Monday morning found Emily back in typewriting class, seated neatly in front of her machine and nearly frantic with worry. She’d heard nothing from Granville, nothing from O’Hearn, and between church and afternoon visiting yesterday, she’d not been able to get away from her family even long enough to make a telephone call.
All around her was the clacking of typewriter keys, and the low hum of voices as some of the students repeated the words to themselves as they typed. Emily raised her hands into position. She typed a word or two, then dropped them again.
It was no use.
She couldn’t concentrate.
“Miss Turner.”
Emily jumped, looked up to find Miss Richards standing over her. She hadn’t heard her teacher approach.
“You’re meant to be doing the fingering exercise. Is there some problem?”
“No. No, I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night, and am having difficulty concentrating.”
“I’m afraid that is no excuse,” Miss Richards said. “When you join the world of work, as your presence in this course says you are intent on doing, there will be no acceptable excuses for inattention to your work. The efficiency of an office will depend on you; you must be effective and alert at all times.”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” mumbled Emily. She could feel herself flushing.
For the next half hour she typed, “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog,” over and over again, forcing herself to focus. She could feel Miss Richards’s sharp glances, but she didn’t look up.
When it was finally time for the break, Laura came up behind her. “Emily, are you all right?” she said in a low voice. “Come outside, I must speak with you. And bring your coat. The wind has come up, and there’s snow in it.”
Quickly Emily fetched her thick wool jacket and followed Laura.
Once they were standing in the lea of the building with their backs to the sharp wind, Laura turned to face Emily.
A few heavily laden carts clattered by on the street behind her and one of the horses neighed a protest, but Laura ignored them. She looked worried, Emily thought, and braced herself.
“Emily, I overheard Liz Andrews, Julie Parker and Andy Riggs gossiping before class.”
“What did they say?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you, but—they said Mr. Granville has been shot.”
She couldn’t get her breath. “Shot! Are you sure?”
Laura nodded and pressed her arm. “Oh Emily. You haven’t heard anything?”
“No. How—how bad is it?”
“From what I could hear he is still alive, but that’s all I know. I’m so, so sorry.” She gripped Emily’s arm tighter.
“I must know more.”
“I’ll find out for you. They won’t talk to you.”
“They’ll have to talk to me, whether they like me or not.”
“It’s your father’s money they don’t like. They resent your being here, but they think I’m like them.” There was disdain in Laura’s voice. “I’ll—I’ll flirt with Andy. Get him to talk. He’s soft on me, anyway. It shouldn’t be hard.”
“You’re sure you want to do this? It may be dangerous.”
Laura gave her a sharp smile. “I’m sure.”
“Be careful,” Emily said as she watched her unexpected champion depart.
It was impossible to concentrate the rest of the morning.
Even Emily’s growing knowledge of shorthand had deserted her. Everything she took down was indecipherable when she went to type it back. She’d never been so glad of anything as when Miss Richards called the lunch break and she saw Laura signaling to meet her in the cloakroom.
“What did you learn?” Emily asked her.
“It sounds as if the injuries were minor.”
Unlike her sister Jane, Emily wasn’t a fainter, but she had to steady herself with a hand against the wall. She closed her eyes, breathed a silent prayer.
“But they say your fiancé has a map to a cursed gold mine, and that the map was stolen from a murdered man,” Laura said.
Who had been murdered, and when? “Did they mention a Mr. Gipson?”
“They didn’t mention any names. Why?”
“Never mind,” Emily said. “Go on.”
“They say Mr. Granville can’t escape the curse.”
“What curse?”
“Apparently all who touch the map die a horrible death by unseen hands,” Laura said in a shaky voice.
“Meaning they’ll be attacked at night,” Emily said. “Those who go around talking about people dying from curses usually attack after dark.”
“But—don’t you believe in curses?”
Emily shook her head. “No, and I don’t believe in hauntings, either. But thank you for telling me, Laura. Can you make my excuses to Miss Richards? Say I’m feeling unwell and have gone home.”
“You’ve been so distracted she’ll believe that easily,” Laura said. “Yes, of course I’ll tell her.”
“Thank you,” Emily said absently reaching for her coat.
At least it was a minor injury Granville had suffered. She’d force herself to believe he would be fine, but she hated the helplessness she was feeling.
What she really wanted was to get a horse and ride into the mountains to save him, though she had to smile at the image. She enjoyed riding through a snowfall in Stanley Park, but she didn’t have the knowledge or the skills to survive in the snow-covered mountains beyond town.
Shaking her head at her own foolishness, Emily resolved to do the only thing she could; to see what she could find out about the map and the conspiracy against Granville. It might be reckless, but at least she’d be doing something.
And once he was safely back, perhaps that information would help him. And he would be back safely. She refused to consider any other possibility.
