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  “No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. Mother said he knew her name.”

  “Let’s go inside and talk. Too many ears around here.”

  Ray Walker emerged from the Savoy carrying a shovel with a bent handle. He passed it to McAllen, who was looking a mite green around the gills. “Make sure ye do a fine job now, lad. Bad for business, ye ken, folks tracking blood across yon floorboards.”

  McAllen swallowed.

  “I might as well interview Angus here,” Sterling said. “Can we use a private room, Walker?”

  “I suppose I can trust the two o’ ye in Fiona’s office.”

  The dance hall, at the back of the Savoy, was empty of customers at this time of day but would not be for much longer. The nightly show was scheduled to begin at eight o’clock and the room would be filled to overflowing with foot-stomping, cheering, belching cheechakos and sourdoughs. The room had no windows, the only light came from the front rooms and the kerosene lamps, which emitted a smoky, yellow glow. The second-floor balconies were dark. Helen Saunderson, the Savoy’s maid of all work, was sprinkling fresh sawdust on the floor while Murray the bartender arranged benches in rows in front of the stage. Four of the dancers were standing together, chatting. They were dressed in their street clothes prior to heading to the dressing room to change into costume. They broke off as the men came in.

  “A man murdered only steps from our door,” Betsy sighed in delicious horror. “Oh, young Angus,” she gave him a bawdy wink, “you’d best be walking us girls home tonight.”

  Angus felt himself changing colour. He tripped over a cracked floorboard.

  Ray growled. “That’s enough o’ that, Betsy. Don’t let her hear you talking like that.”

  They had not the slightest doubt who “her” was.

  “Nothing but another drunken layabout,” Irene yawned. Irene Davidson, stage name of Lady Irénée, was the most popular dance hall girl in all of Dawson. Ray Walker put his arm possessively around her. She giggled and snuggled in close.

  Irene and Ray were courting. Angus knew his mother wasn’t at all happy about that, although she refused to discuss the reason why.

  “No one said anything about murder,” Corporal Sterling snapped. “And I don’t want any of you spreading rumours.”

  The girls twittered demurely.

  “She said it was safe to work here,” said a pretty girl standing slightly behind the others. She was new and younger than most. “My father won’t be pleased to hear there’s been a killing.”

  “No one was killed here,” Irene reminded her. “And don’t you start saying he was. We can’t do much about what happens outside our doors.”

  “Mrs. MacGillivray might be delayed tonight,” Ray said. “Isn’t it time ta start getting changed?”

  “Delayed? Whyever would I be delayed?”

  Angus loved watching people react to his mother. She swept into the room, dressed in a red silk evening gown with plunging neckline and bare shoulders, black hair perfectly arranged beneath a stunning hat, jewellery sparking in what little light filled the room. Her face and hands were scrubbed clean and a touch of rouge applied to her lips and cheeks. He had no doubt she’d been hiding in the wings, waiting for the suitable moment to make a grand entrance.

  “Good evening, Corporal. I was delighted to see that the alley is once again clean and tidy. Angus, your supper is waiting at home. Ladies, I believe we have a show to put on.”

  Only Richard Sterling and Ray Walker never seemed to be nonplussed when Fiona put on a display. “Supper will have to wait, I’m afraid,” the corporal said. “I want to know who that man was and what you and Angus have to do with all of this.”

  “Nothing. We have nothing to do with it. Angus and I were unfortunate enough to be passing by shortly after he was set upon by footpads. That’s all.”

  “Let’s go upstairs, shall we. You can tell me about it. I’ve sent for Inspector McKnight.”

  “Most unfortunate.”

  Sterling struggled not to grin.

  “You got back awfully soon, Mother,” Angus said. “Didn’t you have your supper?”

  “I could scarcely eat while you were under interrogation, now could I? Mrs. Mann will be bringing me a package later.”

  4

  One end of the upper floor of the Savoy was used as accommodation for any of the male staff temporarily without lodging, as well as a place for big gamblers to take a nap rather than having to leave the building and possibly neglecting to return. Fiona’s office was at the other end of the hall.

