The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany

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      Angus was happy to be given the chance to take lessons. And from a former champ at that. After all, there was no one else who could be relied upon to protect his mother. But his face still hurt from the “accidental” blow Lancaster had landed on it at the first lesson.

      “Tell you what,” Lancaster said, as they crossed the Fort Herchmer central square. The wind was low, and the Union Jack hung limply on the flag pole. “There’s a match Thursday at the Horseshoe between Slim Jim and Big Boris Bovery. How’d you like to come with me,?”

      “Would I? Yes, sir! That would be wonderful, sir!”

      “Good lad.” Reality intruded, and Angus’s heart sank.

      “But they won’t let me in, sir. I’m only twelve.”

      “Don’t worry about it, son. I’ll vouch for you.” Lancaster slapped him so hard on the back, Angus almost tumbled across the square. But he scarcely minded. A real prizefight. He couldn’t wait.

      Now all he had to do was make sure his ma didn’t catch wind of it.

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      My screams brought Ray double quick, followed by most of the staff and a good many of the barflies and gamblers.

      News of the murder and the dead body found on our stage had brought out everyone from the mildly curious to the seriously ghoulish. When I’d checked the dance hall shortly after my dinner break, I’d found a man down on the stage on his knees, rocking back and forth and moaning. He was, he informed me, attempting to get the boards to “give up their secrets”. He had no sooner been escorted to the door—the last thing I needed was someone suggesting to the dancers that the stage might be haunted—than another man slipped in. He fell to his knees for a different purpose. I found him rubbing his fingers across the stained boards and licking them. I screamed and the finger-licker wasn’t escorted out quite as politely as had been the moaner.

      I escaped to the privacy of Helen’s kitchen slash storage room. Ray followed me.

      “Less than a month since these people began flooding into town. I’m beginning to wonder if my nerves can last for the remainder of the summer,” I said.

      “Fee, ye’ve got the strongest nerves of any woman—any man, at that—I’ve known. We could close down and open a restaurant, if it’s getting a wee bit too much for you. Serve breakfast and light lunches. How much money did you take to the bank this morning?”

      I smiled, embarrassed at my outburst. “Probably more than my father, bless him, earned in his lifetime.”

      “There’s always that restaurant.” “If I were doing the cooking, then we’d have the >Mounties investigating us for sure. Go along, Ray. I’ll be out in a minute.”

      “Light lunches. What d’you suppose that means? Never had a light lunch in me life.” He opened the door and disappeared into the noise and smoke of the saloon.

      I pinched my cheeks to put a touch of colour into them and patted my hair. I was wearing my second best dress, promoted to best. It was a pale green satin, the colour of distant ice floes reflecting the weak North Atlantic sunshine. Its clean folds fell, largely unadorned, in a perfect, curving line from high neckline to hem. It went exceptionally well with my dark hair, adorned with nothing but a single ribbon, cut from excess cloth, salvaged when (thank goodness) the over-sized bustle faded from fashion. Because the dress was so simple and the front cut so high, covering my throat, I’d added interest by wrapping strands of fake pearls around and around my neck. But I never felt quite as lovely wearing the green dress as I had in the crimson Worth. Still, I smoothed the fabric over my hips, took a deep breath, and marched into the packed bar.

      “You’re looking even more stunning tonight than you normally do, Fiona.” Graham Donohue appeared at my elbow. “That shade of green does your hair perfect justice.” He bowed deeply and held his whisky glass up in a toast.

      I recovered, just a bit, from mourning the red dress and gave him a smile. “Quite the crowd tonight.”

      “The Savoy’s the talk of the town, as usual. They’re saying Jack Ireland expired in the centre of the stage. Tsk, tsk. Such a loss to American journalism.” He tossed back his whisky.

      “Really, Graham! The man’s dead. Have some respect.”

      “I hated him in life, Fiona. I won’t pretend I’m sorry about his death.”

      We walked through the crowd. Men touched their hats and stepped aside to let us pass. The bartenders were busy.

      I eyed Graham. “You knew Ireland before Dawson. Whatever did he do to you?”

      “No need to worry about that now, is there, Fee?”

      “I’m not worried in the least. But the Mounties might want to know.”

      Graham peered into the depths of his glass. “I need another drink.”

      Giggling and swaying their hips, a group of women spilled into the room. They walked through the space the admiring men created for them, heading straight for me.

      “Ooh, Mrs. MacGillivray. We don’t know if we can perform tonight,” Chloe said with a shiver. The others nodded their agreement. “Killed. Right there on our stage. Suppose there’s blood, or something awful, on the stage, and one of us slips in it?”

      “Really, Chloe. Ladies. I can assure you that Mrs. Saunderson has cleaned the entire dance hall thoroughly. You know what a conscientious worker she is.”

      They nodded. One girl leaned over to ask another what conscientious meant. A few of the dancers turned to head for the back.

      But Chloe couldn’t drop it. “Suppose he’s left his spirit behind? My gran always said…”

      The departing girls gasped and stopped in their tracks.

      “Stuff and nonsense,” I snapped. Time to stop this foolishness before I had a roomful of petulant dancers on my hands. “This is the Yukon Territory, Canada, in the year 1898. Don’t tell me you believe that Old World peasant nonsense, Chloe? I would have thought you too sophisticated for that.”

      The girls glanced at each other out of the corner of their eyes. They weren’t Old World peasants.

      “Follow me, and we’ll have a look at the stage, and you can see for yourself how clean it is.” I marched out of the saloon. The girls followed in a neat, obedient row like a flock of strangely dressed nuns behind Mother Superior.

      If the finger-licker had managed to get back in, I would strangle him with my own hands.

      But there was only the orchestra, unpacking their instruments and warming up, and Ellie and Irene, relaxing on benches before it was time to start the night’s work.

      “Some of the less experienced ladies are worried about the state of the stage,” I announced to the room. Two of the girls at the back slipped away from the group to edge towards Ellie and Irene, not wanting to be included among the less experienced.

      Ellie laughed. “You should’ve seen some of the places what I’ve danced in. They pushed the corpses СКАЧАТЬ