Читать книгу The Barkerville Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Ann Walsh - Страница 5

Ah Mow was only one of many who had died in Barkerville. Death was a frequent visitor to the gold fields where the work was hard, the winters harsh, and diseases sometimes seemed to hover over the town as thickly as the black flies did in the summer heat.

Death wasn’t unusual in my town, but murder was.

I was glad to see Chief Constable Lindsay when he finally arrived. Although I stayed by the dead man’s side, the mob had become unruly. I hadn’t been sure how long I could keep the men from seriously injuring Mr. Tremblay. Anger surged around him, and though he laughed and shouted curses, I could see that his bravado was failing, that he was afraid.

The chief constable dismissed me with thanks and took over the unpleasant job of dealing with Ah Mow’s body. So I left to continue the errand that had brought me to town early this November morning.

Two hours later I was ready to begin my day’s work. But before I went to the carpentry shop I walked farther up the road to where Ah Mow had died. I stood for a moment outside his restaurant, staring at the dark stains on the stairs, then began to retrace my steps toward Pa’s carpentry shop. Just past the restaurant was a small building known as the Tai Ping Fong, or Peace House. It was here that ill or dying Chinese men were taken. Others in their community tended to them, bringing them food and medicine, staying with them until they recovered or death claimed them.

Although much of Barkerville had been destroyed in the great fire in September 1868, today no signs of the devastation could be seen. Most of the lower town had been completely rebuilt, and the fire had spared the buildings in the community’s upper end. The tiny Tai Ping Fong, like most of the buildings of Chinatown, had survived the blaze.

There was a young woman in front of the Peace House. Even though I saw only her back, draped in a long green shawl, I recognized her. That was Bridget’s shawl.

She worked at the Hotel de France, and more than a year ago she had been my close companion during a difficult time. It was Bridget who had comforted me, as I her, when together we mourned the death of a friend.

“Bridget!” I called, “Oh, Bridget, I’m pleased you’re here.”

She turned toward me, but it wasn’t Bridget.

Confused, I blurted out, “Excuse me. I thought you were Brid...I thought you were someone else.”

She smiled. “Nae, do not apologize, sir. It was not a glaikit mistake at all.”

“Excuse me?” I said again, this time because I didn’t understood what she had said.

“It is not glaikit, or foolish, at all to mistake me for Bridget. I am her cousin Jenny, newly arrived from Scotland to live in this wild country. Although I have only been here a short while, many have mistaken us for each other, even though I am much younger than my cousin.”

Jenny wore a bonnet, and her hair was tucked under it, but a few unruly blond curls had escaped and lay against her cheeks. Her hair was a soft gold, while Bridget’s was brown. Except for the colour of her hair, she looked a lot like a smaller, younger Bridget. But when she spoke she didn’t sound at all like Bridget. She had brought Scotland with her in her voice.

I glanced at her feet. They were encased in thick boots that made them appear clumsy. She followed my eyes. “This country of yours is cold, sir. My cousin lent me a warm shawl and a pair of her boots. They’re a mite too large for my feet, but they’ll suffice for now. I do fear my clothes are nae so stylish as those I wore at home. I see few stores here that carry fashionable garments for women, though Mr. Moses’s barbershop seems to be well stocked with ribbons, lace, and leather gloves.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Jenny. My name is—” I began. But she carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.

“Have you heard, sir? There was a murder just a few steps up the street this very morning!”

“Ah...yes, I’ve heard.”

“This Barkerville is a dreadful town. Why, there was another murder here not so long ago. The murderer was hanged on the evidence of a barber who recognized an oddly shaped gold nugget that had belonged to the dead man.”

“I recall that incident well.”

“The streets of this town seem paved with violence. Well, since they’re nae paved at all, just snowy, rutted paths not like the streets of Inverness, which are real streets—”

“How long have you been here, Miss Jenny?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“A mere two days, sir. I was thankful to end the long journey. Would you believe it, a small satchel—a very small satchel—was all I was permitted to take aboard the ship that brought me to this country. How on earth a woman is expected to clothe herself adequately with only the contents of one small suitcase-well, it’s very difficult. The boots I had with me were nae suited to this climate, and I lost my good shawl on the boat from Victoria to New Westminster. It was a long, cold stagecoach journey up the Cariboo Road without it, I assure you. Bridget lent me some of her clothes until I can find more suitable attire.”

For some reason I felt myself blushing. “F-forgive me,” I stammered. “You have much the same manners—and looks— as Bridget, though now that I see your face there is...I mean, I know Bridget well...I mean, she’s a friend...I mean, she was a good friend of a friend of mine...I mean...” What was wrong with my tongue? I wondered. It wouldn’t behave, and the words it struggled with made little sense. But Jenny seemed not to have noticed.

