The Lost Mine Murders Read online

  “Thanks, I’ll do that,” he said, and went to fetch the horses. He’d just finished saddling the mare when Trent returned.

  “He headed for the telegraph office, sent a wire to Vancouver,” the boy said, out of breath and clearly pleased with himself.

  “Good work. How did you find out?”

  “Stood in line behind him. Couldn’t read it, though.”

  “We’ll find out in Vancouver. Let’s go.”

  “Aren’t we going to wait and talk to the bar owner?”

  “No. He isn’t likely to tell us anything anyway. We’ll do better in town.”

  “You hope,” muttered Trent.

  Granville ignored him.

  Sally’s Diner was hot, crowded and smelled wonderful. Both Granville and Trent had been so hungry they’d headed here the minute they got off the streetcar from New West. Watching Trent shovel an enormous piece of steak into his mouth, oblivious to the crowded booths and buzz of conversation around him, Granville could not quite decide whether to be grateful he was no longer that age, or a little envious of Trent’s single minded focus.

  His own thoughts were torn between the need to take the next train to Denver to search for little Sarah and the need to stay in Vancouver and ensure Emily’s safety.

  Emily would be at her typewriting class tomorrow, so this evening was likely his best chance to talk with her. Unless Trent decided he needed a third steak, that is.

  Trent looked up to find Granville’s eyes on him.

  “What?” he said, putting down his fork. “You can’t tell me you weren’t hungry.”

  “No, I definitely was,” he said, emphasizing the past tense. “But I’d forgotten how much a boy your age can eat. It’s truly amazing.”

  “I’m not a boy,” Trent said. “And I can pay for my share, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  He waved that off. “Hardly. With the work you’ve done the last few days, I should be paying you extra.”

  “Good idea. Especially now with the gold, and the extra work in finding the missing heiress.”

  “And just how did you know about that?”

  Trent forked up another piece of steak, chewed thoughtfully, then grinned at him. “You talk in your sleep.”

  “I have it on good authority I do not.”

  “When you’ve a bullet in you, you do.”

  This was not good news. “Did anyone else hear me?”

  Trent gave him an injured look. “‘Course not. Think I’d let you go blathering on about private matters if someone could overhear you?”

  “What did I say?”

  “You seemed to be assuring the old man you would find the girl, the map’s true heir. On your honor, you said. She’s pretty, too.”

  He noted that Trent sounded impressed by his vow. He kept discovering new depth to the lad. Then his last words sunk in. “Who is pretty?”

  “Mary.”

  Granville felt a surge of excitement. “You know her?”

  “Nah. But there’s a picture. And part of a letter.”

  Why was he only hearing about this now? “Where are they?”

  “Tucked in behind the map. I held onto the package while the shaman fixed your arm, remember?”

  And he was quick thinking too. “How do you know her name is Mary?”

  “Name’s written on the back.”

  Right. “I’ll check it out later.”

  “Why not now?”

  “I take it you want to make it easier for our pursuers?”

  “Sorry.” Trent looked around him. “You don’t think any of them are here, do you?”

  “Since we don’t know who ‘they’ are, I can’t answer that with any validity. We haven’t been shot at yet today, though.”

  Granville leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Whoever they are, keep in mind they want the gold very badly. And they suspect you know where it is.”

  “We all do.”

  “And we’re all in danger.”

  “Huh. So, are we going after them tonight?”

  He smiled at the boy’s eagerness. “No, I plan to visit Emily this evening.”

  “But why…” Trent began, then looked at Granville. A knowing grin slid across his face. “Oh, I see. You missed her.”

  “It is simply a courtesy expected of an engaged man,” he said, but Trent was right. Underneath his worry for her safety, he had missed her. She was refreshing.

  “Uh huh,” said Trent with a grin and a sideways look. “Well, I’ll go to the kitchen and catch up with Bertie.”

  “We’ll need to shower and shave first,” he said, fingering his seven-day growth of beard.

  “We will?”

  Emily sat in their hot, over-decorated parlor, sipping her mother’s second best Assam tea and wishing she were out for a brisk walk somewhere. When Granville’s name was announced, her teacup clattered in her hand and she had to place it carefully on a side table.

  It took every ounce of the training her mother had drummed into her to sit quietly as he was ushered into the parlor, impeccably dressed and looking as if he’d never left town, much less been shot at.

  Luckily the ritual of greeting gave her time to recover.

  ‘“Granville. Good to see you,” her father boomed at him. “You’ve been out of town?”

  “Yes, a small matter of business,” Granville said.

  “I trust it went well?”

  “Very well, indeed.”

  How could he respond so blandly when she knew he’d been ambushed and nearly killed? And where were Trent and Mr. Scott?

  She searched his face. Surely he wouldn’t look so calm if they’d been injured?

