Читать книгу The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Vicki Delany - Страница 41

As I walked home to get ready for my dinner guest, I carried on an angry inner debate. Had it been an outer debate, I might have come to blows with myself.

I have to tell Richard what I know about Graham.

Graham’s my friend. I can’t betray my friend.

It’s my duty to inform the police.

Let the police figure it out for themselves. That’s what they’re paid for.

But they don’t know Graham as I do. They might not see the signs of guilt written all over his face.

Justice isn’t achieved through facial expressions. But through evidence. Facts.

My duty.

My friend.

Jack Ireland. Does anyone really care who killed him? Do I?

No.

In the end I decided to keep quiet and see how things panned out. If the police accused someone else, I would report (betray?) Graham. Otherwise, I would stay well enough out of it.

By the time I’d made my decision, I was in no mood to entertain. But habit took over, and I slipped on a gown that was too modest for the Savoy and too delicate for walking on the duckboards through town. So unsuitable was it for any occasion in Dawson, I hadn’t worn it since leaving Vancouver. It was muslin, tiny white flowers dotting fabric of the palest blue, the colour of a Scottish sky on an early spring day, which is probably what attracted me to such an impractical garment in the first place. I brushed my hair, gathered it loosely back with a thick white ribbon and added the slightest touch of rouge to my cheeks. I chewed my lips to bring up the colour and looked at myself in the cracked mirror above the bed. I winked at my reflection as someone knocked on the door to my bedroom. “Come in.”

Angus stared at me. “Yes?”

“You look beautiful, Mother. Like a picture in a book.”

I touched his cheek.

“I’m glad you’re back, Angus.

Don’t ever frighten me again, do you hear?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Will Constable Sterling get into trouble?” My son’s face crunched up in concern, and he looked not a day more than his twelve years. He’d dressed in a clean shirt, washed his face and hands and plastered his hair to his scalp with water. As it dried, the hair was already springing up into wild tufts.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t. Now, what do you suppose Mrs. Mann has prepared for us? It smells wonderful.”

Sterling arrived precisely on the dot of nine o’clock. Mr. Mann offered him a glass of whisky (lemonade for Angus and me). While Mrs. Mann bustled over the stove, we sat around the kitchen table, there not being anything in the way of a front room, and my private sitting room much too small to accommodate us all. The German immigrant and the Saskatchewan farm boy exchanged general chatter about how fast the town was growing, and Mr. Mann asked what the government was doing to keep the Territory in Canadian hands. Mrs. Mann laid only three places at the table, and although I insisted they join us for the meal, she pushed and prodded her husband out of the kitchen as if she were forcing a suspicious pig to market.

She served the soup, in mismatched bowls, instructed me as to how to present the roast and potatoes, pointed proudly to the freshly baked fruit pie cooling on the counter and scurried off to join her husband in their room.

The knowing look she gave me as she disappeared, full of old-world wisdom and new-world bravado, had me blushing like a schoolgirl. She’d gone to so much trouble, not because I paid her to do so, but because she thought Richard and I were courting.

“Are you all right, Mother?” Angus asked. “Your cheeks are all red.” I would have to have a serious talk with the boy about the inadvisability of drawing attention to another’s awkward moments.

“Wonderful soup,” Sterling said, digging in with enthusiasm.

“What happened, sir?” Angus asked. At least he’d waited until the Manns left the room. “You’re still in uniform.”

“And not locked up either.” Sterling tore a generous hunk off the loaf of dense brown bread and spread on liberal quantities of butter. “Haven’t had butter in a while. I told the Inspector it was all a misunderstanding, and no harm was done.”

“He accepted that?” I asked. The soup was potato and cabbage. Common enough, but with a dab of butter and a splash of milk—fresh milk—added to raise it above the ordinary.

“He said he’d been a lad once, dreaming of joining the NWMP.” Sterling looked at Angus, soup spoon hanging in the air, halfway to his mouth. “He also said he’ll allow a boy one indiscretion. But not more than one.”