“Mistaking me for Bridget is easily done, sir,” she said, smiling. “Don’t be distressed by your error. Indeed, I’m pleased that so many in this town know my cousin. I hope I, too, will find friends here.” The smile changed her face, making her resemblance to Bridget no longer so striking.

I finally found my tongue. “Welcome to the gold fields, Miss Jenny. I’m a friend of Bridget’s and—”

“You’ve been crying. Is all well with you?”

“Crying? Me. No, not at all. It’s the wind.”

She stared at me silently.

“The wind, yes, it’s only the wind that’s made my eyes water,” I repeated.

“Oh, the wind, was it? I see.” She looked as if she didn’t believe me, but then she turned again to gaze at the small building in front of her. “Perhaps you can tell me, sir. This wee building—is it the one the Chinese people call the Peace House?”

“Yes,” I said, relieved she had changed the subject. “Tai Ping Fong is the Chinese name.”

Her nose wrinkled, and she looked puzzled. Hers was a very small nose, slightly turned up at the end. “To be sure this place is so ordinary that I’m disappointed. I would have thought it would be bigger and more grand.” She wrapped herself tighter in the thick woollen shawl and shuddered. “Who would believe that such a dreadful thing happened here?”

“Pardon?”

“My cousin wrote to me of it. She told me that a young boy, scarcely older than I, kept vigil here with a dying man. Bridget says this boy nearly lost his own life here. It was a miracle that he was rescued from the deadly fumes of the great fire. My cousin believes it was the ghost of the hanged man who saved the lad.”

Ghost? I did not want to speak of ghosts. I took a breath, wondering how I should answer. But I didn’t have to say anything, because Jenny went right on talking.

“He was most brave, don’t you think, sir? This boy. Although he will have grown by now, as I have. But he was very young—it happened more than two years ago—when he sat here alone and comforted a dying man. He would have been afraid, don’t you think?”

I swallowed hard, my urge to introduce myself vanishing.

“My cousin says I must be sure to meet this young man,” she continued, unaware of my silence. “He was to be a doctor, but when the fire came he knew he was needed elsewhere, so he took work as a carpenter and helped to rebuild the town. Do you know of whom I speak?”

I swallowed again but managed to say, “Yes,” my voice threatening to squeak on even that little word.

“Ah, you’re fortunate. He must be a very courageous person, for when he was even younger he helped to arrest the man who committed that other murder I spoke of. Oh, but you know of that evil deed.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice higher than normal. “Yes, I do. Very well.”

“Only twelve was this lad, so Bridget says, when he bravely pointed out the murderer who would have escaped had it not been for—”

“I’m afraid I’m late for work,” I interrupted. “Forgive me, I must go.” Jenny had her mouth open to ask me—or to tell me—something else, but I bowed and made my escape, almost running down the street, heading for Pa’s shop.

I took a quick look behind me. She was staring after me, hands on her hips, mouth open as if about to call me back. Or as if she were going to chastise me for my rudeness in leaving so abruptly. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought she stamped one sturdily booted foot as she watched me retreat.

Jenny had spoken of bravery. Although anyone would have to be brave to try to carry on a conversation with this talkative young woman, I would need to be especially courageous the next time I met her.

For I was the “brave” person she spoke of, and right now I did not feel brave at all.

I had lied to Jenny. I wasn’t late for work. My father didn’t expect me at the carpentry shop this morning. I had stayed away with his permission.

“I can manage without you tomorrow,” he had told me the previous night, “though it will be difficult. You’ve become a fine craftsman, and many of my customers now ask for you when they need a carpentry job done. But on the anniversary of your friend’s death you should spend time mourning him. Go to the graveyard and honour his memory.”

It was hard to believe a year had passed since Dr. John Wilkinson had died. I had always called him “J.B.,” not “doctor” or “Mr. Wilkinson,” and for a short time I had been his apprentice. And, like Bridget, I had also been his friend.

I missed him greatly, so much so that at times I thought I heard his voice, or saw him going by on the street or leaning out the window of the stagecoach. Once I ran after a man, shouting, “J.B., it is you!” The stranger turned, puzzled. I muttered some excuse, my face red with embarrassment, my eyes prickling with unshed tears.

His grave was marked only by a simple wooden cross. Less than an hour earlier I had knelt beside it, shivering in the bitter cold. “I miss you, my friend,” I said. “I miss you, J.B.”

I had planned on going to the Wake Up Jake restaurant to have something to eat before heading to work, but now I wasn’t hungry. Perhaps Pa would close the shop for a while and come eat with me later when my appetite returned. Of course, Pa didn’t like eating in restaurants. He said it was foolish to spend good money on food that could be brought from home for much less cost. So maybe I would eat alone. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t hungry.

