Читать книгу The Barkerville Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Ann Walsh - Страница 12

Peter and I practised almost every day during the next few weeks. After work we headed for a quiet street near the upper end of Chinatown where we could run without worrying about bumping into other people. The two of us soon became used to each other’s running style. We were a good team, moving quickly, our bound legs working as one.

“We are not bad,” Peter said one day, laughing.

“We’re doing very well,” I said, panting. “I only wish I could practise with Joseph, as well.” We had finished for the day. Soon I would head up the Richfield road toward home and dinner, but I stood with Peter for a while, resting and talking. “How are things?” I asked.

He knew what I meant. “Good. The Frenchman stays away. Maybe in Quesnel Mouth, maybe at Mosquito Creek. Not here. So no one worries.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. I’ve heard the judge will come in July. The trial will be soon, and then it will be over.”

“For Ah Mow, yes, it is over,” Peter said. “Very much over. But for Henri Tremblay, well, perhaps his time in jail is beginning.”

“Unless he is sentenced to death. There was another murder here, Peter. The man found guilty of that crime was hanged.”

“I know. My uncle told me. You helped the law then. You made sure that man was punished.”

“I didn’t do much,” I said, hoping he would change the subject.

“That man’s name was James Barry. I learn that, sir...Ted. I know you will make sure that Henri Tremblay is punished also, same as James Barry was. It is fate.”

“I will do what I can, Peter.”

“I know.”

“However, I don’t think of James Barry anymore,” I added, then said goodbye and began the long walk home.

That was true. At least I tried not to think of James Barry. The nightmares were gone now, but I had heard his laughter in my dreams long after he was buried. Then, on the day of the great fire when so much of Barkerville was destroyed, I had thought I had seen his ghost.

I had told no one except Bridget that I thought it was James Barry’s voice that had awakened me from a deep sleep that day, his voice that had told me to run from the deadly fumes of the fire. I had told no one but Bridget that, for a while, I believed a ghost had saved my life.

It wasn’t true, of course. There were no ghosts. Something else must have awakened me, and then I imagined the rest. I hadn’t seen a ghost. I was absolutely positive of that. I did not believe in ghosts!

As if it sensed the blackness of my thoughts, the sky also was growing dark. A thunderstorm was coming. It had been on a day much like this—the sky grey, rain threatening, thunder growling in the distance—that it had begun. A stranger had stepped out from behind a tree just around the curve in the road ahead and spoken to me. “We’ll have to see what we can do about you,” James Barry had said.

That was the first time I had heard him laugh. Later he would say he had a score to settle with me, and then my nightmares would begin. Much later I would be at his trial, would hear the judge sentence him to death. The next day he died on the gallows, and I heard the sounds of his dying.

I shook my head, trying to scatter those memories, and quickened my steps. That time of my life was over. Finished. James Barry was part of my childhood, as were my nightmares of him. There were no ghosts and I no longer had nightmares. I was almost a grown man, and I would not let myself think about James Barry anymore.

Walking faster now, I glanced behind me, sure that someone was watching. But there was no one on the road.

“Be not so glaikit,” I told myself sternly, using Jenny’s favourite word for foolish. However, the feeling that someone was staring, that unseen eyes were peering at me, wouldn’t go away.

Again I checked behind me, but the road, often so busy, was deserted. The stagecoach had passed by hours ago, and it seemed everyone else had fled, running to shelter before the approaching storm. The trees were still, not a breath of wind stirring their branches or rustling their leaves. It was as quiet as I had ever known this road to be, except for the thunder that rumbled as the sky grew darker.

When I rounded the curve, I heard a voice. “Who is it?” I called, trying hard to keep my voice from quavering. “Who’s there?”

A low croak answered me. A raven was perched at the top of the tree. It cocked its head and stared down at me with beady eyes. That was why I felt as if I were being watched! I was being watched, but only by a raven, a corbie as Jenny called them.

“Hello, Mr. Corbie,” I said, my voice stronger.

“Croak,” the bird said again, as if it were answering me. The sound was low, drawn out, as if the bird were human and were speaking from the back of its throat. It almost seemed as if the raven were complaining about something.

I laughed. “Good day to you.”

“Bonjour,” the raven replied. From behind the tree stepped Henri Tremblay.

I swallowed hard. “Good afternoon,” I said politely, the words thick in my mouth.

“I wish to speak to you. It is good that we are alone.”

“But I don’t wish to speak to you, sir. Good day.” I began walking faster, ignoring him.

“Pas si vite! Not so fast!” He stepped into the road, directly in front of me. “You have been playing with one of your Chinese friends. Running. Laughing. Beaucoup d’ amusement.”

“I don’t see how it is any concern of yours, Mr. Tremblay. Now if you’ll let me pass...”

He made no move to stand aside so I could continue up the road. “I think, boy, perhaps that you will run away from town before my trial. This is why you practise to run tres rapi dement, non?”

“I will not run,” I said. “If I am called on to testify, then I’ll do so. It is my duty.”