I collected the empty soup bowls and served the roast, potatoes and vegetables, feeling quite domesticated as I did so. A proper wee Canadian housewife. But, like Marie Antoinette playing milkmaid at Le Petit Trianon, it was only a game.

Sterling and Angus told me about their expedition to the Creeks, and I was glad that I’d never have to go there— Dawson was dirty enough for me, thank you very much. But I was pleased to hear once again that Ray’s friend from Scotland had confirmed his account of their activities on Sunday. Angus asked about the murder investigation, and Richard said it didn’t seem to be going anywhere, but Angus was not to repeat that to anyone.

To my horror, there weren’t enough clean dishes on which to serve the pie. We’d used the small plates for the bread. I surreptitiously wiped smeared butter and scattered breadcrumbs off the plates, attempting to hide my sloppy housekeeping behind my body. I need not have bothered. They wouldn’t have noticed if I’d brought in a bucket of sand and scoured the crockery in the middle of the table.

Conversation turned, as it usually did, to people we all knew. Sterling told us that the man who dressed as if in his dreams he wanted to be an Indian fighter, really had been an Indian fighter. But not what most of us thought of in those terms. He had been captured by Indians as a child, raised by them, and remained fiercely loyal to his adoptive family to the point of fighting alongside them against the American Army.

“Wow!” Angus said. His eyes lit up, and I suspected that the Indian Fighter would be facing a long day of storytelling some time soon.

“The excitement over Sam and the saving of the Vanderhaege sister soon died down,” I said, slicing thick slabs of apple pie. The scent of cinnamon rose into the air with every movement of my knife, and I breathed it in, content in my peaceful domestic setting. Apples in the Yukon in June! Truly a miracle. There wouldn’t be much, if anything, left from the money I’d given Mrs. Mann to shop for the dinner.

“Usually does,” Sterling said. “Soon as it’s replaced by something else. Good pie, this.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Collins have been all over the United States,” Angus said. “Did you know that Mr. Collins worked on a cattle ranch in Montana?”

Sterling turned to accept a dented tin mug from my hand. Our fingers met, and he jerked his hand back as if it had touched the hot stove instead. I placed the cup in front of him, feeling the heat rise into my face. The Mountie looked up at me through long, thick black lashes.

Angus chattered away. “I’d like to be a real cowboy. Don’t you think that’d be exciting? They’ve lived all over the United States. They’re from Virginia, but they travelled to Louisiana after they got married. Sam couldn’t get work there. He told me that black men took all the work, ’cause they didn’t get paid as much as a white man. Doesn’t seem fair, to anyone, does it, sir? He fell off a horse and hurt his back so he couldn’t ride any more, then they went to California.”

“Thank you for the lovely dinner, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

“Fiona, please.”

“Fiona.”

“I asked him why they didn’t go back to Virginia, where they had family, and Mr. Collins said that the war was on, and he didn’t want to have to take sides.”

“You must thank Mrs. Mann for the meal. Not me.”

“I will.”

“That would be hard, wouldn’t it? To be forced to take sides.”

“More tea?”

“No, thank you, Fiona. I’d better be going.”

“If you have to.”

“I do.”

He got to his feet, and I took his hat and coat down from the hook. We walked to the front door, where he stood clutching his hat in his big hands. “Thank you for a lovely evening. May I say you look particularly beautiful tonight. That’s a delightful dress.”

“Thank you.”

“Good night. Fiona.”

“Good night, Constable.”

“Richard, please.”

“Richard. Good night.”

I stood in the doorway and watched him walk up the path. He reached the road and turned to smile back at me, a shy embarrassed little smile. Then he continued down the street.

“Do you know Constable Sterling lived in Saskatchewan when he was a child?” Angus said when I returned to the kitchen. He helped himself to another generous serving of apple pie. “Saskatchewan has got to be the most boring place there is. Remember when we crossed the prairie on the train? Nothing but mile after mile of grass. I bet he was glad to get away and join the Mounties.”

“Good night, Angus. If you finish that pie, pour water into the dish so it’ll be easier for Mrs. Mann to clean tomorrow.” I’d told Ray I was going to take the entire night off, so I drifted off to my room, where I slept the whole night through without even a dream.