As he passed through the throng packing the room from the bar to the doors, Richard Sterling thought back on the events of the morning. Martha Witherspoon, almost collapsing in shock, had been hustled out. Mouse O’Brien, swearing a blue streak, had walked out of the Savoy under his own power, heading for the hospital. Ray Walker had left with Irene Davidson, who was conscientiously avoiding Sterling’s eyes.
Fiona MacGillivray, unable to walk on the torn feet that had carried her this far, had been carried out by two extremely pleased young Mounties, supervised by Sergeant Lancaster.
The men from the funeral parlour had hoisted Maggie Brandon’s body onto their stretcher and carried it away, one of them complaining all the while that he’d scarcely had an hour’s sleep before being dragged out of bed.
“You did a good job there, Mr. Sterling,” a man said as the mass of people dispersed from the saloon of the Savoy.
“No sir, I didn’t. I failed. The woman died.”
“She chose to die, and so hers was the only death here today. It could have been a bloodbath.”
“Yes, sir.” Sterling rubbed his eyes. God, he was tired.
“You kept your head, and therefore Mr. O’Brien, young
Angus MacGillivray, and Miss Witherspoon lived. I like to
see a man keep his head in a crisis. Look after what needs
to be done here. I want to see you in my office at three this
afternoon, Constable Sterling.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will be reassigning you. Your first assignment will be
to find out where Brandon got that firearm and to make sure that the conduit of such weapons is plugged. Permanently. We won’t abide that sort of thing in this town.”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”
Inspector Starnes went to confer with McKnight.
My feet healed quickly, although I wouldn’t be going back over the Chilkoot Pass any time soon. I could get around without being carried but was limited to the distance covered by the direct route between the Savoy and Mrs. Mann’s boarding house. My son seemed to enjoy looking after me, and I enjoyed his attentions. Ray continued to look excessively pleased with himself, and that I was not at all pleased about. I suspected Irene was making friends with Ray in order to try to squelch any gossip about herself and Maggie. Poor Ray.
I’d worry about that tomorrow. Today a small crowd stood at the gangplank leading to the steamboat Queen Victoria.
Mouse O’Brien and Martha Witherspoon had come to say their farewells. Ray Walker and Richard Sterling were there also. Mary stood close to Angus, who held on to her small cardboard suitcase. A large coloured woman was with them, wiping her eyes on an embroidered handkerchief. Yesterday, my lovely son had gone upriver to Moosehide Island, by himself, to talk to Bishop Bompas. It had been agreed that the steamboat would drop Mary off at the village, and she could stay with the Bishop and his wife while he looked for a place for her.
“I have them all, Fiona,” Euila said.
“All what?”
“Martha’s notes. She said she won’t be needing them, and I can do what I want with them. Wasn’t that nice of her?”
“Very nice,” I agreed. I tossed a glance to where Martha stood, her arm tucked into the protection of Mouse O’Brien’s good one. His other arm was cradled in a snowy white sling. Martha’s face was flushed with the pure joy that hadn’t left her for most of the week. He was still in his hospital bed, in the middle of a crowded ward, when he’d asked Martha to marry him. She accepted on the spot, and his wardmates had broken into a round of applause.
Graham Donohue had come, as flushed with the thrill of writing up the hostage-taking for his newspaper as Martha with a proposal of marriage. He hadn’t asked me to read his epistle, thank heavens. This boat would carry his dispatches Outside, to where any news from the fabled Klondike, no matter how fabricated, was almost as precious as the gold itself.
Richard Sterling smiled at Euila and wished her well. Inspector Starnes had decided, I’d heard, that the town of Dawson was growing so fast, it needed a second town detachment. And, so I had also heard, newly-promoted Corporal Richard Sterling was to be in charge of it. I hoped he wouldn’t be too busy with his management responsibilities to drop by the Savoy now and again.
The steamboat whistle sounded. Everyone else had gone on board. A crewman stood at the top of the gangplank, ready to pull it up.
Euila clutched her reticule to her chest. “Fiona,” she said. “I simply cannot wait,” I said, “until those stories are in print.
You must send us a copy the moment they’re off the press.”
“I will,” she said, looking at her shoes. “I’m glad we met again, Fiona.”
“I am too, Euila. You’d best be going, or the ship will leave without you.”
She started up the gangplank, a tiny figure in a dull brown dress. What would the dreadful Percy think, his sister returning with, instead of a husband, the ambition to be a writer?
She was halfway to the safety of the boat, but I called to her. “Euila!” She placed a white-gloved hand on the railing and turned towards me.
“Write to Alistair. Tell him you saw me and that I’m doing well.”
“Fiona…I…”
“Tell Alistair I remember him. Tell him I have forgotten nothing.”