The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany
and thick slices of yesterday’s currant cake ready for him.
“They think Ray did it,” Angus repeated around a mouthful of milk and cake.
“Nonsense,” I said. “You imagined it.” No matter what his age, I had never assumed that Angus imagined anything. His eye for detail and his interest in everything surrounding him were phenomenal. On the rare occasions that I’d engaged in conversation with other mothers, I had been surprised at how they dismissed their sons’ words as fantasy or imagination. I prided myself on being able to tell when my child was playing and when he was being serious.
But tonight, I didn’t want to hear it. I would not accept that Ray might be a suspect. “At the beginning of an investigation, the police suspect everyone in the vicinity,” I said. “And they narrow their suspects down from there. That’s all, Angus.”
“No, Ma. Mother. Really. They almost accused Ray right there. That Inspector McKnight is sharp. But not as sharp as Constable Sterling. He noticed that Ireland’s feet weren’t fully into what they call rigor mortis yet.”
Mr. Mann gasped. “Young man, ladies is here.”
“Sorry, sir. Sorry, Mrs. Mann. But they can tell how long a man’s been dead by how stiff the body is. It’s really interesting. Like if…”
I scarcely heard him. I remembered the red rage on Ray’s face as he put the boot into Ireland’s undefended body, Irene’s sobs, and Ireland’s bruised and ugly face as we tossed him into the street.
Was it hard to believe that Ireland had come back to the Savoy looking for Ray or maybe Irene? He was new in town; he might not have realized just how completely Dawson shuts down on a Sunday.
Even if Ireland had returned to the Savoy, not knowing that no one would be there, well, no one would be there. Ray had no reason to stop by on a Sunday. Of course, neither did I.
But if anything had happened between Ireland and Ray after we’d closed and everyone had headed off into what passes as night in the Yukon in June, I would swear on my son’s golden head that Ray Walker wouldn’t leave Jack Ireland’s dead body displayed on the stage of the Savoy for the next person passing to discover then go off home to enjoy his Sunday lunch.
“Time for bed.” Mr. Mann downed the last of his milk. “Come, Helga. This is not for decent woman.” He glared at me as if the murder were all my fault. “Very bad business. Fancy women, drink, gambling. Nothing but more bad.”
His righteous indignation was somewhat spoiled by the eagerness with which he’d wanted to hear every detail.
He turned to Angus. “Work tomorrow. Seven.”
“Huh?” Angus said. The day before, Mr. Mann and I had decided it was time Angus started work. We’d both noticed my son slip in to the house, keeping his face in the shadows, hoping we wouldn’t see that the soft, pale skin under his left eye was turning purple and the eye was swelling shut.
“Boy is with fight,” Mr. Mann had said to me after Angus left the kitchen with a handful of biscuits. “He too soft, needs vork. Vork keep him away from trouble. On Monday he start vorks in store, I give normal pays.” Mr. Mann owned a hardware shop down by the river, where he conducted a roaring trade, buying up nails and hammers, screwdrivers, and just about anything else from men who’d taken one look at the town and we33re now desperate to sell everything they had and flee back to civilization. Whereupon he sold the goods to others, equally desperate to get to the gold fields or to set themselves up in town, but who’d neglected to bring the necessary hardware.
“Tomorrow you start in store.” Mr. Mann pushed his chair back from the table.
“Start what?” Angus said.
“Vork.”
“Work?”
“Vork.”
“Mr. Mann and I have agreed that it would be good for you to spend some time over the summer helping him at the store.”
“Working?”
“Yes, working.”
“At the hardware store?”
“Don’t repeat everything I say, Angus.”
“But, Mother.”
“No buts. It’s been an exceedingly long day.”
“Good night, Mrs. MacGillivray, Angus.” The Manns >went off to bed.
“Ah, Ma. Mother. Do I have to?”
I poured more water into the teapot, mindful of getting the last bit of flavour out of the black leaves. “Yes, you do.” The mixture looked weak, so I swirled the tea ball around in the hot water. “How did Ray seem, when you called on him to come to the Savoy?” Despite myself, I wanted to know if Ray had been surprised at the discovery of Ireland’s body.
Angus shifted in his chair. His face flushed and he looked into the bottom of his mug.
“Angus? I asked you how Ray reacted.” I put the teapot down.
“Fine, Mother. He reacted fine.” Angus’s face was as red as my late, lamented, best dress.
“Fine. What do you mean, fine? Fine can mean anything. Over the winter we all said the weather was fine if it hadn’t reached minus fifty yet. Mrs. Jones is fine, considering that an earthquake swallowed her house whole. Mr. Smith is fine…”
“What earthquake?” Angus asked.
I took a deep breath. “This murder is a bad thing, Angus. It can hurt all of us at the Savoy. If the Savoy closes down, for any reason, I’ll have trouble making ends meet. I spent everything we owned getting to the Yukon. Do you understand?”
“Ray didn’t kill Mr. Ireland. He was so surprised when I told him that he…uh, he…”
“He what?”
“Left without tying his shoelaces.”
Suddenly, I was simply dreadfully tired. “Let’s go to bed. You have your first day of work tomorrow, and I can only imagine what the Savoy will be like once word gets around about the murder. Every curiosity seeker between here and Seattle, if not San Francisco, will be wanting to take a look at the scene of the crime.”
“Goodnight, Mother.” Angus touched his lips to my cheek.
“Goodnight, dear.”
My son’s wild enthusiasm about the wonders of the police investigation and all the scientific mysteries involving a dead human body had dried up the moment I’d asked about Ray’s behaviour. A dull feeling in the pit of my stomach told me I wasn’t the only one worrying about Ray Walker. If I trusted my son’s sharp perception about people up until now, could I disregard it when his conclusions made me uncomfortable?
I looked into the tin cup holding the dregs of my tea. Once, during the exceedingly short time in which I’d been a member of the Prince of Wales’ inner circle, I’d attended a reading of a gypsy fortune teller who was momentarily the passion of fashionable London. She had, with much clanging of gold bangles, rustling of taffeta and heavy sighs, read my past and foretold the mysteries of my future through the arrangement of Earl Grey leaves in the bottom of a Royal Doulton teacup. If she had divined that I had been abandoned as a newborn in the wilds of Equatorial Africa and raised by a pack of particularly intelligent and loving gorillas, she wouldn’t have been much further off the mark than she was. Perhaps the Earl Grey had put her off. Most of the other ladies, I’d noticed, were read through English Breakfast.
Now, as then, the tea leaves revealed no secrets. I trusted battered tin no more than Royal Doulton. But I trusted my son.
I went to bed with a heavy heart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I scarcely slept a wink, what with dreams of soggy tea leaves, the portly Prince of Wales, Ray Walker in the grip of blood