The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany

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СКАЧАТЬ green of every piece, that wouldn’t have withstood the scrutiny of a Sunday stroll in Hyde Park were my boots. No one ventured out-of-doors in Dawson without thoroughly practical footwear.

      “Mrs. MacGillivray, how nice to see you,” Miss Vanderhaege said in her strong Dutch accent.

      “I’m very sorry about your misfortune. I do hope your sister’s recovering nicely.”

      “She’s well, well.” She smiled broadly, revealing a set of teeth that reminded me of a prized stallion. “We rebuild. Open for business tomorrow.”

      “I’m glad to hear it, Miss Vanderhaege. You’ve been lucky.”

      The smile died, and the horse’s teeth disappeared behind her chapped lips. “Lucky? More lucky if the fire hadn’t happened.”

      I couldn’t argue with that, so I took my leave.

      I walked past the Savoy to check things out. From the point of view of an observer on the street, it really was nothing to get excited about, in a street of matching nothing-to-get-excited-about establishments. Our casuallyemployed watchman, who paid about as much attention to his duties as I did to his rate of pay, had deserted his post to watch the passing parade. He almost swallowed his thin cigar at the sight of me. I nodded and continued on my way. If there is a more boring job on Earth than watching over the houses of entertainment in Dawson, Yukon Territory, on a Sunday morning, I don’t want to know about it.

      I walked to the end of Front Street, down to where it curved to meet the Klondike River. That was far enough: I’d seen and, more importantly, been seen, quite enough. A book waited for me at home, Wuthering Heights by Miss Emily Bronte, which Angus had traded one of his boy’s adventures for as a gift to mark my birthday.

      Margaret Collins came scurrying down the boardwalk towards me. I nodded and stopped to pass the time of day.

      “Lovely morning, Margaret.”

      “That it is, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

      “Are you enjoying your walk?”

      “Yes, Mrs. MacGillivray.” She wore an inexpensive, unadorned straw hat and a long, full cloak fastened all the way up the front, which I thought a bit too heavy for such a warm day.

      “Since living in the Yukon, I’ve found that it’s best to appreciate every beautiful day one is granted. Wouldn’t you agree?”

      “I would, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

      “When I lived in London, all of society would rush to >the park to enjoy a sunny day. But I found that in Toronto, instead of enjoying what they’d been given, people complained constantly, about the heat in the summer and the cold in the winter.”

      “Really?” Margaret said with not the slightest bit of interest.

      What on earth was the point of trying to make polite, mindless conversation with an American anyway? They were all of them blunt to the point of being rude.

      A bustle of giggling dance hall girls swept around us. Mrs. Collins picked up her skirts and pushed past me to continue down the boardwalk, her grey head held high.

      I was crossing the street on a duckboard when I almost collided with Joey LeGrand, who was coming the other way. The duckboards were narrow, and we were thus forced to acknowledge each other’s presence. We both knew that we had absolutely no need to pretend to be polite, which I found to be much more satisfactory than the salons of London, where a lady was expected to greet her most hated enemy with joy and pleasure. Joey grunted and stood firm in the centre of the board. She was so small that I could have pushed her aside with one stiff arm. But I believe in saving my fights for the important things. I stepped into the road without batting an eyelash and sailed across the street as if such had been my intention all along.

      A minute later, Dawson’s most famous citizens, Alex Macdonald and Belinda Mulroney, approached me, deep in conversation, clearly talking about business. Those two were not keeping the Lord’s Day.

      Big Alex tipped his hat. “Quite the night last night, Mrs. MacGillivray. The Savoy is once again the talk of the town.”

      Belinda tossed me a smile. “That’s a lovely hat, Fiona.”

      I thanked her with genuine warmth, exchanged a bit of empty conversation, and continued on my way.

      And so the boring stroll continued.

      At one point I was sure I saw Graham Donohue coming towards me, but when I lifted my hand in greeting, the man spun on his heels and took off down Queen Street. I must have been mistaken. It couldn’t have been anyone I knew.

      Men never avoid my company.

      Unless they owe me money.

      Or are accompanied by their wives.

      I went home, had a nap, and read a bit of Wuthering Heights, before joining my small household for a meal of stringy grey beef, over-boiled cabbage and tinned peas. As usual, Mrs. Mann served the Sunday supper at a most uncivilized time; in London it would be scarcely past tea time.

      I was settling into the comfortable chair in my sitting room prior to resuming the book when, out of nowhere, the idea popped into my head that I’d made an error in the accounts. If it had been an error in my favour, it would have waited until the next day. But as it was an error that was not in my favour, I wanted to check on it immediately.

      “I have to go to the Savoy,” I said to Angus. “I might have made a mistake in the ledger, and I want to check.”

      “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

      “It can, but I can’t. Do you want to come with me?”

      And so we came across the remains of the loathsome Mr. Jack Ireland, late of the San Francisco Standard.

      Chapter Twenty

      Angus ran to fetch the Mounties, and I cracked open a bottle of whisky and poured myself a good shot. Then I helped our watchman out of his disgustingly filthy flannel overshirt and handed him a glass of whisky. He was highly embarrassed at vomiting in my presence, but I’d come close to losing the contents of my stomach myself—those tinned peas! The very thought of it was enough to have me choking it all back. At least I’d been forewarned that I was about to encounter something unpleasant.

      I sat on the floor beside my employee with my legs stretched out in front of me, and we drank our whisky in companionable silence.

      “Mrs. Saunderson will not be at all happy tomorrow morning,” I said at last.

      “M’m?”

      “To find such a mess. In here as well as…in there. She may even threaten to quit. Upon which I’ll offer her an extra twenty cents. And she’ll say that isn’t enough for all she has to put up with, so I’ll up my offer to twenty-five cents—and not a penny more—and with a great sigh, she’ll fetch her cloth and mop and bucket.”

      “M’m?”

      “Never mind.”

      Angus burst through the doors, followed by СКАЧАТЬ