  It was a practical room, used for nothing but business. Her desk was placed under the window, pens and pencils and paper laid out neatly on the green blotter. A single visitor’s chair faced the desk, looking out over Front Street, and a cabinet had been pushed up against the wall. No drapes hung across the windows and no pictures were on display, only a cracked mirror so Fiona could check her appearance before heading downstairs. A green and orange sofa, which had seen far better days, provided the office’s only feminine touch.

  It was in this room, Richard Sterling suspected, where Fiona could be herself. Practical, sensible, down to earth. All the rest: the dresses, the jewels (most of which were fake), the voice, the gestures were strictly for public consumption.

  Fiona threw herself into her chair, leaving Angus and Sterling to stand.

  “Richard, I have never seen that man before. And, as you know, I remember the face of everyone who comes through the doors of the Savoy. Angus, did you know him?”

  Angus shook his head.

  “One of the dancers had been here, in my office, earlier in the afternoon. She left her shawl behind, and I took it to the dressing room on my way out.” Fiona smiled at her son. “Angus was kind enough to offer to escort me home. As we were in the back, we simply exited through that door, intending to cut through the alley.” She threw up her hands. “He came out of nowhere. Straight toward us. And …” she looked at Angus, “fell into me. It was only then I realized he was wounded. I knelt beside him, intending to offer assistance, but it immediately became obvious he was beyond help. Then he expired. In my arms.” She shuddered.

  “Angus?” Sterling asked.

  “He was being chased. I saw him. A man was after him. Soon as he saw us, Mother and me, he darted away. I … uh … I went after him.”

  Fiona groaned.

  “And?”

  “Sorry, sir, but he disappeared. By the time I came out onto the street he was gone. I didn’t know which way to go. I went north, but only as far as Second Street. No sign of him there, and I remembered Mother was all alone. If he returned … well, I thought I’d better get back to Mother.”

  The boy was too brave, sometimes, for his own good, Sterling thought. Just as well he hadn’t cornered a man who’d thought nothing of knifing a fellow in broad daylight. He’d say nothing about it in front of Fiona, but have a word with Angus later about fools rushing in.

  “Would you recognize this man again if you saw him?”

  Angus chewed his lip. “I don’t think so, sir. He was just a shape, you know. Running away.”

  “Are you sure it was only one man?”

  Angus thought. “I saw one. But I can’t swear he didn’t have an accomplice running ahead.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Ordinary working man’s clothes. Dark trousers, jacket. A cap.”

  “Mrs. MacGillivray, did the deceased say anything to you?”

  “No. Well, my name. He said my name.”

  “But you didn’t recognize him?”

  A smile touched the edge of her mouth. She lowered her head and arranged her skirts. “I am not unknown in this town, Corporal Sterling.”

  “He said nothing else?”

  She hesitated. There was more, he knew it. She ran her long fingers across the silk on her lap. It rustled gently. “Nothing. He said my name, and then he died.”

  The heavy tread of boots sounded on the stairs. Inspector McKnight burst in, mou
stache bristling, eyes gigantic behind the thick lens of his glasses.

  “We might as well set up a detachment in this office. When I was informed that a dead man had been found in the alley behind a dance hall I scarcely needed to bother inquire as to what dance hall. Do you bring trouble upon yourself, Mrs. MacGillivray?”

  “Sir,” Angus straightened in protest, “my mother …”

  “Yes, yes.” McKnight waved a hand. “Your mother is never responsible for anything that goes on here. What is it this time? A man’s been stabbed, the constable said.”

  “Looks that way, sir,” Sterling said. “The body’s at the undertaker’s and the doctor’s been summoned. Angus saw a man running away.”

  “Will you look at the time?” Fiona rose to her feet like a river of shimmering red. She tucked her pocket watch into the folds of her skirt. “Almost eight o’clock. Now that I’ve answered all your questions, I need to get downstairs and ensure all is ready for the evening’s show. If you gentlemen manage to sort this business out, please do join us. Angus, once you’ve assisted the police, go home.” She rounded her desk and made little shooing gestures as if she were chasing chickens into the coop. “I suppose, Corporal, you’ll want to join the doctor when he makes his examination. Most unpleasant. You will, of course, not be taking my son to witness that.”

