The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

  PRAISE FOR THE SILK TRAIN MURDER

  “…an impressive debut…lots of colorful historical detail...”–Booklist (starred review)

  “Talk about a big, bubbling stewpot of a book!… Rowse, a first-time novelist, has delivered a wild ride through a colorful, relatively unknown period in North American history, and she's populated it with a host of unforgettable characters. Her protagonist, the Honorable Granville, makes an appealing leading man, and his lady love, the liberated Emily Turner, provides the perfect romantic coda to this rip-roaring adventure. ” –Mystery Scene Magazine

  “Rowse knows her characters . The chemistry between Turner and Granville is potent and charming, focused more on investigation than romance, but with enough hints of a lasting partnership for future installments. It’s just another of the many unexpected pleasures that make Rowse one of Canada’s newest mystery writers to watch.”–Quill & Quire (starred review)

  The Silk Train Murder

  A Klondike Era Mystery

  By Sharon Rowse

  Three Cedars Press

  Vancouver, BC

  Copyright © 2007 by Sharon Rowse

  Cover photo copyright © 2006 by Sharon Rowse

  Cover design copyright © 2011 by Three Cedars Press

  Kindle edition: 2011

  Carroll & Graf Hardcover edition 2007

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, in any manner without express written permission from the publisher, except in the context of reviews. Every reasonable attempt has been made to identify owners of copyright. Errors or omissions will be corrected in subsequent editions

  For all those who shared the journey

  – with thanks

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Acknowledgment

  Also by Sharon Rowse

  About Sharon Rowse

  Free Preview of The Lost Mine Murders

  Free Preview of Death of a Secret

  O N E

  Monday, December 4, 1899

  “Shut the door! It’s bleedin’ cold out there.”

  John Lansdowne Granville glanced at the bartender through the smoky gloom and let the heavy cedar door slam behind him. Sauntering over to the bar, he hooked a stool with one foot and sat.

  Whiskey, straight up,” he said.

  The shot was placed none too gently on the counter in front of him, but he needed that drink and didn’t much care how it came. He lifted his glass in a silent toast to all those who’d prophesied he’d come to no good, grinning at the look his gesture earned him from the scrawny bartender.

  Not only was the Beaver Tavern the dreariest, most down-at-heels bar he’d seen since he left the Yukon, it was the worst he’d seen on the bleak streets lining the Vancouver docks. Noisy, dim, and crowded, the place fit his current mood perfectly, not to mention his pocketbook. He’d enough money left for either a meal or a drink or two. He’d chosen the latter, and intended to enjoy them.

  Unbuttoning his heavy coat, Granville brushed the snow from his face and beard, then tossed back the rest of the shot. The bartender was still watching him, eyes narrowed and suspicious. The man looked rather like a ferret, all sharp angles and twitches. Granville grinned again, well aware he looked grimy, unkempt and penniless, which he was. There was no sign of the gentleman he’d been two years before.

  He’d made his choices and didn’t regret them. He could live without the endless social parade, sleeping till noon every day and having a perfectly starched cravat, though being dead broke and having holes in his boots was starting to get tiresome.

  Behind him, the door opened with a blast of cold, salty air and the clattering of wagons over cobblestones. A huge man swept up to the bar, shaking snow in all directions. “Damn, it’s freezing out there. Barkeep!” he hollered, banging on the bar with a meaty fist.

  Granville froze at the sound of that voice, staring at the broad face, bushy black beard, and deep-set brown eyes reflected in the tarnished mirror behind the bar. Sam Scott!

  He’d last seen his former partner more than three months earlier as they’d bade each other safe journey in Skagway. He’d been returning to England to make peace with his father and Scott had been heading for Seattle. The big American hadn’t changed a bit, except he looked better fed. But what was he doing here?

  Reflexes honed fending off gold-hungry claim-jumpers obviously still worked. Scott sensed he was being watched. He met Granville’s gaze in the mirror with a hard stare, followed by dawning recognition. A grin split his thick beard and clapped Granville on the shoulder with a vigor that nearly knocked him off his stool.

  “Granville, you scoundrel! Never thought I’d find you here! What happened? Jolly old England not quite so jolly?”

  How to answer that one? With a shrug, Granville decided not to try. He signaled for two whiskeys, then slid one down the bar to Scott.

  “What, you don’t talk any more? Never thought I’d see the day!”

  “You’re thinking of yourself, old man,” he said. “Cheers.”

  “What’s the matter, your tongue still frozen?” Scott laughed, then turned to face Granville. His expression sobered. “By Saint Christopher, Granville! What in hell’s wrong?”

  Too much traveling with too little money and too little food, plus the news that his father was dead, Granville thought. But this wasn’t the place to talk about it, and besides, he wasn’t nearly drunk enough yet. He shrugged, and signaled for another round. “You know how it goes.”

  Scott studied Granville’s face. Ignoring the bartender’s interest, he cancelled the order with an abrupt wave of his hand and threw a coin on the bar. “I could use a steak, a thick, bloody one. How about you?”

