The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany

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СКАЧАТЬ awake, he never completely left me. Not that I cared one whit who’d killed him, but whoever that fool was he’d killed Ireland in my establishment. And thus left the problem on my doorstep. Surely, the Mounties would soon give it up? Forget about Ireland and get back to the more important business of shutting the saloons down at two minutes to midnight on Saturday and arresting anyone who dared to use vile language.

      I wondered if Constable Sterling would have taken me into custody for telling a child to “bugger the kettle”. I wondered what it would be like to be taken into custody by Constable Sterling. Would he use force, nothing excessive of course, just enough to subdue me? Would he tie me up? Lean into my face and ask me to confess all, his voice perilously short of breath?

      Stop right there! No more of that line of thought, thank you very much.

      Now I was wide awake. But I was so tired that eventually sleep forced itself upon me, despite Mrs. Mann’s attempts to be quiet, Mr. Mann’s language when he hit his finger with the hammer while trying to secure a loose cupboard, Angus’s big feet hitting the floorboards, the mental haunting of the vile Jack Ireland, and my licentious thoughts about Constable Richard Sterling. The latter of which I had absolutely no intention of ever experiencing again, as they were clearly the effects of fatigue, brought on by overwork and worry.

      I slept for several hours. When I awoke, not to the sounds of Mr. Mann repairing the window frame of the room next to mine, but of Mrs. Mann berating him to be quiet and show some consideration for the “poor tired dear”, I would have said that I’d slept well, without a dream or a stray thought.

      Only later did I realize that while I’d slept, my mind had been very busy indeed. Sorting, sifting, and finally understanding.

      Chapter Forty-Six

      Sundays I wash my hair. It’s quite the chore: fetch water from the spring, warm it over the stove, stand in the middle of the kitchen floor in my shift while Mrs. Mann pours the water over my head into a bucket, whilst rubbing in the soap. Mr. Mann and Angus ordered out of the house.

      Finally the deed was done. It being a hot and sunny day, I sat outside, hiding in the patch of weeds behind the house that passed as the Mann’s garden, combing out my thick, wet tresses and letting the sun do the work of drying it, reading Wuthering Heights.

      It was late afternoon before my hair had dried enough to gather up at the back of my head, and I was restless from spending the morning in bed and the afternoon on my hair and book. Angus was off with his friends, so I put on my best day ensemble, a dark blue skirt and a blouse that had once been pristine white, with the intention of taking a stroll into town.

      Mrs. Mann was in the kitchen, her hands floury with the mixings of scones for supper.

      I stuck my head in the kitchen to tell her I’d be out for a while.

      The early evening was warm and sunny. The endless sound of wood being sawn and shop clerks shouting the value of their irreplaceable wares had fallen silent, and everyone I passed was relaxed and smiling. If one came to Dawson, say on the back of a giant bird, stayed for a Sunday afternoon, and then returned on any Friday night, they would find it impossible to believe they were in the same place, occupied by the same people.

      I walked out of town, heading east, away from the Yukon River towards the hills, greeting acquaintances on the way. I passed beyond the wooden storefronts and semipermanent buildings and came to where a handful of white canvas tents, interspersed with wooden shacks, clung precariously to the foot of the mountain.

      A cheap, cracked mixing bowl, overflowing with tall blue larkspur and tiny yellow buttercups plucked from the hillside, sat outside one of the hastily-erected homes.

      Sam and Margaret Collins sat by the open doorway, finishing their dinner by the light of the evening sun, tin plates balanced on their laps. He leapt to his feet as he saw me approach.

      “Please, Sam, finish your dinner. I’m out for a stroll and found myself walking this way. Hasn’t it been a lovely day? Makes the long winter seem almost worthwhile, doesn’t it?” I slapped a mosquito that was hovering above my hand, looking for a safe place to land.

      What could he do but offer me his chair? And what could I do but accept? Proper manners do have a way of allowing one to manipulate others. I dread to imagine what civilization would be without them.

      Margaret put her unfinished supper on the ground. Their meal looked most unappetizing—a bit of fatty beef, a few leaves of boiled cabbage, some wrinkled potatoes. The ubiquitous beans.

      “Can I offer you some tea, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Margaret said.

      “That would be lovely. But only once you’ve finished your meal.”

      “I have.” Her words were friendly, as one would expect when a working-class woman found herself confronted by the unexpected, and most unwelcome, intrusion of her husband’s employer. But her eyes were as hard as stone and her face not a whit friendlier.

      She stood up and snatched her husband’s unfinished plate out of his hands. He opened his mouth to protest, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak.

      “Didn’t you tell me you’re planning to join Robbie for a smoke and a walk after supper? It’s time you were on your way. Robbie doesn’t like to be left waiting.”

      Sam looked at his wife. He looked at me. He looked at his unfinished meal clenched in Margaret’s hand.

      And I knew I was right, which in most circumstances is a sensation I adore. But on this lovely northern evening, the knowledge didn’t make me happy in the least.

      “Mrs. MacGillivray and I rarely get much of a chance to have a nice visit,” Margaret said. “You run along now, Sam.”

      Her husband shook off his confusion. “Well, I’d say that if Robbie were finished his dinner, he’d be along soon enough to collect me. But I guess you’re right, Margaret, as always. He don’t much like to be left waiting. Will you excuse me, Mrs. MacGillivray?”

      “Of course, Sam. Enjoy your walk.”

      We watched him lumber off down the muddy path. A toddler, dressed in a clean white nightgown, momentarily escaped her mother’s attention and rushed directly into a puddle, where she splashed about with delight, until the shrieking mother descended upon her. Not many people were about on such a pleasant summer’s evening. This was a hard-working town; tomorrow was Monday and family people, people with jobs, retired early.

      “Do you really want tea?” Margaret said, still balancing two half-finished plates.

      “Tea lubricates every social occasion, as I’m sure you know.”

      “I do. You remind me of my father.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Don’t take that as a compliment. I hated my father. He was always so sure of himself. Completely convinced that he was right and everyone else was wrong. Whether it was better to prune the roses in the morning or in the evening, whether slavery was the natural order of things or an affront to God, whether his only daughter should marry this man or that one.”

      “I don’t care one whit about your father, Margaret. When I first arrived here, I wasn’t at all sure of myself. I had considerable doubts. But no longer. So perhaps your father took his clues СКАЧАТЬ