Читать книгу The Barkerville Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Ann Walsh - Страница 4

The wind tore at me. Tiny ice pellets, not quite snow, definitely not rain, stung my face like dozens of angry winter bees. I tightened my woollen scarf, pulling it up almost over my eyes, but the wind ripped it away. I had forgotten to wear gloves. My hands were numb and wooden with cold.

I wrestled with my scarf again, settled my hat farther down around my ears, thrust my hands into my pockets, and kept walking. Twice I lost my footing and nearly fell. The road from Richfield to Barkerville was snow-covered, the wagon ruts frozen, the potholes treacherous crevices where deeper snow tugged at my boots. Another gust of wind slapped at my scarf, and once more I tried to adjust it to protect my face. As I wrapped it high on my cheeks, I realized that some of the ice pellets on my skin must have melted. Even my numb fingers could feel the moisture under my eyes.

Surely these aren’t tears? I am sixteen, and a man my age does not cry.

I walked through silence along the Cariboo Road. Williams Creek, so noisy in summer as it tumbled over its gravel bed, was muted by a layer of ice. Many of the miners’ claims that clustered between the creek and the road were deserted now, the cabins dark and empty under their thick caps of snow. Only a few brave miners continued their search for gold through the Cariboo’s bitter winter. Most left the gold fields, returning with the robins months later, full of hope that this time their claims would yield pay dirt or even the mother lode. Today, November 3, 1870, I was alone on the road. I walked in silence as thick as the snow, silence that was broken only by the howl of the wind and the occasional crack of a snow-laden branch as it snapped.

“Murder!”

The shout ripped through the icy air. I stopped, stilled by fright. But all was quiet again. Perhaps I dream, I thought. Perhaps the nightmares that once plagued me so badly have returned.

“Murder!” The cry came again.

I looked behind me up the road. No one was there. The road below was also empty—no human form, no ghost. Nothing.

Then other voices and a woman’s high-pitched scream echoed up from the town. This was no nightmare, I realized. Those were real voices I was hearing, troubled frightened ones. Shaking off the fear that had kept me motionless, I began to run, slowly at first, then faster, past Stout’s Gulch, past the entrance to Billy Barker’s Never Sweat Claim, and finally into the town itself.

People filled the street, blocking my way. I stood at the edge of the crowd, wondering what had happened. It was still early, but it seemed as if most of the inhabitants of Chinatown were not only up and about this morning, but were gathered here.

The throng surged noisily forward. I moved with it, not understanding what was being said. I spoke no Cantonese, and here, in this part of Barkerville, only a few spoke English. But the voices seemed angry, maybe afraid.

Someone called my name. “Master Ted.”

It was Sing Kee, the herbalist. “There is trouble, Ted. Please come with me.”

“What’s happened?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

He pulled me through the crowd. “Let us pass, please,” he said, switching to Cantonese. I recognized my name, “Theodore Macintosh.” Then Sing Kee said loudly in English, “Dr. Ted will help.”

I wasn’t a doctor. Once I was a doctor’s apprentice, but the fire that nearly destroyed Barkerville two years earlier also ended my hope of becoming a physician. Sing Kee knew very well I wasn’t a doctor. He also knew his knowledge of medicine was far greater than mine. If someone were hurt, Sing Kee would know what to do. Why was he insisting I could help?

He must have sensed my confusion, for he leaned close to me and whispered, “A bad thing has happened, Ted, very bad. My people are upset.”

“But what can I do?”

“Look around you. There is no other white man here but him, the evil one. You must help.”

“How?”

“Speak with strength. Try to bring calm.”

We had reached the front of the gathering, and I saw, lying perfectly still on the steps of a restaurant, a Chinese man. His eyes were open and he stared straight ahead. There was blood, much blood. It was on his face, on his clothes, splashed onto the wall behind him. I tried not to look, but couldn’t help myself. I turned to Sing Kee. “This man is—”

“Yes, he is dead. And the man who killed him is white.”

“I don’t understand...” I began.

“Please, Ted, help us. My people trust you. They trust you, but they are angry at the white man who killed Ah Mow. You must stop the trouble before it spreads.”

I didn’t really understand, but Sing Kee is my friend. I did what he asked.

“I have medical knowledge. Let me through,” I said with more confidence than I felt. The crowd parted and grew silent.

Even if Sing Kee hadn’t told me the man’s name, I would have recognized the still figure. He was Ah Mow, the owner of the restaurant on whose steps he was sprawled. “Allow me to examine him,” I said.

I had only been a doctor’s apprentice for a few short months, but even to someone with no medical knowledge, it was obvious that Ah Mow was dead. There was a large wound on his chest from a knife, I thought. I bent over the man and listened for breath. There was none. I felt for the pulse of blood in his throat. There was none.

Gently I shut the dead man’s eyes and stood to face the gathering. “I can do nothing for him.”

“That man, he is the murderer,” Sing Kee said. “Many saw.” He pointed at a tall white man in the centre of a circle of Chinese.

“Mr. Tremblay,” I said, recognizing the prisoner.

He grinned at me over the shoulders of those who restrained him. “Bonjour, Monsieur Macintosh.”

“Sir, you are accused of murder,” I said. “Is this true?”

“Murder? Moi? I do not know, Ted. Who cares?” He grunted and doubled over, as if he had been hit in the stomach.

“Don’t harm him,” I said quickly to the Chinese men around him, hoping they would listen. “The law will take care of Henri Tremblay. If he’s committed this murder, he’ll be punished.”

Sing Kee translated my words. A restless wave of sound swept through the group. I thought I heard bitter laughter, but that didn’t seem reasonable. What was there to laugh at when I spoke of justice?

“We must send for the chief constable at once,” I said loudly over the noise. “He’ll question Mr. Tremblay and any who saw what happened. The law will make sure the truth is discovered. Justice will be done.”

“I have already sent someone to fetch...” began Sing Kee, but Henri Tremblay’s guffaw interrupted him.

“Incredible!” the Frenchman said. “You will send for the law, Monsieur Ted? Pourquoi? Why disturb the chief constable? It was only a Chinaman, a Celestial. What matters the death of one of them?”