I made it my business to know what was going on at the other dance halls. The Savoy might be the most popular today, but popularity in this town swung as wildly as a rumour of a new gold discovery. I paid a bartender at the Monte Carlo and a musician at the Horseshoe to keep me informed of the news. No doubt several of my employees were making a little something on the side as well.
I was leaving the dressmaker the afternoon after the near-riot, highly pleased with myself. The navy blue gown needed but a few tucks and adjustments to be finished and the yellow was coming along nicely. A man in his forties, who always dressed as if he were about to go grouse hunting on a Scottish estate, slid up to me. His Harris tweed jacket was immaculate, matching trousers tucked into high brown boots polished to a brilliant shine. He wore a cloth cap and carried a stout walking stick with a gold tip. “Heard you had some trouble last night, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
“Heard that also. The men liked that new girl you have. The young one. Pretty they say. She sang a new song.”
“Yes.” I paid for information going in one direction only. I wasn’t about to tell him I’d sacked Colleen.
“New act at the Monte Carlo tonight,” he said. “A couple of twins. Real lookers, too. Young.”
“Is that so?”
“Yup. I heard ’em rehearsing just now. Can’t sing worth a hill of beans, but that don’t matter much, does it, Mrs. MacGillivray?”
“Apparently not.”
He touched his cap and strolled away, stick swinging.
Twins, eh? Men loved twins. These girls might be twins, or they might not. Might not even be sisters. All they had to do was say they were and the men would come to see them. I was not entirely displeased at the news. I did not want a repeat of last night’s fiasco, and I suspected the Savoy audience would not be happy when Colleen failed to put in an appearance. The more men who went to the Monte Carlo to see the twins, the better.
As long as they eventually drifted back to the Savoy.
“Are you not feeling well, Angus?” Mrs. Mann asked.
Angus was sitting at the supper table, pushing moose steak around on his plate. The meat was tough but flavourful, and the gravy thick and good. He didn’t have much of an appetite.
“I’m fine, ma’am,” he said. “Not hungry.”
“Not hungry! That’s a new one.”
Angus’s mother wasn’t at dinner tonight. She’d gone to the dressmaker and was running late, so would eat in her office.
“Mrs. Mann,” Angus said, drawing out the word, “if something’s happened to someone and you know it’s wrong, but that someone doesn’t want you to tell the authorities, should you?”
“What?”
“I mean if you know a crime’s been committed, but the victim doesn’t want to tell the police, is your duty to your friend or to the police?”
“Police,” Mr. Mann growled around a mouthful of moose. “Always. Your duty.” He helped himself to another ladleful of mashed potatoes.
“It depends.” Mrs. Mann leaned back in her chair and studied Angus’s face. “Did your friend …”
“A theoretical friend.”
“This theoretical friend. Did he or she commit a crime?”
“No.”
“They’re the victim of it?”
“Yes.”
“Then the decision is up to them, Angus.” She cut a small piece of meat.
“Thanks Mrs. Mann. That’s a help.”
“Unless …” She studied her fork.
“Unless?”
“Unless the person who committed the crime is a danger to others. A man who’s attacking women, for example. Understandably the woman in question won’t want to go to the police, but suppose they could catch him? And thus prevent him attacking another woman?”
“It’s not like that.”
“You’ll do what’s right, Angus. I know you will.”
Angus wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know what was right. Someone had broken into Miss Jennings’ studio. Did it matter that they hadn’t stolen anything of value, or damaged anything? It was still a crime, right? She’d told him not to worry about it. It was a minor matter, not worth bothering the police.
He was finishing dinner when a knock sounded on the back door and Dave came in. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Mann. Hi, Angus. Want to go fishing?” Dave was carrying the pole his father had made for him.
“Sure.”
“Sit down,” Mrs. Mann said. “We haven’t finished our dinner. I have made a strudel for dessert. Apple. Would you like some?”
“Would I?” Dave dropped his fishing pole and lunged for Fiona’s empty chair.
There’s nothing like fishing for making a man think. When they lived in Toronto, Angus spent part of the school vacations at the cottages of his friends. When the boys’ fathers came up to join the family on the weekend, they’d often go fishing and sometimes catch enough to provide the fish course at dinner. The cook would drench it in a rich creamy sauce or serve the fish plain and unadorned and everyone would exclaim that it was the best fish they’d ever tasted. The boys would preen, proud at providing food for their families.
Even if they didn’t catch anything worth eating, Angus remembered one father saying, “It’s not the fish. It’s the fishing.”
He and Dave walked along the banks of the Yukon River past the tents and the roughly constructed shacks to where there could still be found a trace of peace on the river.
They put worms onto hooks, dangled their legs over the edge, and tossed the ends of their lines into the water. Angus had a fishing pole one of his mother’s admirers had made for him in an attempt to get into Fiona’s good books. It wasn’t anything like the sturdy factory-constructed and store-bought poles they used on Stoney Lake, but he liked this one — string with a weight at the end and a worm for bait — better. It felt good and right in his hands. He let out a bit more line.
“You been following that Mountie and the lady anymore?” Dave asked.
“No. Didn’t seem any point to it.”
A flock of geese flew high overhead, their honks of encouragement loud in the quiet evening.
