The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany

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      Angus turned his head as they hoisted the stiff body onto their makeshift stretcher. The scent of death hung heavy in the air. Angus had smelt death in the piled carcasses of the abandoned horses they trudged past on their way from Dyea to the Chilkoot Pass. But this was different. Surprisingly sweet. Whether because the body was that of a man, not a horse, or because it was fresh, or because it was being moved, he didn’t know. He held his breath and avoided looking at the dark patch and the pattern of splashes left behind.

      “A half-competent doctor might have been able to find out more,” McKnight said, once the men had left with their burden. “But in this case, I doubt it. There isn’t much of a mystery around what happened here. Only about who. Sterling, you know these people. Did this Ireland fellow have any enemies?”

      Ray Walker laughed.

      “Pretty much everyone he met,” Sterling said, giving Walker a hard look. “I know there was trouble here last night. Trouble bad enough that if the Mounties knew about it, it might have had the Savoy closed down for a few days. You want to tell me what happened, Ray?”

      “No.”

      “All I have to do tomorrow morning is ask around. Mention a few words: Ireland, Walker, Irene. And everyone’ll assume I know all about it and be happy to talk till the cows come home.”

      Ray examined his fingernails. Lancaster got up and found another bench on which to place his ample posterior.

      “And once they start talking, who knows what people’ll say. Give some folks a listening ear, and they’ll make up all sorts of wild embellishments, just to keep you paying attention to them. Have you found that happens, Inspector?”

      “All the time. And the longer a story grows, the more incredible it becomes in the telling.”

      Ray wiped one hand across his brow and down the side of his face.

      “You want to tell the Inspector and me what happened last night, Ray? Or do you want to make us work at getting a story that might be more than the truth?”

      “Ireland.” Ray spat on the floor. “Hit Irene. In front of everyone. Attacked Fee too. Don’t worry Angus, your mum fought back. Your mum protects herself. And what’s hers. But Irene, she don’t know how to fight a man. I’m the bouncer here. Can’t have the customers beating on the dancers, can I?”

      “And that was it? Nothing personal, no excessive force?”

      “I did my job, Sterling. Now you go and do yours and find out who did the world a favour and rid us all of Jack frigging Ireland. But it weren’t me.”

      Ray stood up. His accent had gotten so thick that even Angus was having trouble understanding what he was saying. The Scotsman’s face was as red as Angus’s mother’s best dress. The one that had been her best dress until yesterday. Blood, she had said to Mrs. Mann, can’t wash it out. Rip the dress into rags. His heart almost stopped. Where had his mother gotten enough bloodstains to ruin the dress she cherished so much? She’d said they came from a man with a crack on the head. But she had never before allowed herself to be soiled by the customers.

      Coincidence? Of course. Coincidence. Ray said, “He was shown the door and tossed out into the street. Where, hopefully, he fell into a pile of warm dog shit.”

      “You didn’t see Mr. Ireland being evicted?” Sterling raised one eyebrow. “Why was that?”

      “My supper’s waiting,” Ray said. He was a good half foot or more shorter and fifty pounds lighter than the constable, but he gave off an aura of impressive strength as he pulled himself up to his full height. “You’re keepin’ me from it. If you’ve got something more than wild accusations, say it. Otherwise I’m going for my supper.”

      “You’re free to go, Mr. Walker,” McKnight said. “But don’t leave town until you hear from us.”

      “I’ve a business to run, laddies. I’m not leaving.” He kicked the bench over as he walked towards the door. It crashed to the floor, and a crack split the wood right down the middle.

      “I think he intended that to be your head, Constable,” McKnight said. “I’m going back to the fort to fill out a report. Tell me what else you know about this Walker fellow on the way. It’s interesting that he wasn’t the one to throw Ireland into the street.”

      “You can’t accuse Mr. Walker of this,” Angus shouted. “Ray wouldn’t kill nobody.”

      “Friend of his, are you?” McKnight asked.

      “Yes, I am,” Angus said.

      “Your mother relies on him, does she?”

      “Huh?”

      “It’s much the other way around, sir,” Sterling said. “Ray Walker could exert control over any bar or whorehouse in any port in the world, but only Mrs. MacGillivray can keep this place respectable. And profitable.”

      “Like her, do you, Constable?”

      Sterling looked into the Inspector’s face. “I admire her, sir. Very much. A woman on her own, she’s accomplished a great deal.”

      “You want to be a detective, son,” McKnight looked at Angus. “The first rule is that you don’t let your feelings get in the way of the job. Remember that. If your duty calls upon you to do so, you will find yourself arresting your grandmother. That’s a rule you also might need to remember, Constable. I suggest we start by looking for that pocket watch and stickpin.”

      “Angus, put out the lamp,” Sterling said, “and go home.”

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      “They think Ray did it.”

      I was in the kitchen when Angus came in. A strange, sour odour lingered about him, reminding me of a Billingsgate fishmonger at the end of an unnaturally hot day.

      The Manns were still up, although they usually went to bed early on Sunday to prepare for a long week ahead. One look at my face as I’d stumbled through the door earlier, and Mrs. Mann had the kettle on, and Mr. Mann had pulled up a chair to hear the whole story. They were relaxed and dressed in their nightwear (Mr. Mann with hastily-pulled on trousers beneath his long flannel nightshirt), enjoying a mug of warm tinned milk before bed. Mrs. Mann had taken her hair down. I’d never before seen it unbound. It fell almost to her waist in a shimmering river of slate grey, looking much like the Klondike River on a cold, damp day before freeze-up. They had sat with me, waiting for Angus.

      Angus changed his clothes quickly, and when he returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Mann had a mug of warm milk, the real stuff, and thick slices of yesterday’s currant cake ready for him.

      “They think Ray did it,” Angus repeated around a mouthful of milk and cake.

      “Nonsense,” I said. “You imagined it.” No matter what his age, I had never assumed that Angus imagined anything. His eye for detail and his interest in everything surrounding him were phenomenal. On the rare occasions that I’d engaged in conversation with other mothers, I had been surprised at how they dismissed their sons’ words as fantasy or imagination. I prided myself on being able to tell when my child was playing and when he was being serious.

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