aunt Lenora,” he corrected me.
“Are you saying that this man has gone to Bonanza Creek?” McKnight interrupted.
“Yup,” Ray said, getting to his feet. “Told him he was wasting his time prospecting. More money to be made here in town, I said. But he has his heart set on finding gold and going back to Glasgow a rich man.”
“And once you and Mr. Stewart parted company, where did you go?”
“Back to me room. Where I was when Angus came and fetched me.” The slightest of clouds passed over Ray’s face, and his eyes darted around the room. Once again someone was looking everywhere but at me. “If that’s all, Inspector? It’s a busy night downstairs.”
“We’ll want to talk to Mr. Stewart. Can you describe him?”
Ray shrugged, not particularly concerned. “Bit shorter than me. Skinny. Clean shaven. Lost most of his hair on top.”
“Age?”
“Thirty, thirty-five.” Ray shrugged again.
“That’s all for now, Mr. Walker. Thank you.”
Ray left, still avoiding my eyes.
“I hope you got most of that, Constable. Was the man speaking English? Mrs. MacGillivray, did Walker confess to murder?”
My attention snapped back. “What? Of course not! Oh, you’re making a joke.”
McKnight may have smiled. Beneath that overgrown moustache, it was hard to tell. “My mother came from Paisley. That’s near Glasgow.” He took off his glasses, pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped at the lenses.
“I know where Paisley is.”
“Now, your late husband, Mrs. MacGillivray, he must have been a true Scottish lad. Although you’ve got a hint of the Highlands yourself when you get overly emotional.”
I was about to say something—a nice chat about the old country, keep the tone friendly—but at his last comment, I snapped my mouth shut. I have never been overly emotional in my life. And if McKnight could hear Scotland in my voice, he had a very good ear indeed. Next, he’d be reading my mind.
Sterling extinguished the lamp, and we left my office. McKnight placed his glasses back on his nose and chatted merrily about the variety of accents he’d heard in his travels.
I wanted to tell him to shut up: I had things to think about. Instead I slapped on my most gracious dance-hallowner smile and ran my pearls through my fingers.
We stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Find out what Donohue was up to, Constable. No good, I’m thinking,” McKnight said, pulling a cigar out of his coat pocket. “Tomorrow you can head for the Creeks. Locate this Scottish fellow, Stewart. Make sure he backs up what Walker said. Probably not necessary. I’m pretty sure Walker’s story was accurate. That part of it at any rate, the part that covers the time we’re interested in. But something happened once he and Stewart separated that Walker didn’t want to talk about, and I don’t like not having all the answers.
“Mrs. MacGillivray.” He nodded politely, bit down on the end of his cigar, and made his way through the crowd.
Constable Sterling raised one expressive eyebrow.
“And after you’ve finished that,” I said, “you can find out who really killed President Lincoln and in your spare time identify the leaders of the Fenians.”
“All in a day’s work,” he said with a gentle smile.
“You don’t really think…”
“I don’t think anything, Fiona. Mrs. MacGillivray. I’ll dig up the facts and let them think for themselves. Good night.” He touched the brim of his hat.
“Good night, Constable.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“What are you doing here at this time of night, son?”
Angus almost leapt out of his skin as the deep voice sounded in his ear. The other boys scurried off into the shadows behind the buildings.
It was after midnight, but in Dawson in June, still bright enough to read by.
“Nothing, Constable Sterling, sir. Nothing. Hunting rats, that’s all.”
In the shadows, one of the boys swore as his shin made contact with a piece of rough lumber. His friends whispered hushes were almost as loud as a steamship whistle when it caught its first sight of town.
“Rats, eh? Mighty big rats around tonight. Your mother know you’re out?”
“She doesn’t mind, sir. She says it’s fine.”
“Angus.”
“Sorry, sir. No, she thinks I’m at home. You won’t tell her, will you?”
“Come on, I’ll walk you home. Those rats had better be off home too.” More scurries in the dark. “And no, I won’t tell your mother. She has enough on her mind what with worrying about the Savoy and the trouble there yesterday.”
“That death, Mr. Ireland, it won’t hurt my ma, will it?”
“It might, Angus, it might. Murder has a nasty way of touching everyone it comes into contact with. Makes men mistrust each other. Everyone wants to cast blame, to throw suspicion away from himself. Even the innocent try to hide. It’s a nasty business.”
“But my ma didn’t have nothing to do with it. She didn’t even know this Ireland fellow.”
“Sometimes that scarcely seems to matter. Watch it!” Sterling grabbed Angus by the arm and pulled him out of the way as a man, stinking of weeks on the creeks and cheap drink, flew around the corner. A screaming whore and her red-faced pimp followed him. At the sight of the uniformed Mountie, all three settled into a somnolent stroll.
“Evening, Constable. Nice night, ain’t it?” The pimp, a sallow-faced fellow, spoke through a mouthful of rotten teeth.
“Hold up there, you,” Sterling called. “Do you owe this lady something?”
“No,” the drunk mumbled.
The woman winked at Angus. She wore a lot of paint on her face, and her skirt was hitched into her belt, making it too short to be decent. Once-white bloomers peeked out from under the skirt. Suddenly Angus felt as if he had a raging fever. Sweat dripped down the back of his shirt and an uncomfortable, but not entirely unpleasant, feeling stirred between his legs.
“Then we’ll have to take it to the Fort,” Sterling said. “Come on, all of you.”
“All right.” The man fumbled in his pockets. “Ain’t worth two bits, that lump of lard.” He tossed a tiny nugget into the mud.
The woman spat. “Couldn’t get it up with block and tackle, he couldn’t. I ain’t got all night to watch him play with it.”
“Watch your mouth, Iris.”
The pimp scrambled through the mud in pursuit of the gold. “Don’t you come around here again,” he said to the drunk, who sprinted away.
“Get back to work.” The pimp raised his fist to the woman, but Sterling warned him off with a growl. She ducked her head and disappeared into the shadows.
“Why do they do it, Constable?” Angus asked when they were alone again.