Angus MacGillivray wanted nothing more in this world than to be an officer in the North-West Mounted Police. To serve his Queen, his country, his fellow men. His mother, he knew, intended that he become a gentleman. Whatever that might be. She insisted on proper grammar at all times, had taught him a bit of Greek and Latin, how to address a duke and a prince, seating arrangements at a formal dinner party. Not that they had met any dukes or princes in Dawson, and they’d never had a dinner party. If company dropped in, they could barely squeeze six around the rough-hewed kitchen table at Mrs. Mann’s boarding house. The tiny, overcrowded house didn’t have a dining room.
Angus’s mother had made her way through life by herself, orphaned as a child and later alone after the death of his father, discarded by his heartless paternal relatives. She’d succeeded because she spoke like an English aristocrat, was perfectly groomed at all times, dressed well, and conducted herself with absolute deportment. It didn’t hurt, he knew, that she was considered to be the most beautiful woman in Dawson, if not the whole territory.
But his mother was a woman, and Angus MacGillivray would be a man someday. He didn’t think it mattered much to his future prospects if he could recite Homer in the original Greek, play the violin (which, thank heavens, they’d left behind in the flight from Toronto), execute a proper bow in the presence of royalty, or wield a fish fork.
No, Angus MacGillivray was destined for great things. Two more years until the twentieth century would arrive. Time to throw off the shackles of the old world and embrace the new.
He’d only be fourteen years old in two more years. Sometimes he feared he’d never grow up.
A good-sized crowd had gathered behind the Savoy. Nothing like a bit of excitement in Dawson to draw the multitudes. The sight of Fiona MacGillivray, running through the streets with her virginal white dress soaked in blood from neck to hem and flecks of blood and brains (the story grew in the telling) dotted across her perfect, yet horror-struck, face, was excitement indeed.
Angus stood protectively over the body, not letting anyone venture too close.
“Search the pockets,” someone said, stepping forward as if to do just that. Angus planted himself firmly in the way. Despite secret boxing lessons with Sergeant Lancaster, a former champion, he was scarcely a match for a full-grown man. And he knew it. But he had been given this responsibility, and he was not going to back down.
“The Mounties have been summoned,” he said, trying to deepen his voice, for about the tenth time. “Leave him until then.”
“Mounties,” a man spat. “Help themselves to the man’s poke they will.”
Angus bristled, but before he could protest he heard a welcome booming voice from the back door of the Savoy. Ray Walker, his mother’s business partner, stepped into the alley, slapping the sturdy billy club he kept behind the bar into his hand. Ray was shorter than Angus, with scarcely an ounce of excess flesh on him, but he was a street fighter from the slums and shipyards of Glasgow and a match for almost any man in town.
“I’d suggest we do what young Angus says,” Walker said, in his indecipherable Glaswegian accent, “and wait for the police. Bar’s open, if anyone’s interested.”
More and more men, and a few less-respectable women, were arriving every minute. Dawson boasted more than its share of drifters. Tens of thousands of people had headed north into the wilderness, on foot, on hearing word of the gold strike at Bonanza Creek. Many, if not most, had not the slightest idea what mining entailed or how remote the Klondike was. When they arrived, after months of hardship, to find that nuggets were not lying on the ground like windfall apples and that placer mining was nothing but darned hard work, a great many of them spent their days wandering from one side of town to the other, their nights crowded into the plethora of saloons, gambling dens, and dance halls. Waiting for the police to arrive was better than another stroll to the end of the street.
When he heard the voice he’d been hoping for, Angus felt the weight of responsibility lift from his shoulders.
“You men have nothing to do today? Get on your way. If you want entertainment the dance halls’ll be opening soon. There’s nothing to see here. George O’Reilly, haven’t you done enough chopping wood down at the fort? I don’t want to see any more of you.”
The assembled men shifted and shuffled to let the police through, but no one did as they’d been told and left. Not even Ray’s reminder of the bar so tantalizingly close was enough to distract them from a bloody body. Those at the back pushed forward trying to get a better look.
Corporal Sterling and Constable McAllen emerged from the crowd. They stood quiet for a moment, simply looking. Sterling dropped to his haunches. He held his fingers against the side of the man’s neck, although there could be no doubt he was dead. Sterling pushed himself back to his feet, wiping his hand on his trousers. He spotted the undertaker, standing in the shadows behind Angus. “Mr. Dion, convenient to have you here. You can take him away now, if you please. I’ll be in to talk to you further once I’ve checked around here. Send someone to fetch the doctor, will you?”
