The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany
heard so very much about the famous Inspector McNichol. He was too infatuated to correct her mistake over his name—probably didn’t even notice. I left them as she was promising to save him a special dance after the show.
I waited until the orchestra did their bit on the street, and the stage show got underway before slipping out.
“Fiona, my dearest. You look perfectly lovely this evening.” Graham Donohue fell into step beside me on the boardwalk. He hadn’t been around the Savoy much lately, and when he did drop in to hear if there had been any news about Angus, his demeanour towards me had changed. He was acting wary, skittish almost, like a halftrained dog afraid he’d misunderstood his master’s command and had made the wrong move. “I hear Angus is back from his misadventure. They’re saying Sterling’s going to be drummed out of the Mounties for it.” He seemed almost pleased at the scrap of news.
“Who’s saying, Graham?” I stopped and turned to face him, hands planted firmly on hips.
“Everyone.” He shrugged. “You know, people.”
“I don’t listen to idle gossip.”
“Since when? Admit it, Fiona. You live for idle gossip.” He laughed but stopped fast enough when he saw the look on my face. “Everyone is also saying that Angus is hale and hearty, although a bit sheepish.”
“In that respect, everyone is correct. What’s the matter with you, Graham? I thought you and Constable Sterling were friends.”
“Sure we are.”
“You don’t sound like a friend. You sound pleased to hear he might be coming into some misfortune.”
“Now why would you think that, Fiona, my darling? I’m simply repeating the news of the day. Like the good newspaperman I am.”
“In that case you’ll be glad to hear that I intend to ensure Constable Sterling is not reprimanded in any way over this incident. The whole thing was clearly Angus’s fault.”
Graham’s face fell. Too late, he tried to hide it by pasting on a smile.
We stepped aside to allow a pair of neatly dressed gentlemen to pass. They tipped their hats to me.
“We can’t stand here discussing this on the street.” I linked my arm through Graham’s, tossed him a flirtatious smile, and poked him lightly in the chest with my free hand. Time to drag Graham out of this strange mood that had descended upon him. “Constable Sterling is joining Angus and me for dinner. Come along. I’m sure Mrs. Mann has prepared more than enough to accommodate another hungry lad.”
“You’re having dinner with Sterling? And Angus?” He wretched free of my arm.
“Good heavens, Graham. What is the matter with you?”
“I’ve remembered an important appointment. Most critical. Pardon me, Fiona, another time perhaps. For dinner, I mean.” He almost ran, scarcely avoiding knocking the gentlemen off the boards.
I was quite fond of Graham. If I were looking to settle down with someone, which is indeed a substantial if, it had occurred to me that I could do a great deal worse than Graham Donohue. He was good-looking, not overbearingly large, intelligent, interested in everyone and everything. He had a good job and got on well, but not excessively well, with my son. And, most important of all, he simply adored me. Of course, most men do. But either they slobber all over me, like the customers at the bar, or want to rescue me from myself, like Sergeant Lancaster. Graham was happy to just be my friend.
I could think of only one reason he had turned against Richard Sterling, the policeman, and was behaving so very oddly.
Graham Donohue had killed Jack Ireland.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
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