The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany
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flannel and ask Mrs. Mann to sew him a new garment.
“Do you want tea?” I asked. “No.” He pulled up a chair and fell into it. “Where have you been? Mr. Walker came by after closing to say you’d be late. He looked real worried, but he wouldn’t say what was going on.”
“He looked very worried,” I corrected my son’s grammar automatically.
“That’s what I said.”
“Never mind. Do you want something to eat?”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you going to cook breakfast?”
“I can toss a bit of bacon into the pan without burning it too dreadfully.”
“Yes, please. What happened?”
“The police arrested Miss Davidson for the murder of Jack Ireland.”
Angus nodded and said nothing. The significance of which didn’t go unnoticed.
“You don’t seem too surprised, dear.”
“Miss Davidson had reason to do it.” Angus pulled a loose thread from his sleeve.
“What do you mean she had reason to do it? What do you know about all of this?”
Guilt descended on my son’s head like a swarm of what the Canadians call no-see-ums: horrid little bugs that are invisible unless they gather in a multitude. “Nothing.” His voice squeaked.
“Angus.” I abandoned the bacon. “What do you know about this business?”
He looked me straight in the eye, not even blinking. Now I knew he was lying.
“I know nothing more than everyone in town, Mother. Everyone’s saying the police have to make an arrest soon. Of anybody. Otherwise it will look bad on their record. There hasn’t been a murder in Dawson this year—until Ireland. So they have to find someone to blame. Uh, the kettle’s boiling, Mother.”
“Bugger the kettle.”
Angus’s eyes opened wide at my choice of words.
“They have no reason to blame Irene; there are more than enough other suspects. Half the town, in fact. If you know something about Ireland’s murder, you have to tell me.”
“No, I don’t.” He stood up so fast, he knocked his chair over. “I don’t want any bacon, you can have it. You’ll probably burn it anyway.”
“Angus, wait. Irene didn’t kill Jack Ireland. The police have let her go.”
He stopped with his hand on the door knob. “They did?”
“They said they had no reason to hold her. Which I believe is fair enough, as she didn’t do it. If they’d let women into the police force, they would have had someone on hand to tell them that a woman doesn’t kill a man because he hits her once. Unless it’s at the time, of course, which would be in self-defence. Although the men rarely see it that way. Angus, have you done something you don’t want me to know about?”
“No, Mother.”
“Very well, have it your way. Pick up that chair and sit >down and eat your breakfast. I promise I will not take my eyes away from this frying pan until the bacon is perfectly cooked. In order that I may do so, you can slice the bread. Do you want toast, or shall I fry the bread in the dripping?”
“Dripping, please.”
“I might have some toast myself. Get out the marmalade, as I am concentrating single-mindedly on the bacon.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“You may think you don’t have to tell me everything, and I suppose that at your age you don’t.” I looked at my son, who was holding the pot of marmalade as if it might break if he loosened his grip. It was good marmalade— literally worth its weight in gold. “But if you know something about the Ireland, murder you’re legally and morally required to inform the police.”
My comment had an unexpected effect. Instead of looking guilty, and hanging his head in shame, my son stared straight at me. He smiled and his chest puffed out—not too much, but enough to strain the too-small nightdress.
“Certainly, Mother. I’m aware of my duty, thank you for reminding me. I’m glad to hear Miss Davidson’s been released. Really, I am. I didn’t like to think—never mind. You’re not watching the bacon, and it needs turning.”
I returned the focus of my attention to the pan. The bacon was not in need of turning. The fat was pure white, the meat pink, and the whole thing as soft as a baby’s dinner. And my son was lying to me. A serious matter, but of no relevance to Irene and the murder. Whatever secret he was trying to conceal was probably something he’d heard hanging out with boys of whom he knew I wouldn’t approve. He was afraid of telling me he’d been listening to wharf-rat gossip.
I poked the flabby bacon; it spat grease into my face.
* * *
I had nothing planned for the day and since it was Sunday, I intended to sleep as long as I liked. A note propped up against the tea canister asked Mrs. Mann to leave me alone.
As so often happens, my optimistic intentions came to naught. At first I simply lay awake, watching the rising sun dance through the thick layers of sawdust on my window, remembering how unpleasant it had been sitting on the wooden bench at Fort Herchmer while splinters found their way into one of my best skirts and men pretended not to see me.
Mrs. Mann stumbled out of her room, coughing heavily. She tried her best to be quiet, but she dropped a log on the kitchen floor while ferrying it to the stove, knocked a pan off the table, and shouted at Mr. Mann to shush.
This Ireland business was threatening my peace of mind. The fellow seemed to be some sort of malicious ghost, even more annoying dead than he’d been alive. Asleep or 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