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DETECTIVE JACK WINSTON arrived at the station as a ray of early morning sunlight filtered through clouds, illuminating the station door. A sign of hope he might still find the headline’s missing man alive? Winston shook his head at the notion.
The letters Mrs. Huntington had given him rested atop Winston’s desk. He read through them. Nothing helpful stood out, though perhaps Miller would notice something. Winston set them aside for the constable to copy and repackage for Mrs. Huntington.
Winston spread the contents of Huntington’s file across his desk, scanning the papers for details he’d missed. Finding nothing, he sat to read each page carefully. Next, he organized the pages, starting with the interviews with people who had seen Huntington in his final days.
Two hours had passed without any insights, when Constable Miller interrupted him.
“Sir?” Winston looked up to meet Miller’s gleaming face, fresh from the razor. Miller was one of the few clean-shaven men in the constabulary; perhaps he was too young to grow more than patches of whiskers. Was it uncertainty or nervousness that had his blue eyes darting around the room? “We’ve had a report of another missing man, sir.” The constable paused, waiting for Winston’s response. He must coach him on asserting himself. “Mr. Edmund Chase. He works at the railway. His wife expected him home after visiting the Vancouver Gentlemen’s Club.” Miller shifted his weight and rubbed the side of his right hand. “It sounds like he’s well off, like Huntington.”
“Constable, a person’s status doesn’t determine whether we investigate something. We investigate crime, no matter the class of victim or criminal.”
Miller shoulders slumped. “Apologies, sir. It’s just ... it seemed relevant. We do not see as many gentlemen go missing.”
Winston collected his belongings. The constable was right. “An astute observation, Miller. Let’s not close our eyes to status as an important factor in this case.” He pointed to Miller’s hand. “What happened?”
Miller dropped his hands and moved them behind his back. “I was playing a new sport yesterday at the gymnasium. Basketball.” He mimed the action of launching a ball at a basket. “It’s quite fun, but I fell and landed badly. I’m sure it’s just a bruise. Won’t affect my work, sir.”
“Of course it won’t.” Winston had heard of the sport, but he’d had no leisure time for such pursuits.
THE GREYING SKY ENHANCED the colours of the garden blooming outside the home of Edmund Chase. The man lived only a few streets from the Huntington home. This area of the city, the West End, was home to its wealthiest residents. Was that still the case in Riley’s day? Detective Jack Winston pushed the question aside to focus on the more pressing question of the missing man.
“Miller, we might have some luck speaking with the family’s maid. She may have useful insights about the family that are unlikely to be shared by Mrs. Chase.”
Miller cocked his head. “You think the maid will share them with me?”
“Take it slowly. Let her warm to answering your questions,” Winston said.
Miller repeated Winston’s advice under his breath as they approached the door. The ashen-faced young woman who answered Winston’s knock showed the two men to a sitting room. “The mistress will join you in a moment,” she said, hesitating by the doorway. Winston opened his mouth to suggest she prepare tea just as Miller stepped forward and made the same suggestion. She blinked her thanks at Miller and turned toward the kitchen.
Winston nodded at Miller’s thoughtfulness. She might find answering questions easier while doing something, and it looked like he may not need as much guidance as Winston had thought. The constable’s ears reddened slightly as he followed the maid out of the room.
Before long, a woman of about twenty-five years, dressed in a striking but respectable grey dress, appeared in the doorway. The dress’s colour highlighted her dark eyes. “Mrs. Chase, I am Detective Jack Winston, with the Vancouver Constabulary. My constable, Thomas Miller, has offered to assist your maid with preparing tea.”
The woman offered her hand. “Louella Chase.”
He clasped her fingers, surprised at how firmly she held his.
“Having a warm cup to hold will help.” She spoke with calm and control, as if reading him a list of kitchen goods. “Mary is an excellent maid, but a bit of a nervous girl.” Mrs. Chase pointed to the chairs, and Winston waited until she’d settled into a seat opposite before he sat. “I worry for my husband. He returns home every evening.”
“Where was he going when you saw him last?”
“When he left for work yesterday, he told me he intended to pass the evening with his friends at the Vancouver Gentlemen’s Club. He typically returns from there just after midnight, well after I have retired for the evening. When I woke today and discovered he had failed to return home, I sent Mary to check with Edmund’s good friend, Mr. Stanley Rupert, to see whether they had left together. Rupert reported that he’d seen Edmund leave and assumed he had returned here.”
“What does your husband do, Mrs. Chase?”
“Edmund works for the railway. We moved here from Toronto, though his family would have preferred he remained there.”
Winston recalled his family’s disappointment with his own move west. His hands grew clammy. He removed his notebook from his pocket to avoid the urge to wipe them on his trousers and returned his focus to Mrs. Chase. “Such a move and separation from family can be difficult. Are you certain your husband is settling in comfortably? Did he feel conflicted about leaving his family?”
Mrs. Chase’s gaze grew stern, and she drew a breath in sharply. “I am his family.”
Winston held up his hand. “I mean no offence, Mrs. Chase. Understanding your husband, his state of mind, this will help me in my search for him.” He lowered his voice, willing her to soften her features. “Did his family have other intentions for him?”
She set her jaw. “They had hoped he might marry someone else. I was not their choice for him.”
Winston edged forward. “I appreciate how delicate this is. Thank you for your candour.”
She unclenched her hands as the maid entered with a pot of tea. “Shall I pour you some, Detective Winston?”
He accepted her offer, leaning closer to smell the fragrant aroma wafting from the cups set on the low table between them. “And you and your husband, are you happy here?”