Reasonably quiet at any rate. The boys could still hear the commotion from town. People talking, men laughing, wagons rolling, hammers and saws.
“I wonder,” Angus said, “how long it will be before all this is gone?”
“All what?”
“Geese. Fish. Quiet.”
Dave shrugged, not much caring.
They knew it was eight o’clock when the town erupted in noise. The dance halls sending their callers out into the street to attract custom. Angus thought of Roland. He’d promised to teach Angus a couple of easy tricks to impress his friends, but that hadn’t happened. Perhaps Roland also was just pretending to befriend Angus to get closer to Fiona.
No matter.
Although, Roland didn’t look at Fiona the way men who liked her in that way did — with a stupid simpering smile on their faces. When he thought no one was watching, Roland looked at Fiona almost as if he didn’t like her much.
There’d been a lot of strange people in the Savoy lately. Sometimes it seemed as if Dawson was populated by nothing but strange people.
Count Nicky, who wanted to get Alaska back in order to create a New Russia. Miss Jennings had written a nice formal letter introducing him to the American president. That President McKinley had not the slightest idea who Eleanor Jennings was, she said with a laugh, wouldn’t become apparent to the count until he was refused entry to the White House. If he even got as far as Washington. She had a feeling, she told Angus, Count Nicky was easily distracted.
And how about John Turner, who was always playing poker at the Savoy, and who’d also been following Miss Jennings?
The boys fished. They didn’t have much luck. Dave caught a couple of small grayling, but Angus came up empty.
What, Angus thought, would anyone want with a small amount of magnesium? If you needed light, kerosene was easily available, along with lamps in which to use it. Wood made a longer-lasting fire. The only real need for the magnesium powders Miss Jennings used was to create a sudden brilliant flash, so she could take her photographs indoors.
A jerk on his line and the pole was almost pulled out of his hands. “Hey,” Dave shouted, “you’ve got a big one.”
Angus threw the fishing pole to the ground. “I’ve gotta go. You take it.”
He jumped to his feet and ran. The pole was pulled down into the cold waters of the Yukon River. Dave grabbed his own, scrambled to his feet, and took off after Angus.
Eleanor Jennings stood in the faint light coming from the room behind her. Between the buildings long shadows still lingered in the near-Arctic night. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Sterling said. “Something came up at the detachment.”
“Gave me a chance to catch up,” she said. “I’ve spent the time writing a letter to my father.”
Sterling thought she looked nice, in an evening gown of green taffeta with a salmon-coloured over-dress. The neckline was scooped, the bodice tightly fitted, the waist pouched, the sleeves short. A black collar dotted with pearls was cinched around her neck. She pulled on her gloves.
“I walked past the Savoy on my way here,” he said, taking her arm after she’d locked the door behind them. “The crowd seems manageable tonight.”
“I need not fear being trampled to death then?” Her laugh as light as chimes in a soft wind.
“Not tonight.” Any place else it would be scandalous, escorting a lady to an evening at a dance hall. Even in Dawson, Sterling expected to get more than a few raised eyebrows. But Miss Jennings didn’t seem to be at all concerned with respectability. He’d offered to take her to dinner, and she’d asked if, instead, they could go to the Savoy. She was fascinated, she said, by the place. All those undercurrents of humanity. She was hoping to meet more of the customers and hand out her cards.
He ruefully reflected that she seemed more interested in making business contacts than in the pleasure of his company.
Word had spread that twin sisters would be performing at the Monte Carlo. Thus the custom at the Savoy was down considerably tonight. He didn’t know how they’d be able to manage if it had gone up. It had been a close call last night. Good thing the police had been on their guard and expecting trouble. A riot could travel through town with the speed of a wildfire. Or a rumour.
Ray Walker did a double take when Sterling and Eleanor Jennings came through the doors.
She left Sterling to order drinks — whisky for him, lemonade for her — and joined the group of men gathered around Barney’s customary stool.
“Gentlemen, good evening.”
They touched hats and caps. Barney grinned through tobacco-stained and broken teeth. “I’m still wanting to take your photograph, sir,” she said to the sourdough, wagging her finger like a displeased schoolmarm. “You promised to sit for me.”
“Can’t imagine what you want with this ugly mug. I figure my face might break your camera.”
“You have a truly original face.”
“You can say that again,” a man snorted.
Sterling handed her the drink. He sipped his whisky. A rare indulgence. Not bad stuff at all.
“I’m surprised to see you here this evening, Nicky,” Eleanor said. “I thought you were leaving town.”
“In due course. In due course. Couldn’t leave without a last evening with my new friends.”
“Didn’t know you had friends,” John Turner said.
The man never smiled, at least never when Richard Sterling had been around to witness.
“You are my friend,” Nicky replied, not realizing he’d been insulted. “We play together, no?”
“If you call giving me all your money every night playing, then I guess you could say we’re friends.”
“Excellent. Now, time for a game, I believe. Our English friend should be completing his second round of performances shortly.”
The two men ordered a refill of their drinks, and then went through to the gambling hall.
Eleanor Jennings drifted around the room, chatting to men, handing business cards to those she had not yet met. Sterling watched her. She smiled and held her head to one side and listened in total attention. She had a way of making the speaker think he was a person of incomparable interest.
She reminded him, he realized, of Fiona.