Dion grunted, and he and his assistant pushed their cart forward. They loaded the body and wheeled it, arms and legs flapping, the few yards to their place of business. The puddle of blood, seeping into the dust of the alley, remained behind. No one moved.
“Angus, do you know anything about this?” Sterling asked in a low voice.
“We were passing, Mother and I, when —”
“Enough. Tell me inside. Did anyone here recognize that fellow?” he called to the crowd.
Men muttered and shook their heads.
“In that case, didn’t I tell you people to be on your way?”
Show over, the men at the back began to peel away. One by one the others followed.
“Do you have a shovel, Walker?” Sterling asked.
“Aye, for when it snows.”
“Fetch it. Constable, dig that mess under. Then head to Fort Herchmer and get Inspector McKnight.”
“What do you want me to do, sir?” Angus asked. He’d have been embarrassed to know he sounded like a puppy eager to perform tricks.
“Did you recognize that man?”
“No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. Mother said he knew her name.”
“Let’s go inside and talk. Too many ears around here.”
Ray Walker emerged from the Savoy carrying a shovel with a bent handle. He passed it to McAllen, who was looking a mite green around the gills. “Make sure ye do a fine job now, lad. Bad for business, ye ken, folks tracking blood across yon floorboards.”
McAllen swallowed.
“I might as well interview Angus here,” Sterling said. “Can we use a private room, Walker?”
“I suppose I can trust the two o’ ye in Fiona’s office.”
The dance hall, at the back of the Savoy, was empty of customers at this time of day but would not be for much longer. The nightly show was scheduled to begin at eight o’clock and the room would be filled to overflowing with foot-stomping, cheering, belching cheechakos and sourdoughs. The room had no windows, the only light came from the front rooms and the kerosene lamps, which emitted a smoky, yellow glow. The second-floor balconies were dark. Helen Saunderson, the Savoy’s maid of all work, was sprinkling fresh sawdust on the floor while Murray the bartender arranged benches in rows in front of the stage. Four of the dancers were standing together, chatting. They were dressed in their street clothes prior to heading to the dressing room to change into costume. They broke off as the men came in.
“A man murdered only steps from our door,” Betsy sighed in delicious horror. “Oh, young Angus,” she gave him a bawdy wink, “you’d best be walking us girls home tonight.”
Angus felt himself changing colour. He tripped over a cracked floorboard.
Ray growled. “That’s enough o’ that, Betsy. Don’t let her hear you talking like that.”
They had not the slightest doubt who “her” was.
“Nothing but another drunken layabout,” Irene yawned. Irene Davidson, stage name of Lady Irénée, was the most popular dance hall girl in all of Dawson. Ray Walker put his arm possessively around her. She giggled and snuggled in close.
Irene and Ray were courting. Angus knew his mother wasn’t at all happy about that, although she refused to discuss the reason why.
“No one said anything about murder,” Corporal Sterling snapped. “And I don’t want any of you spreading rumours.”
The girls twittered demurely.
“She said it was safe to work here,” said a pretty girl standing slightly behind the others. She was new and younger than most. “My father won’t be pleased to hear there’s been a killing.”
“No one was killed here,” Irene reminded her. “And don’t you start saying he was. We can’t do much about what happens outside our doors.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray might be delayed tonight,” Ray said. “Isn’t it time ta start getting changed?”
“Delayed? Whyever would I be delayed?”
Angus loved watching people react to his mother. She swept into the room, dressed in a red silk evening gown with plunging neckline and bare shoulders, black hair perfectly arranged beneath a stunning hat, jewellery sparking in what little light filled the room. Her face and hands were scrubbed clean and a touch of rouge applied to her lips and cheeks. He had no doubt she’d been hiding in the wings, waiting for the suitable moment to make a grand entrance.
“Good evening, Corporal. I was delighted to see that the alley is once again clean and tidy. Angus, your supper is waiting at home. Ladies, I believe we have a show to put on.”
Only Richard Sterling and Ray Walker never seemed to be nonplussed when Fiona put on a display. “Supper will have to wait, I’m afraid,” the corporal said. “I want to know who that man was and what you and Angus have to do with all of this.”
“Nothing. We have nothing to do with it. Angus and I were unfortunate enough to be passing by shortly after he was set upon by footpads. That’s all.”
“Let’s go upstairs, shall we. You can tell me about it. I’ve sent for Inspector McKnight.”
“Most unfortunate.”
Sterling struggled not to grin.
“You got back awfully soon, Mother,” Angus said. “Didn’t you have your supper?”
“I could scarcely eat while you were under interrogation, now could I? Mrs. Mann will be bringing me a package later.”