Mrs. Chase leaned back against the chair. “We are still settling in, but so far have rather enjoyed living in this city.”
“It certainly has much to offer, Mrs. Chase.” He cast his gaze toward the window. Lofty mountains to the north dominated the view. “What else can you tell me of your husband’s habits? Apart from the club, does he have any places he frequents? Is he a regular gambler?”
She cast a pained look toward the window. “He works. He visits the club. He gambles there occasionally. There are better things to spend money on.” She switched her gaze back to Winston and lowered her voice. “I’m not entirely sure he’s happy at the railway. You know how it can be.”
He pressed his toes into the floor. She could not possibly know his connection to the railway. “What do you mean?”
“My husband has spoken of needing inspiration.” As she cocked her head, she looked past Winston as if searching for her next words. “I expect detective work is constantly engaging. I am not sure Edmund would describe his work that way.” Her focus returned to the room. “He feels loyalty to Stanley Rupert, of course. For helping with his position, I mean.”
“Is that loyalty preventing him from pursuing another, more engaging vocation?”
“His feelings aren’t enough to cause him to flee, if that’s your real question. I think he would prefer to work for himself, but he lacks the capital to start his own venture.”
“What venture is that?”
“He is still figuring out details, Detective, but he has always had an interest in clothing.”
“How so, Mrs. Chase?” A memory tugged at Winston.
“He takes care with his own clothing, of course. But he asks me about mine, too—what I like most or least about a dress and why. I’m not sure I’ve ever discussed clothing in such detail with another woman, let alone a man.” She pressed a finger to the corner of her eye. “We talk about many things. Some as grand as our dreams for the future, and others as mundane as our clothing choices.”
Winston continued asking questions, confirming that the morning of the previous day was the last time she’d seen her husband and that they hadn’t met again during the day. She denied any memory of recent unusual events. He stood to leave. “Is there anything further you think may be relevant?”
Mrs. Chase shook her head, eyes glistening.
“I appreciate your honesty. Too often people hide information that turns out to be important. You’ve helped me avoid wasting time.” Winston surprised himself with his own frankness.
With careful steps, Mrs. Chase walked Winston to the door, promising to contact him should she think of anything further. Miller waited at the bottom of the porch steps.
“Did you learn anything, Thomas?”
“Yes, I think so.” He patted his breast pocket and pulled out a small notepad. “The maid, Mary, described Mr. and Mrs. Chase as kind.” Miller moved a finger down his notes as he read. “Mrs. Chase has been giving Mary lessons, teaching her to read and write.”
Winston nodded. “What else? Anything about Mr. Chase?”
“Chase seemed to care for his wife. Mary saw them embracing—more than once, by the sounds of it—and she has never heard them raise their voices.” He tapped his finger on the page. “They appear to enjoy each other’s company.”
“Good. Did she mention seeing or hearing anything unusual?”
“She said Mr. Chase had received a letter two days ago and seemed flustered after reading it. But she didn’t think it related to his disappearance.”
“And why is that?”
“She didn’t read the letter, but she recognized a name on the top.”
“The reading lessons are paying off,” Winston observed.
“It was from the railway.”
“It sounds like you’ve handled it well, interviewing Mary. We will look out for the letter among his correspondence.” Miller’s ears reddened again. Winston looked over his shoulder to the house. “I have two additional questions for Mrs. Chase.”
Louella Chase opened the door before the policemen had reached the top step. “Have you forgotten something?”
“What is your financial situation, Mrs. Chase? Are you aware of any debts, either to the bank or another funding source?” He held his small notebook, ready for her answer.
“No, none I know of.” She moved her arm in a wide arc. “Though as you can see, we are comfortable.”
Winston made a note. “Does your husband have an address or appointment book?”
“But he’ll need it when he returns.” A shadow crossed her face. “If he returns.”
“I will only borrow it for a short while.”
She pursed her lips. “I shall fetch it for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Chase. After this, we will let you continue with your day.”
After a few minutes, she returned with two bundles and handed them to the constable. “I’ve included his latest correspondence. I’m not sure if it will help,” she said.
Winston and Miller took their leave, walking toward the station.
“Nothing like Huntington, is it, sir?”
“Why do you say that, Miller? They are similar in age and work professional jobs. One lived with his mother and the other with his wife, but that is hardly a material difference.”
Miller stopped and lowered his head. “It’s just that Huntington had a secret romance, and the Chases are openly fond of one another.” The constable’s shoulders slumped.
Winston stroked his moustache. He mustn’t be too quick to discourage the younger man’s ideas. “Interesting observation, Constable. Maybe we haven’t uncovered Chase’s secret ... yet.” He motioned for Miller to continue walking.
The darkened sky promised showers. Once they reached busy Robson Street, the policemen caught the streetcar to drop them close to the station. Rain pattered against the windows as soon as they boarded. Winston sank deep into his thoughts, pulled by the rhythmic thumping of the tracks. He puzzled over the known details of Chase’s disappearance. Could his be connected to Huntington’s, as Miller suggested? The constable sat wedged beside him, his shoulder pressed against the window. “Miller, what other similarities do you see between Chase and Huntington?”
Miller blinked at Winston’s question. “As you said, sir, they are similar in age. Might they know each other? Both are members at the Gentlemen’s Club.”
“True. Though, at this point, they don’t seem to share any other interests.” Winston handed Miller the bundles Mrs. Chase had given him. “Why don’t we see if these contain any clues. I would like to hear more of your observations.”
Miller cradled the package in his lap. Winston noted the hint of pride teasing his lips.