  His stomach hurt at the very thought of food. “Sounds good.”

  “So Turner ended up hiring me to guard the rail yards and the cars,” Scott concluded, emphasizing the point by waving a chunk of steak impaled on his fork. He looked meaningfully at Granville’s empty plate. “The pay is good and it’s steady work, every night in fact. I know it’s no job for a gentleman, but I sure could use some help. Interested?”

  Granville had to smile. They’d nearly frozen digging gold out of unforgiving rivers and Scott was still worried about a job, any job, being beneath him? Still, he could see his friend was worried about him. And he knew he’d polished off the meal as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Which was true, but that was his business. He didn’t want pity. He hadn’t accepted charity from his brother and he wouldn’t accept it now. “It doesn’t sound like enough of a job for two men.”

  Scott shrugged, an innocent expression sitting oddly on his weather-beaten face. “The rail yard’s a big place. And it’s not easy to find a man I can trust.” He grinned. “I already know I can’t trust you, so I don’t have to waste time worrying about it.”

  “For the record, I don’t trust you, either.”

  “Damn, but I’ve missed you, Granville.” Scott grabbed his mug and downed a mouthful of coffee. “What do you say?”

  “I’ll need to think about it.”

  “Think fast. We go on watch in a few hours. And I have to keep
my strength up. Want another steak?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Scott yelled the order to the harried cook. If he wondered about the protruding cheekbones above his friend’s ragged beard, he had the discretion not to ask.

  Granville sat back, his stomach full. Only a small chunk of gristle remained of the second huge slab of meat Scott had ordered. At least tonight he wouldn’t wake from dreaming of food to find his mouth watering and his stomach screaming.

  Money had been short since he’d left the Yukon to set off on the long journey home. He winced with the memory of finally reaching Toronto to find Henry’s months-old letter waiting for him. Their father was dead and William now the sixth Baron. “Come home,” Henry had written. “All will be forgiven.” Granville smiled bitterly. Not with William as head of the family, it wouldn’t be.

  He eyed his tablemate with affection. They’d first teamed up with in the spring of ’98. After a year and a half of backbreaking work on the creeks, with the money running out and no gold to show for it, they’d left Dawson City just before winter set in again, both scrawny and half-starved. Now Scott had the confident look of a man who knew where his next dollar was coming from.

  Unlike himself. Granville’s mouth twisted wryly. As he worked his way west, he’d clerked for a merchant in Toronto, helped round up cattle on a vast Alberta ranch, even swung a hammer as a navvy for the CPR. Gambling was the only way he knew to make real money, but he’d sworn on Edward’s grave never to touch cards again.

  Was Scott serious about the job? It struck him as odd they’d need more than one man to guard an empty train, especially when that man was as big as Sam Scott. If it wasn’t real work, he was gone. The word was they were looking for miners in the Kootenays. He’d find a way to get there, somehow.

  Granville realized Scott was no longer eating and was looking at him quizzically.

  “So, are you in, partner?”

  “Partner? I thought you needed someone to work for you. . . .”

  “Nope. That was only if all I could get was a hireling. What I really want is a partner. And you’re him.”

  Granville narrowed his eyes. “I’ll work for you, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”

  “Partner or nothing.”

  “Then it’s nothing. I won’t accept charity, especially not from a friend.”

  “Can’t you get it through your thick skull that I really need your help?”

  There was a ring of truth in his voice even Granville’s pride couldn’t ignore. He met Scott’s gaze for a long moment, gauging the truth of his words, then nodded slowly. “I’ll work with you. But if it’s not right, then you have no obligation to me.”

  Scott extended his hand. “Then shake on it.”

  Midnight found the two men guarding a string of boxcars in the Canadian Pacific Railway yards. The darkness was broken only by the wavering light of three hanging oil lamps. Just beyond the pool of light, the black waters of Burrard Inlet lapped softly against the wharves.

  Granville shivered and drew his torn coat more closely about him. He wished he’d brought a flask; a nip or two would keep the damp cold out of his bones. “You’re sure your employers are willing to pay both of us to just stand in the yards?”

  “Yup.”

  “It makes little sense to me.”

  “Makes sense to the boss.”

  “Still,” Granville said. He was feeling argumentative; it kept his mind off how cold his feet were. He’d have to use most of his first pay to buy new boots.

  An odd creaking from somewhere in the yard behind them took his mind off his feet. He touched Scott’s shoulder and gestured in the direction of the sound.

  They moved so each was covering the other’s back. Granville had his knife ready, and he’d seen the size of the baseball bat Scott carried. They stood listening, barely breathing, and then the creaking came again, followed by a metallic crack, hastily muffled.

  Scott stepped forward, motioning for Granville to stay behind him. Hugging close to the shadows, they circled toward the rear of the railcars. Scott stopped suddenly. Granville shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, senses alert.

  The smell of creosote was even stronger here, despite the rain, and he could taste the salt in the air. He couldn’t hear anything but the ocean.

