Lamps, clothes, boots and bags hung from the roof posts. Sterling didn’t have enough headroom to stand up straight.
The air was rank with the smell of unwashed clothes and the damp mud of the building itself.
They were greeted by the broad behind of a plainly dressed woman. The rest of her was bent over a basket sorting through a pile of clothes. She straightened up and turned, one hand supporting the small of her back.
“Afternoon, Constable. Looking for a bed?”
“Just information, thanks. Are you Ruth?”
“I am.”
“Constable Black says hello.”
She might have grinned, but Angus couldn’t be sure, so poor was the light.
“Well, if it’s talk you’re wanting, let’s go outside where I can see better.”
Sterling and Angus backed out of the hotel. Ruth sat on the bench, placed her basket beside her and pulled out a sock. She found a sewing needle in the collar of her dress and pushed one finger through the toe of the sock. “How is the old fellow?”
“Not missing Grand Forks.”
“Don’t imagine so. What do ya wanna know?” She began darning the sock. Her eyes squinted, and she pulled her head far back from her task. Angus wondered why she wasn’t wearing glasses. There was no place to sit, and he felt most uncomfortable looming over the woman. But she didn’t seem to mind.
“Looking for a fellow name of Johnny Stewart. Scottish, cheechako, passed by here yesterday.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Small, about five feet five or six, clean shaven, although that won’t last for long, hundred and twenty to hundred and thirty pounds. Mid to late thirties, not much hair left. Probably has a strong accent. He hasn’t done anything wrong. I only want to ask him a few questions about a friend of his.”
Ruth broke the thread with her teeth and put the mended sock to one side of the basket. “You want coffee? Only thirty cents.”
Thirty cents for a cup of coffee! Angus couldn’t believe it.
“That would be nice, thank you, Ruth,” Sterling said. The woman struggled to her feet with a groan. Sterling gave Angus a wink. “If I don’t buy a coffee,” he whispered, “she won’t answer my questions.”
Ruth returned with the hot drink in a battered tin mug. She handed the coffee to Sterling, resumed her seat with an uncomfortable grunt, rooted through her basket, and came up with another sock. The heel was worn so thin, there was almost no wool left. Sterling took a sip of his coffee and tried not to grimace.
“How come you got your son with you?” she asked, squinting at Angus through one eye. “Ain’t seen the Mounties do that before.”
Angus flushed, thinking that he should correct her, but proud of her misunderstanding. He rarely thought of his father, who’d died in a riding accident before Angus was born. His mother never talked about him, and she didn’t have a picture.
Sterling ignored the question. “Did you see Stewart?”
“Might have. Yesterday, round suppertime, bunch of cheechakos comes down the trail. They was speakin’ English, but you wouldn’t know it by me. Musta got all the way to Dawson by boat, ’cause they thought that trail were a tough one.” She chucked. “They was lookin’ for accommodation, but my place weren’t quite up to their likin’. Hard to believe, ain’t it boy?”
“What? Oh, yes, ma’am. It seems perfectly acceptable to me. Ma’am.”
She chuckled again. “Don’t be so polite, boy.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean no, ma’am.”
“They won’t be so fussy comin’ back.” Sterling laughed.
“No, they won’t. Did you see where they went from here?”
Ruth nodded down the creek. “That way, but I can’t say much more. One fellow asked where they could get somethin’ to eat. I told him ta try Mary’s. She does good food, Mary. Expensive though.”
“Where can we find Mary’s?”
“Just keep walking that way. Couple hundred yards or so. If’n you don’t see it, ask anyone.”
“Thank you for your time.” Sterling drained the contents of his mug and handed it to the woman, along with thirty cents. “If you should see these men again, tell Stewart I’m looking for him. But only because I want to help a friend of his.”
Ruth took the money and returned to her mending without giving them another glance. Sterling woke Millie and loaded her up.
Chapter Thirty-Four
As I was up, dressed and mad as a rattlesnake, I might as well go to work. Today was Tuesday. Tomorrow I’d have to face Sergeant Lancaster and try not to laugh as I told him I wouldn’t marry him. I’d worry about that tomorrow. Today, all I could think about was my son and what he might get up to in the gold fields. Although, once I calmed down, I realized that the worst that was likely to happen was that he got gold fever and decided to become a miner. That would last about a week at the absolute outside. Richard Sterling would be as angry at Angus’s antics as I, but he’d keep my boy safe.
Until I could kill him! I arrived at the Savoy to find that Helen had all the chairs in the saloon piled on the tables in order to wash the floor. Sam Collins’s wife, Margaret, nursed a cup of tea on the single chair remaining upright, her feet resting on the table to let Helen mop around her. Her skirts were bunched up to her knees and I caught a glimpse of wellmended but spotlessly clean stockings and shoes with the soles almost worn through.
Seeing me, she dropped her feet to the floor. “Put your feet back up, Margaret,” I said. “Can’t interfere with Helen’s mopping.”
“Keep to the wall,” Helen said. “Can I go upstairs?”
“No, floor’s wet.”
“I want to get to my office. I won’t leave a mark.”
“You stay right there, Mrs. Mac,” Helen ordered. I wondered if she’d ever been housekeeper in a girl’s school.
“I’ve done washing these floors, and just ’cause you comes in early, don’t mean I want to do ’em again.”
“Sorry,” I said meekly.
“You wipe your shoes at the door, and you can come sit here.”
I did as instructed then crept, suitably chastized, into my own establishment. I flipped a chair off the table and sat across from Margaret Collins.
“How’s Sam doing?”
“Very well, thank you for asking, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“He’s recovered from his brush with fame?”
I’d meant the comment as a joke, but Margaret’s eyes darkened. “Sam doesn’t want fame. He did what was right, what any decent man would have done. That’s all.”
I held up one hand. “I know, Margaret, and I’m sorry trouble came of it. But, well, Mr. Ireland isn’t around to cause any more of a disturbance, now is he?”
“And praise God for that,” Helen said in a firm voice.
She placed a cup of coffee in front of me and pulled up a chair to join in the conversation. “Ain’t right to speak ill of the dead, but that Mr. Ireland…”
“The Lord works in His own way. But I can’t pretend to be sorry Jack Ireland has gone to meet the devil,” Margaret said primly.
I stumbled around, searching for something to say. “You have a lovely accent, Margaret. Quite distinctive. Where are you from?”
She