My father glanced up when I came into the carpentry shop, but he didn’t say anything. I began to explain about the murder, but he already knew.

“I heard,” he said. “But you have work to do. We’ll talk later.” Our carpentry shop was only a short distance from Ah Mow’s restaurant, and gossip travelled quickly through Barkerville’s streets.

I added wood to the stove and placed a pot of glue on top of it. A rocking chair, a fine piece from England, lay dismantled on my work bench. The dry air of Cariboo country had shrunk the glue holding the chair together, turning it into a dry powder that no longer kept the rocker intact. I had promised the chair’s owner that it would be as good as new by tomorrow, and now would have to work quickly to keep my promise.

It was nearly lunchtime when a knock on the door startled us both. Pa called, “Come in.”

Chief Constable Lindsay blew into the shop. “It’s bitter for so early in November,” he said, wrestling to close the door against a gust of icy wind. “The winter may be a long and harsh one.”

My mother maintained that all winters in Barkerville were long and harsh. Many miners and storekeepers left the Cariboo for the milder climate of the coastal areas, but my family stayed winter after winter, struggling to keep the path to the outhouse cleared of snow, waking several times during the night to stoke the wood stove, braving the ice-covered road on every journey to town.

Most of the time I liked being in Barkerville through the winter. Even though many of the stores were closed and shuttered tightly, the homes and businesses that remained open were always decorated for the Christmas season. In December lamps glowed softly against evergreens wreathed around windows, and lace tablecloths and silver candlesticks graced tables. If the weather wasn’t too bitter, the Cariboo Glee Club would go carolling. There would be sleigh rides, with warm drinks, good food, and dancing afterward. Since so few people stayed in town, those that remained grew closer in friendship. There were many dinner parties, dances, and literary evenings to while away the long, dark winter nights.

Like us, the chief constable spent the winter in the gold fields, for crime is no respecter of seasons.

“What’s happened?” I asked. “Has Mr. Tremblay been arrested?”

“Unfortunately I did have to arrest him, Ted, though it doesn’t seem right. He’s an upstanding member of our community, and it’s a shame that he’ll be locked away. However, we’ll do our best to keep him comfortable. I had a new mattress brought to the jail, and my wife, a fine cook as you may know, will prepare his meals herself.”

“But if he killed Ah Mow–”

“If—and that remains to be seen—he did, it’s obvious it was self-defence, Ted. You know how those Celestials like to fight, though it’s usually among themselves.”

I frowned. “There was no weapon near Ah Mow’s body, no knife or gun lying beside him. I don’t believe he attacked Mr. Tremblay. How could it be self-defence?”

“The jury will decide that, Ted. Don’t worry your young head with those details. Perhaps we’ll learn more at the inquest.”

“The inquest? What’s that?”

“The coroner—Dr. Bell—has examined the body, and now he’ll tell a jury how Ah Mow died. Those who witnessed the murder, if anyone did, will say what they saw. The jury will decide if the death was accidental or not.”

“I see.”

“If the coroner’s jury finds that Ah Mow met his death at the hands of a person or persons unknown, then we must have a trial and Mr. Tremblay will be subjected to further indignities.”

“But if he killed Ah Mow—”

“It’s early days to be deciding that, Ted. First the inquest. Come along.”

“Me?”

“Of course you. That’s why I’m here. I came to ask your father if we could borrow you. Your testimony may be needed. You were there only moments after Ah Mow died.”

“I was,” I said, remembering fresh blood steaming in the cold. Suddenly I felt hot, and I moved toward the door, opening it and standing in the rush of fresh air that swept into the room.

“What are you thinking of, Ted?” The chief constable moved closer to the stove. “Shut that door, please. I’ve only recently escaped from the bitter cold and must soon return to it. Just as I’m beginning to thaw my frozen fingers, you fling the door wide and invite winter back in. What’s the matter with you?”

Slowly I closed the door, then turned to face him. “I saw nothing that many others didn’t also see. There’s no need for me to go to the inquest, is there?”

The chief constable laughed. “Many of the Chinese say they saw everything. But to get any sense out of those heathens—well, it will be as much as we can do to get a straight story. Besides, everyone knows Celestials would as soon lie as breathe.”

“That’s not true—” I began, but the chief constable didn’t let me finish.

“Put on your coat then, Ted, and let’s be off.” “Now? The inquest is now?”

“The jury is convened, the coroner is ready to begin. We’ve delayed the proceedings until your arrival, but everyone is waiting.”

I swallowed hard. “But I haven’t had lunch,” I said, even though I didn’t feel at all hungry.

“Lunch must wait on justice. Come along.”

Reluctantly I went.