  The breeze shifted and he caught a whiff of cheap cigar smoke. Granville spun around, ducking as he did so. The cudgel whistled by his ear, missing him by inches.

  Straightening, he caught his half-seen assailant’s chin with a sharp left hook. It stopped the man cold, but a second attacker close behind kept coming.

  In the flickering shadows cast by the lamps it seemed they were moving in some exotic dance. Granville feinted, then tripped his opponent, striking the fellow with the haft of his knife on the way down. He looked warily about. Scott had dealt easily with a third man and it seemed there were only three of them.

  The man he’d punched showed signs of stirring. Granville was about to employ the knife haft again when his partner stopped him.

  “Just tie ’em up, will ya? I’ll have a few questions for them when they all wake up.” Scott tossed him a coil of oily rope.

  Grabbing it, Granville did as he’d been asked. The men stirred, one muttering something.

  “So why the interest in empty boxcars, boys?” Scott asked his groggy captive audience. He was answered by a thick silence. He asked again. Less patiently.

  Granville crossed his arms and lounged back against the wall, his expression as fierce as he could make it. It had started to rain, a thin, drenching wetness.

  “Who’s behind this?”

  “Nobody. It was our idea.” This from the youngest of the three. His face gleamed too pale in the lamplight, and his voice cracked on the final word.

  He had only just begun to shave, Granville thought, wincing as he noted the bump rising behind the kid’s ear. How had he become involved in a caper like this? Looking at his threadbare clothes, Granville knew the answer; money, of course. When was it ever anything else?

  Whatever Scott was thinking, it didn’t show on his face as he looked the kid up and down. Finally he drawled, “Your idea?” The scorn in his voice made the boy’s ears go red.

  “It was,” he insisted. “It was our idea. Tell ’em, Da.” He looked toward one of his fellow prisoners, who was sporting a deep scowl.

  “Shut your face. You’ll hang us all.” The father’s face was as gaunt as his son’s.

  “Very clever,” Scott said, though his tone was still an insult. “So if this plan of yours succeeded and you ended up with the silk that’s going into these boxcars, what were you planning to do with it?”

  “Sell it.”

  “Hmmm. And where were you planning to sell two thousand bales of raw silk?”

  The man’s baffled silence spoke volumes. Twice he opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again under Scott’s contemptuous gaze. Finally Granville entered the discussion. “You might as well come clean,” he said. “It will go easier on all of you. Unless you really want to hang.”

  He put a hand on his knife as he strolled toward the boy. The father looked anxiously at Granville and his son. Sighing heavily, he licked his lips and coughed. At the sound, Granville paused. “Well?”

  “I can’t tell you who hired us.”

  “I think you can.”

  When no further information was forthcoming, Scott offered encouragement with a nudge in the ribs. “We’re getting tired of waiting here.”

  The man on the ground swallowed hard, cleared his throat. “Jackson. It was Jackson,” he whispered as his expression turned fearful.

  Granville recognized the name: Clive Jackson was Benton’s man. The soft hiss of Scott’s indrawn breath confirmed everything Granville had been hearing about Robert Benton. The word was he practically owned Vancouver’s underworld, with ties to the highly profitable businesses of gambling, prostitution, and smuggling. Benton was even said to be linked to the Chinese-run opium dens
.

  “Are you willing to swear that before a judge?” Scott asked.

  “Instead of jail time? The answer’s yes. We’re to be gone from here after tonight, anyway. The only trick’ll be to stay alive long enough to leave, if’n I swear against Jackson.”

  “You can think about it until tomorrow. Till then there’s a nice, safe jail for folks like you. Just as soon as our watch is over.”

  “You mean you’re going to leave us tied up in the rain till dawn?”

  “So, you know how long we’re here.” Scott observed. “Good work. Wonder who else knows? You got partners, waiting till we drag you off?”

  “Maybe we should just shoot them,” Granville offered. “Then they wouldn’t have to worry about getting wet.”

  “True.” He considered their prisoners. “Of course, if they agree to sign a statement now, then leave town for good, we could probably let them go . . .”

  “We’ll sign,” said the first man. “Anything.”

  T W O

  Tuesday, December 5, 1899

  The café was warm and bright despite the early hour, and drops of condensation ran slowly down the windows.

  “So how long have you been standing around in the rain guarding boxcars?” Granville asked Scott over plates heaped with sizzling sausages.

  Hs partner took a bite before replying. “Three months or so. It’s a lot better than hunkering down in a blizzard scrabbling for nonexistent gold. And it sure beats starving.”

  “I can see that.”

  Scott laughed.

  ”So why would anyone pay good money to guard empty boxcars?”

  “Those aren’t just empty boxcars, those are the Silks.”

  “The what?”

  Scott seemed to be enjoying Granville’s confusion. “The silk trains. Those particular boxcars are lined with steel, to keep from damaging the silk.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Once a month steam liners from the Orient bring in cargoes of raw silk. The bales are loaded into those specific boxcars, then shipped to New York. We only guard the Silks right before the liners dock. The rest of the time we just keep an eye out.”