The remainder of that dreadful night, I will scarcely mention. Save that, as should go without mentioning, they were perilously short of jail space in which to accommodate a respectable lady. In Dawson a dance hall girl was ranked, just barely, within the boundaries of “respectable”. They escorted Irene to a tiny room in the main building and insisted I remain outside. McKnight suggested, somewhat rudely, that I might want to go home and rest.
I informed them that I would remain, and after Richard shut the door in my face, I lowered my bottom to the wooden planks outside the main buildings, there being no seating for visitors. It was most uncomfortable, and I wondered if the dirt and the splinters would wash out of my skirt. I was wearing the pale green satin, formerly my second best. If things continued at this rate, soon I would have nothing decent to wear. I wished I’d had the foresight to bring my book. But even I don’t plan my day expecting to accompany a murder suspect to prison.
They kept Irene for a very long time. I might have dozed for a while, and it occurred to me that I should send word to Angus so as not to cause him worry, but I didn’t dare move in case something happened in my absence. Both McKnight and Sterling left the room at intervals, McKnight glaring at me and Richard trying to avoid my questioning eyes.
Men crossed the courtyard occasionally, every one of them watching me surreptitiously from beneath the brim of his hat, while pretending not to. I considered growling at a particularly skittish young constable, but thought better of it. I thought I saw the bulk of Sergeant Lancaster scurrying off into the shadows, but I might have been mistaken. At one point someone inside the jail began screaming at the top of his lungs, calling for help. Officers came running, and the dogs set up a chorus of barks and howls. The screamer stopped as quickly as he had begun, but it took a good deal longer for the dogs to settle back down.
The sun returned, after a very brief absence, and at last the two Mounties escorted Irene out. Her dress was rumpled, hair escaping its pins, hands shaking, face almost as white as that of Jack Ireland when I’d seen him last.
“You can take Miss Davidson home, madam,” McKnight said. “We have no reason to hold her further.”
He looked at Irene. “You are not to leave Dawson until we tell you you can.”
I took Irene’s arm and half-dragged her across the large square. It isn’t normally my habit to waste my time looking out for anyone else. I’d learned the hard way what happens to those who don’t watch out for themselves first, but it was in my interest to take care of Irene. What might happen if I lost the most-popular dancer in Dawson was one thing. What might happen if I lost my business partner was a far more pressing concern.
“So,” I said, once we’d crossed the parade ground and were back on the street, “what happened in there?”
“I didn’t kill Jack Ireland.”
“Stop saying that. I wouldn’t be here if I thought you had, you fool. Why does McKnight think you did?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She read disbelief in my eyes. “I don’t, Mrs. MacGillivray, I truly don’t. Maybe they were fishing. Maybe they’ll call in all the girls.”
I snorted, considering that it was acceptable to snort in the early hours on a deserted street in the presence of one’s own employee.
“I’ll admit some folks might think I’d good reason to kill him. But so did a lot of people. Have you ever met anyone who angered so many people so fast?”
I laughed, although it wasn’t much of a laugh. More like another snort. “No, I don’t think I ever have. And that’s certainly saying something.”
I’d never seen Dawson so peaceful. The streets were deserted at this hour on a Sunday morning. A drunk lay in the dirt against the wall of a closed cigar store, loudly snoring off his night’s misadventures. A priest, recognizable by his white dog collar, came bustling down the appropriately named Church Street. He looked at us warily—two gaily-dressed women unescorted on the streets on Sunday morning—but still managed to nod politely.
We reached Fourth Street. “I go this way,” I said. “Do you want me to walk you to your lodgings?”
“You’ve done enough, Mrs. MacGillivray. I can find my own way home. I want to, I mean…” She struggled to get the words out.
I cocked my head to one side and looked at her with a waiting expression. I’d make her say it. No matter how long it took.
“That is…how can I thank you for helping me?” she mumbled.
“The next time we present scenes from Shakespearean tragedies, by acting Lady MacBeth’s handwashing scene with a touch more feeling. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a pitiful display in all my life as I saw tonight. She might have been distressed at finding a dab of schoolroom chalk on her gloves.”
“I was distracted.” I didn’t ask what had made her suspect that the police were about to make her their prime suspect. A young constable hoping for the honour of a smile from his favourite in return for issuing the warning, perhaps? Unethical, certainly, but none of my business.
“Oh, one more thing, Irene, dear. Stop playing Ray Walker for a fool. If you enjoy teasing him, you may quit the Savoy, find employment elsewhere, and continue to entertain his apparently hopeless courtship. If you want to pledge some sort of attachment to him, with the full knowledge of us all, then you can remain in my employ.
But if you intend to continue toying with his affections and also to work at the Savoy, where you are, undoubtedly, the most popular dancer we have, that will not be possible.
You’ll have to choose one option or the other. Good night, Irene. Go home and get some sleep.”
“Doesn’t Mr. Walker have anything to say about this?”
“Most certainly not.” I walked away.
“Mrs. MacGillivray?”
The strain in her voice stopped me in my tracks, and I turned back. “Yes, Irene.”
She studied the patterns of dust before her feet. “The police suspected me, they said, ’cause I didn’t go back to my room the night Ireland was killed.”
“And…”
“I’ve got no interest in Mr. Walker, although he’s real nice. My…romantic attentions…are elsewhere.”
“I’d suggest you let Mr. Walker know that, before his behaviour embarrasses us all. Bring your young man around one evening. Introduce him to us.”
Irene blushed. Will wonders never cease? A Dawson dance hall girl who knows how to blush.
“I don’t think so, Mrs. MacGillivray.” She reverted to form and lifted her proud head.
“Very well. I’ll see you on Monday, Irene. Tomorrow, I suppose, it’s already today.”
Irene walked down the street, leaving me standing in the dirt.
So Irene had a secret relationship. A married man, almost certainly. I only hoped I, and the Savoy, would survive the inevitable fallout.
Chapter Forty-Five
I walked the length of Fourth Street deep in thought. The summer morning caressed my arms and face, and the air smelled fresh and clean. A rabbit, a tiny, furry, brown thing, all floppy ears and large feet, scurried across my path. I was thinking how rare it was to experience a moment of peace and quiet in Dawson, when a mangy dog, nothing more than skin and bones and huge brown eyes, darted out from behind a shack, setting up quite the racket as it attempted to squeeze under the floorboards of someone’s house in pursuit of the rabbit.
When I got home, everyone was still in bed. I stoked the stove and put the kettle on the hob. There would be no sleep for me for a while yet.
“Ma, you’re back.” Angus stumbled into the kitchen. His blond hair stood