“Oui. Mais...but what will you say to the judge? You have many friends who are heathens. Perhaps you will lie tike your Chinese friends.”

“I will not lie.”

“But your friends, they will tell many lies about me.”

“The witnesses will tell the truth,” I said.

“Celestials? Non. They lie. Always. It is their nature.”

“That’s not true. Besides, at a trial everyone must tell the truth. They have to swear to it on the Bible.”

He laughed. “What means the Bible to heathens? They swear only on a burnt piece of paper. They mock the Bible. You have not had dealings with Chinamen. You do not know their evil ways.”

“They’re not—” I began.

“You are a boy. You know nothing.” He moved closer, his face only inches from mine. I could smell liquor on his breath, and the seasonings of what he had eaten for lunch-garlic, onions, a sour odour. I stepped back, but he drew nearer again.

“So, you must do what all other white men would do. You will say I harmed no one, that I did not kill the Chinaman.”

“I don’t know whether or not you did. I saw nothing except Ah Mow’s body.”

“Oui. You saw nothing, tu comprends? So you will tell the judge nothing. Make sure you do not forget that.” He finally let me push past him. “Au revoir, boy who is almost docteur” he called to me. “Remember, you saw nothing. You will say nothing.”

By the time I reached home, the rain had begun. It was heavy, and my boots were coated in mud. I scraped them well before I went into the house, as if I were trying to remove all thoughts of Henri Tremblay. I wasn’t afraid of him. I would not let myself be afraid.

The next morning I casually asked Peter, “Are you sure Mr. Tremblay isn’t here in town?”

He looked at me curiously. “No one sees him. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I said. I resolved to forget about the Frenchman, not to think about him at all.

It wasn’t too hard to forget; there were many other things to keep me occupied. Pa and I were very busy in the shop, working much later in the evening than we usually did. And even though I was often tired after work, Peter and I practised almost every day. Some days I would leave Peter to practise yet again with the Cariboo Glee Club.

Excitement was high in the town; the Cariboo Sentinel was full of information about the events that would take place on Dominion Day. Each issue of the newspaper had more information about the celebrations—the cannon would be fired at ten in the morning, then there would be inspirational speakers, then selections would be sung by the Cariboo Glee Club. The sports would start at eleven o’clock and continue throughout the day. At noon a royal salute would be fired, and in the evening there would be a special performance at the Theatre Royal by the Cariboo Dramatic Association. Later in the night there would be a grand illumination with lights and decorations in shop windows, and then there would be the fireworks, which I would watch with Jenny.

The horse races were attracting a lot of attention—and wagering—between friends and neighbours. The competition would be stiff for these events—for the awards were high. The Cariboo Purse carried with it a prize of fifty dollars, and the Dominion Day Race winner would take away the grand sum of a hundred and fifty dollars. No jockeys were allowed; the owners had to ride their own horses.

The main road was cleaned and gravelled, making sure it would be in good shape for the celebrations. The horse racers were warned severely not to practise on that road. The members of the Dominion Day Street Committee had worked hard and didn’t want to clean up after more than the usual horse traffic.

One article in the Sentinel made me laugh, for I well remembered the chaos during the past year’s foot races. SHUT UP YOUR DOGS FOR THE RACES read the headline. “On previous occasions they have proved an intolerable nuisance,” the piece continued. “A serious accident might occur during the races, owing to some of these canine favourites insisting on taking a share in the sport.” Last year several of the animals had participated, without either paying their entry fee or being invited to race. There had been a great deal of shouting and barking, and contestants, dogs, race officials, and spectators all ended up in an enormous seething mass of legs, heads, and tails that filled the street and boiled up onto the boardwalks.

This year a platform had been built on the main street, draped with branches of evergreens and decorated with scarlet banners and gold maple leaves. The speakers and musicians, as well as some honoured spectators, would view the activities from this high perch. Everything was in the final stages of preparation, and Barkerville was more than ready to celebrate.

Peter and I practised one last time on the evening of June 30. The hopeful winners of the horse races had moved their practice area to the same street where Peter and I raced, so we dodged flying hooves as well as steaming droppings as we ran.

“Enough, sir...Ted,” Peter said, stopping to clean his boot. “We have practised enough. You are ready to run. I am ready to stop.”

I untied the scarf that bound our legs, agreeing with him. Although Dominion Day was tomorrow and I had heard nothing from Joseph Morrison, Jenny assured me he would be there well before the start of the race.

“He will nae come to town until late the night before,” she said. “But I know he’s a swift runner. I feel sure the two of you will win.”

I wasn’t so certain. “Where will I meet him? How will I recognize him?”

“If you’ll be at your father’s shop, I’ll bring him to you. The Three-Legged Race is to take place early in the sports program. I’ll make sure Joseph is there just after eleven o’clock.”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “I’ve been practising hard. I only hope Joseph is as well prepared.”

“Do not worry yourself about Joseph,” Jenny said. “He will nae let you down.”