Bundling into her coat and bonnet, she hurried down the narrow back stairs to avoid Miss Richards. Pushing through the heavy door, she paused for a moment, irresolute, then pulled her coat closer against the sharp wind and turned away from her route home.
The livery stable was quieter than the last time Emily had been here. A few horses nickered back and forth. From somewhere came the steady thump of shod hooves kicking a stall.
“Quiet, there,” a voice yelled, and the noise stopped.
Bits of hay drifted through the air, and the midday sun glittered off cobwebs thickly draped between the high rafters. Emily brushed at the back of her neck. She hated the very thought of spiders.
Catching Mr. Riggs’ eye on her, she hurriedly dropped her hand.
“Don’t know why you’re here again, Missy. I can’t help you,” he was saying with a heavy frown. Small brown eyes darted from Emily to Clara and back.
“Oh, I know,” said Emily, with a confidence she didn’t feel. She was glad she’d stopped to collect Clara—even with her company, this felt risky. “However since your son has been somewhat indiscreet about the plot against my fiancé, I thought you might like to clarify a few details.”
The man’s scowl deepened. “Young idiot don’t know what he’s talking about. You’d best go, the both of you. A livery stable is no place for a lady.”
And he turned his back on them, busying himself with a stack of papers that looked ready to topple onto the scarred wooden table. “He’ll regret he ever heard of that map, though,” he added under his breath.
Emily shivered at the venom in the man’s voice. Suddenly she wanted to be as far away from the livery stable as possible. “Thank you for your time. Come along, Clara.”
“Well, that was useful,” Clara said when they were safely outside. “Can we go shopping now?”
“I know it was a waste of time,” Emily said. “But he might have been startled into telling us something. Anything I can learn about the conspiracy might help Granville.”
Clara patted her arm. “So what do we do next?”
She must have sounded more desperate than she’d realized. “Thank you, Clara.” Snapping open her watchcase, she glanced at the time. “We still have more than an hour before dinner. Time enough to visit Mr. Gipson.”
“Since he’s a released felon, I’m sure no one will think anything of our going to see him,” said Clara in her sweetest tone.
“He’s pretending to be just a businessman. It won’t be too bad.”
And indeed it wasn’t.
Mr. Gipson’s offices were in a much pleasanter part of town than the livery stable, and bore no resemblance to what Emily would have expected of a criminal. The dark oak paneling topped with soberly striped wallpaper and heavy furniture reminded her of her father’s office. They were received by a very polite clerk, and asked to wait until Mr. Gipson could see them.
Impatient, Emily distracted herself by watching the clerk’s fingers fly over his typewriting machine. He seemed to be having no difficulties with keys sticking together or having his fingers stuck between the keys. And he had to be typing more than sixty words per minute.
Before she could ask him how long he had been a typewriter, which would probably have thoroughly embarrassed Clara, a slim, silver-haired gentleman dressed in impeccable black appeared at the door.
“Please come in, ladies,” he said.
This was the fraud who was Granville’s mortal enemy? Emily looked past the sartorial splendor to take in the narrowing of his eyes as he assessed them. Did he know who she was?
Something about the way he watched her said he did.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Gipson,” she said as she and Clara preceded him into his office.
Here the resemblance to her father’s substantial office was even stronger. Everything from the heavy wood furniture down to the thick carpets spoke of a successful man.
He knew it too, Emily thought, seating herself and watching as he gracefully rounded his desk and sank back in his large leather chair.
He brought his hands together, index fingers tapping against his chin. “Now, how may I be of service?”
“Mr. Riggs suggested we should talk with you,” she said.
“Indeed? Now why would he make such a suggestion, I wonder?”
Had he looked just a little startled? Perhaps she could shake him further. “You are in business together, are you not?”
“In a manner of speaking. But how may I help you?”
He’d recovered himself far too quickly. Emily decided to play the role of a rather naïve young lady. “I’m engaged to Mr. Granville,” she said, and managed to blush. “Do you know him?”
“I had the pleasure of meeting him in the Klondike, where we both spent some time.”
Pleasure indeed. Granville had told her some of what this man had done, including that he’d tried on at least one occasion to kill him, and would have succeeded if not for Mr. Scott.
“Mr. Granville is out of town at the moment, on business, you know, but before he left he told me a little bit about the mine with the curse on it. Mr. Riggs is the father of a friend of mine, and he said you might be able to tell me more about the mine? I think it so romantic the mine was discovered by a lady, and that she died before seeing a penny from it.”
Pausing for breath, Emily noted out of the corner of her eye that Clara was staring at her in fascination. She hoped her friend wouldn’t give her away.
Mr. Gipson also stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Bravo. A very inventive story, and one that almost convinces me your Mr. Granville is looking for something he’s not. But I’m afraid it really won’t work.