  “No,” McKnight said, “that won’t be necessary.”

  Angus was smart enough not to even try to protest.

  Quickly and efficiently she cleared the room. She locked the office door behind her. Sterling had a great many more questions to ask of her, but now that McKnight had arrived it was up to the inspector to ask them. As he didn’t seem so inclined, there were other things they could be doing. Such as examining the body.

  * * *

  As I’ve previously observed, there’s apparently nothing that will keep the crowds away from the Savoy. We’ve had dead bodies on the stage, a hostage taking, a suicide, a kidnapping, yet we continue to be the most popular dance hall in town.

  We might, truth be told, be the most popular dance hall in town because of those things, rather than despite them.

  Tonight was no exception. Once I got the police out of my office — rather neatly done, if I do say so myself — and descended the stairs, eight o’clock was approaching.

  Precisely at eight p.m., give or take a few minutes, up and down Front Street all the dance halls send out musicians and callers to announce the beginning of the evening’s entertainment. It makes an unholy hullabaloo as callers bellow out the attractions to be found within, and every orchestra strikes up a different piece. More than one musician in this town is remarkably short on musical aptitude.

  Yet that hullaballoo is music to my ears, as crowds pour into the bar, the gambling room, and the dance hall, every one of them eager to spend their money as fast as they can.

  Ray and I are more than happy to oblige them.

  I went through to the back to watch the beginning of the stage show. Six nights of the week we put on four straight hours of entertainment: show girls, comedy routines, scenes from Shakespeare. Tonight the performance opened with a magician who went by the sobriquet of Roland the Magnificent. He was a new act, and I wanted to ensure I was getting my money’s worth. Roland, if that was indeed his name, wasn’t much of a magician. He did a few card tricks, pulled coins from the décolletage of a giggling Betsy, messed about with coloured scarves, but he was highly amusing and played to the crowd so beautifully some of the old timers forgot they were only enduring the opening performance while waiting for the girls to prance across the stage. Roland the Magnificent got fewer boos than male performers usually did, and, satisfied with my decision to hire him, I made my way through the gambling room — also echoing with the sound of money — to the bar.

  When Ray and I bought the building, less than a year ago in the autumn of 1897, it had been nothing but a two-storey shell, erected so quickly some of the wood was still green. It boasted a rickety staircase, loose floorboards, a slanting floor, crooked windows, and doors that didn’t close properly. The first thing we did was to have the front and back doors fixed and sturdy locks installed in order to secure the precious supply of whisky. The condition of the structure we could do nothing about, not that we much cared — no other building in town was any better — but we set about decorating the place in an attempt to turn it into the sort of establishment that would impress miners and labourers. We hung red-and-gold wallpaper on two and a half of the walls, and when that ran out covered the whitewashed remainder with mirrors and paintings. A portrait of Her Imperial Majesty, in all her aging glory, hung in pride of place behind the long mahogany bar. We’d stuck a Union Jack into one side of the frame and, in an attempt to please the sizeable number of Americans who made up our custom, a Stars and Stripes into the other.

  Two nudes, one fair-haired, one dark, graced the walls on either side of the Queen. A large mirror in a heavy guilt frame filled the wall beside the stairs. It had been dropped in the hanging, and a substantial crack ran from one corner to the other.

  In Dawson, one made do.

  According to the law, we were expected to provide a source of fresh drinking water, and a large barrel to that effect stood at the end of the bar, beside the scales where Ray and his men weighted the gold dust used in place of money. Every establishment in town dealt in gold. Once a month we carefully lifted the floorboards beneath the scales, usually turning up a welcome extra bit of profit. The saloon was always dimly lit, even in the middle of the extended northern day, as the room was long, the windows small, the glass poor. Kerosene lamps provided additional illumination, along with smoke and a noxious odour that clung inexorably to the interior of my nose. A small kitchen, which also served as a closet, was situated behind the bar. There Helen Saunderson could whip up a meal of toast and beans and bacon in the event that a big spender at the tables began making noises about going in search of something to eat.

