The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany

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СКАЧАТЬ charges for language like that.”

      “Damn the constable.”

      The corners of my partner’s mouth turned up.

      “Don’t you understand what’s at stake here?” I said. “There hasn’t been a single murder in Dawson this year. And this one happens right in the middle of our place. The police will be dead keen to solve it. Fast. I wouldn’t trust that McKnight not to pick the first available suspect and drag him off to a hanging.”

      “Or her?”

      “What?”

      “Or drag her off to the hanging, Fee.”

      “Are you saying they’re going to investigate me?”

      “No, I’m not. Sterling wouldn’t arrest you if he came upon you up to your elbows in blood dissecting the corpse with a paring knife.”

      “What the hell does that mean?”

      “I didn’t kill Ireland, Fee.”

      “But…”

      “But I don’t want the police investigating Irene, that’s all.”

      I couldn’t see why they would think Irene had murdered anyone. We’d thrown Ireland out, hadn’t we? Irene would scarcely have come back to the deserted Savoy the next day to meet up with him once again.

      Would she?

      Why was Ray so worried about her? Or was he? Maybe he was trying to be clever: throw suspicion on Irene so that everyone would think he was protecting her. What nonsense. My imagination was galloping away with me.

      “If there is anyone in this town who didn’t want Jack Ireland dead, I’ll stand him to a month of drinks,” I said. “I have to get over to the bank. Constable Sterling is much too polite to make any sort of a detective. He could have pushed us a lot harder.”

      The edges of Ray’s mouth lifted a fraction higher. “Only with you, Fee. Only with you.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “Nothing. Where’s Angus this morning?”

      “Working. He has a job helping Mr. Mann at the store.”

      Helen came into the room, her steps hesitant, wondering if it was safe. As the police had gone and Ray and I didn’t appear to be about to rip each other’s throats out, she started to pile the abandoned coffee things onto her tray. She eyed the plate of largely untouched biscuits. “No one hungry this morning? Not to worry. Murder does that to a person’s appetite. They’ll keep nicely for your afternoon tea, Mrs. Mac.”

      Ray stifled a laugh.

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      The bank clerk winked at me. He was a good-looking young man, French Canadian, who had always greeted me with scrupulous politeness and a no-nonsense attitude as befits two educated persons of business conducting important financial matters.

      “I beg your pardon,” I said, my chin up. “Are my books not in order?”

      “Everything is in perfect order, Madame MacGillivray, as always.” He leaned closer to the iron grill separating us. “I ’eard you fought a few rounds with a drunk the other night.”

      The line behind me curled out of the ramshackle building and snaked a long way down the street. The people closest to me shifted. Sensing that some confidence was being exchanged, they edged closer.

      “Broke ’is nose with an uppercut, eh?” The clerk practically drooled.

      The things that excite men.

      “Most certainly not.” I tossed my head. “I merely explained to the gentleman in question that his behaviour was not at all proper, whereupon he left.”

      “Fellows who were there say after you put ’im on the floor, ’e returned after closing to get vengeance, and Walker killed ’im. Non?”

      “Non! Absolument, non! Give me my account book. Don’t you dare be repeating that sort of malicious gossip. I didn’t break any noses, and Ray Walker didn’t kill anyone. You tell people we did and I’ll…I’ll…be cross. That’s it, I’ll be cross.”

      I snatched up my banking book and whirled around.

      Every person in the bank, and a few who stood outside peering in through the windows, watched me.

      “What nonsense. Foolish nonsense, like a pack of ill-raised children calling each other names in the park while their nannies’ attention wanders,” I muttered, passing through the crowd. As I hoped, a great many of the onlookers, particularly the handful of women present, took up the words. “Nonsense,” they whispered to each other. “Childish.”

      I walked away from the centre of town, heading back to my lodgings on Fourth Street, for no other reason than it was my custom to do so. I didn’t feel much like a nap. Angus would be at work. I contemplated making a detour and dropping in to the store. Would he be pleased to see me or embarrassed that his mother was keeping an eye on him?

      I hesitated at the cross street in front of a small shop advertising its purpose as “Sewing done here. For Ladies and Gentlemen”, wondering which way to go.

      Irene and Chloe came out of the shop, Irene turning a hat in her hands. It was a nice hat, with a few feathers stuck in the band and a broad brim offering protection for a lady’s face from the effects of the sun. Badly-made stitches tried, and failed miserably, to disguise a wide rip across the crown. But Irene placed the hat on her head with satisfaction. I would have tossed it into the garbage before even leaving the shop, but in Dawson one makes do.

      “Mrs. MacGillivray,” Irene said with a bright smile. Chloe showed her teeth. “Don’t you love what she did with my hat? Why, you can scarcely see the stitches. Right as rain, ain’t it?” She touched the hat brim and gave me a pleased-with-herself smile.

      “Lovely.” “I’m glad I ran into you.” She grabbed my arm in a gesture that came perilously close to familiarity. Wasn’t that like an American! I shook her hand off, but she didn’t take offence, scarcely seeming to notice.

      “We’re on our way to the Savoy,” she breathed. “The seamstress said Jack Ireland was found dead in the dance hall last night. Is it true?” Irene wore a practical day costume of soft pink blouse with generous sleeves above a cream skirt.

      A wide black belt wrapped itself tightly around her waist. The hat, unfortunately, had a purple ribbon drooping down the back that didn’t go at all with the pink blouse. Her cheeks were a too-bright red, and her eyes flashed with enjoyment at the news. She patted her generous chest, the dream of many a man working out on the creeks.

      Plain Chloe wore a cotton dress of an unattractive plum, which clashed with her complexion, and an unadorned straw hat.

      “Unfortunately, it is true,” I said.

      Irene leaned closer, out of the hearing range of the small crowd of men surrounding us. The moment we stopped walking, they had gathered СКАЧАТЬ