You see, I know Granville to be searching for a mine discovered by a murderous Indian who was hanged in New Westminster some ten years ago. Hardly a romantic story, and not something a young lady should be bothering her head with. Surely you have a trousseau to prepare?”
Emily gave him her company smile, the one that showed no teeth and didn’t reach her eyes. She ignored the question, which Gipson hadn’t meant anyway. “You’re quite mistaken.”
“Oh, I think not.”
“Then you can tell me nothing of this mine?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Nor the conspiracy against my fiancé’s life?” Emily focused on Gipson’s face, ignoring Clara’s little gasp, but the man’s expression didn’t even flicker at her words.
“Again, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“I see. Then thank you for your time.”
“I’m always happy to assist so attractive a young lady,” he said with a little bow.
Snake!
“Goodbye, Mr. Gipson,” she said in a tone even her mother could not have found fault with as she turned to the door.
At least she’d learned that Mr. Gipson knew where Granville had gone. And O’Hearn had been right about Slumach’s lost mine.
But who was really behind the ambush on Granville’s party?
“Do you think Mr. O’Hearn would be interested in going to New Westminster to find out more about that mine?” she asked Clara as the walked back towards the streetcar stop.
“Not unless he can publish a story on it. Emily, are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“Not at all,” she said.
A large puddle in the middle of the sidewalk forced them onto the muddy road for a short stretch. Emily waited for a carriage and two carts to pass, then took Clara’s arm. “Watch your step,” she said, steering Clara around a steaming pile of manure at the edge of the street.
It was a good thing she’d never told Clara the full story of the enmity between Granville and Gipson. “Besides, I’m not worth Mr. Gipson’s trouble. I clearly know nothing at all.”
Clara sputtered for a moment, then glared at Emily. “You have lost your senses. And I thought Mr. Granville wanted to keep the mine a secret?”
Emily smoothed her gloves and adjusted the angle of her bonnet. “He does, though it hardly seems to be much of a secret, does it? But I don’t see why Mr. O’Hearn would have to report on it now.”
“Because his editor is concerned that he isn’t filing enough stories, and he may be in danger of being fired. He can’t afford the time away from his real work.”
“Even though he broke the story behind the murder of Mr. Jackson last month?”
“Especially because of that. The other reporters are watching him more closely than ever, and he is under pressure to produce another story of that caliber. Do you think this could be it?”
“Until I talk with Mr. Granville, I don’t know what to think. But how do you know all this?”
Clara flushed lightly. “Tim—Mr. O’Hearn has telephoned me once or twice. When he knew I’d be free to talk to him.”
Emily smiled. “I see.”
“So what do we do now?” Clara asked quickly.
“Bertie’s cousin leaves tonight. I’ll be sending a message to Mr. Granville about the ambush and about Mr. Riggs and Mr. Gipson. I only hope he gets it in time.”
Clara nodded. She knew all about Bertie’s cousin and his macabre errand.
“I’ll need you to help me keep gathering information for him. I just hope it will be useful.” And that Granville would still be alive to hear it.
She couldn’t bring herself to voice her fear that he might even now be dead or grievously injured.
Granville watched as the Katzie shaman probed the wound in Scott’s shoulder with quick strokes of a long, narrow blade. Within moments, he had the bullet out.
The man seemed to know what he was about, but when he began to pack Scott’s wound with long grayish green strands of lichen, Granville stiffened, ready to protest.
Trent, still too pale, put out a hand and touched Granville’s shoulder. “They all use that here—says it helps the healing. Works, too.”
Granville gave the wiry strands a skeptical look. “You’re sure of that?”
“Uh huh. You don’t want to risk rot, do you?”
No. He’d seen what gangrene looked and smelled like as it ate away at a frostbitten foot, then began to devour healthy flesh. Granville shuddered. Scott wouldn’t last a week.
Medicine in this remote part of the world seemed nearly as advanced as in London, but there was no effective way to combat gangrene once it took hold. If the dry grayish threads were an effective deterrent, then he didn’t care what they looked like.
The rich smell of something cooking had Granville’s stomach rumbling. He sniffed the air appreciatively. It had been far too long since any of them had eaten. “What smells so good?”
Trent smiled. “Salmon chowder.”
“At this time of year?”
“Dried salmon. And it’ll taste nearly as good as it smells, as long as you don’t ask what else is in it. But don’t you think you’d best get your arm seen to, before you think about food?”
“My arm?” Just how hard was the blow to the head the boy had received, anyway?
Trent pointed, and Granville looked down. The stain of dark blood on his jacket surprised him. “It must be Scott’s,” he said.
“I don’t think so. It’s spreading.”
Granville looked back at his arm. Sure enough, the edges of the bloodstain had widened slightly. As he watched, they widened again.
“Well, damn,” he said, suddenly aware of a throbbing pain, sharper than the bruising from the avalanche…