  I smiled when I entered the room. I loved every creaking, smoky, stinky corner of this place. Particularly when it was packed to overflowing and men continued to attempt to stuff themselves inside.

  Ray and I had met in Skagway, each of us heading to the Klondike in search of our fortune. We decided to join forces. We were two halves of a highly efficient whole, and it was unlikely either of us acting alone would have been able to run the FINEST, MOST MODERN ESTABLISHMENT IN LONDON, ENGLAND, TRANSPORTED TO DAWSON as the banner hanging over the street so proudly proclaimed.

  Patrons were lined up three deep at the bar. Ray and his men were a blur of motion, pouring drinks, wiping up spills, collecting coins, weighing gold dust. Barney, an old drunk and one of the few who’d been near when gold was first found and thus arrived at the Creeks in time to dig up a fortune, occupied his usual place perched on a stool in the centre of the long mahogany counter. Barney might have made his fortune, but he’d lost it almost as fast as it had been made, and these days he earned his drink spinning tales to new arrivals, those we called cheechakos, eager to hear all about the legend of the Klondike as they consumed my whisky.

  Barney waved me over. I was rather fond of the old soak and went to say hello. Before I could reach him, a man stepped in front of me. He was perfectly dressed in striped trousers, shiny black waistcoat, and fluffy white cravat. A gold ring sat on his index finger, so large it covered the entirety of the first joint. His moustache was thin and neatly-trimmed, and his black hair shone with an excess of carefully applied grease.

  “Madam.” He offered me a formal bow. You don’t see that in Dawson much. “It is a pleasure.”

  I smiled and held out my hand. He bent low, and touched it with his lips. “You are the proprietress?” he asked. He was young and quite handsome with good teeth, a long straight nose, and a clear complexion. His accent was formal and slightly off, indicating he’d learned English in school rather than at his mother’s knee.

  “I am Mrs. MacGillivray.”

  “Allow me to introduce myself
. Count Nicholas Ivanovich Prozorovsky, at your service.”

  A count. And not penniless by the look of him. How nice. Not even a King of the Klondike could spend money like minor Russian aristocracy.

  “I hope you’re enjoying yourself, sir. Please do check our dance hall. We have the best show in town. And our gambling tables are fully equipped.”

  “I have a mind to try my luck at poker. Do you offer such a game?”

  “Certainly, Count Prozorovsky. You should have no trouble finding men eager to play with you.”

  “Please, you must call me Nicky. This is America, no? Where all men are equal.”

  “This is America, no. This is Canada. Where we honour our Queen.” If Count Nicholas Ivanovich Prozorovsky had truly wanted to be called Nicky, he would have introduced himself as such.

  He laughed. “A matter of semantics perhaps, or a shift of a borderline.”

  I never talk politics with the customers. “Do enjoy your evening, sir.” I began to move away.

  “Might I request the honour of your company over a late supper?” he asked.

  I never dine with them either.

  At that moment, I spotted my son crossing the floor, carrying a brown paper package that no doubt contained my evening meal. “As it happens here comes my supper now.”

  Angus stuffed the bag into my arms. “Here you go, bye.”

  Count Nicholas Ivanovich Prozorovsky sniffed and thrust a small coin at Angus. “Have you no manners, boy?” he said. “Take this lady’s supper to a quiet table and lay it out. If you can do a decent job of it, I’ll give you another coin.”

  “Huh?” Angus said.

  “Count Prozorovsky, you are speaking to my son,” I said.

  He bowed deeply to Angus and tucked the money away. “My apologies, young gentleman.” He turned to me. “You will forgive my impudence, please. An easy mistake to make. Surely this boy is your stepson; you are far too young to have a child of this age, no?”

  I was tiring rapidly of the count and his tedious old-world manners. I accepted the package from Angus. “Thank you, dear.” Angus made no move to leave. He stood firm while drinkers milled about him. Offended at being mistaken for a messenger boy or a servant, he was going to ensure the count left first.