  “Emily? Are you going to greet your fiancé, dear?”

  What to say? She couldn’t blurt out what she wanted to know. “Good evening, Mr. Granville.”

  “Good evening, Emily. You are well?”

  “Very well. And yourself?” She met his eyes, a question and the fear she’d felt in hers.

  He smiled at her, but he looked tired. “Also well, though my partner suffered a minor injury.”

  “Mr. Scott? Will he be all right?”

  “Indeed. I left him near Port Hammond, where he is recovering.”

  It must have been serious then.

  Emily’s eyes ran quickly over Granville’s tall frame, pausing on a slight bulge on his right arm that marred the fit of his black coat. A bandage?

  “Emily? Dear?”

  Emily realized she was staring again, and felt her cheeks heat. If she weren’t careful, Mama would forbid her to see Granville until her manners improved, which would be a disaster. “I hope he’ll recover quickly.”

  He inclined his head. “As do I.”

  “Will you have a cup of tea, Mr. Granville?” Mama asked.

  “Thank you, no, I must go. I only returned to town today, but wanted to pay my respects and inquire how Emily’s typewriting classes are progressing.”

  All eyes focused on her. Her father looked unhappy to hear her training acknowledged, since he preferred to ignore it entirely.

  “They are going well, thank you. I do look forward to meeting Clara for lunch most days, though.”

  “Indeed,” Granville said. “And do you still meet at Stroh’s teashop?”

  She gave him a relieved smile. He had understood. “Yes. It’s a favorite of ours.”

  “Then I hope you enjoy your lunch. And that your lessons continue to go well.”

  As her father saw him out, Emily drew in a ragged breath. At least she knew he was alive and unhurt, or mostly unhurt.

  “Emily? Are you all right? You look pale.”

  “I’m fine, Mama. Just a little tired.”

  Her mother gave her a sharp look, then her lips relaxed and she smiled. “Then go on up to bed, my dear.”

  Emily stood up before her mother changed her mind, bending to give that lady’s softly powdered cheek a kiss.

  With a little luck she could use the telephone in the hall without anyone o
verhearing. She only hoped Clara was free for lunch tomorrow, because she intended to meet Granville regardless, and that was sure to cause a scandal.

  Behind her she could hear Miriam’s sharp voice saying, “Well, she does give herself airs, and all because she is engaged. Personally, I don’t believe he will ever marry her. After all, what can a gentleman like that see in Emily? She has no manners.”

  Emily grinned as she heard her mother hushing Miriam.

  Miriam was right, Granville wouldn’t marry her. But not for the reasons her sister thought. Though the truth, if she ever heard it, would undoubtedly upset Miriam even more.

  FIFTEEN

  Thursday, January 11, 1900

  As Granville strolled into the teashop accompanied by Trent, he was struck by the mingled scents of vanilla and honey. It smelled of home.

  He nodded affably to several of the matrons he’d met at the Morton’s New Year’s Ball, then his gaze settled on Emily. Her green dress matched her eyes and brought out red lights in her hair, and her gestures added life to some point she was making. Clara’s blue eyes and curly blond locks were what society considered beauty, but it was to Emily’s bright smile his eyes returned.

  “Good afternoon, ladies. Emily, thank you for your message,” he said as he slid into the chair opposite hers, taking care not to put too much stress on the fancifully designed and fragile-looking wrought iron.

  She was smiling at him. “So you did get it. I’m relieved.”

  “But in sending it, you may have put yourself in danger. And then talking to Riggs and Gipson—Emily, what were you thinking of?”

  “I heard you’d been shot.”

  “It was nothing. And it’s hardly a reason to put yourself in danger.”

  “So you were injured.”

  Her tone was accusing. He held back a grin. “I’m here now.”

  “But you were shot?”

  “In the arm,” Trent broke in, leaning towards Emily. “And Mr. Scott too. That’s why he’s still at Katzie. And we were caught in an avalanche.”

  Emily went pale and Granville gave Trent a look. The boy just crossed his arms and settled back in his chair. “She has the right to know,” he said.

  “Thank you, Trent,” Emily said. “And I had to send that message. You needed to know about little Sarah. And you needed to know about the plot against you.”

  “Getting yourself killed would not help me. They’ve already killed our client.”

  Emily went even paler and Clara covered her mouth with a white-gloved hand. “Oh, no.”

  “I’m afraid so. How did you learn of the plot?”

  “I overheard several of my classmates talking. One of them was Mr. Riggs’ son.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last Friday.”

  Three days after they’d camped in Port Hammond. Cole must indeed have talked. “That explains Riggs. But why Gipson?”

  “He’s involved with Riggs. Besides, Clara was with me.”

  “Gipson is dangerous. You can’t meet with him again.” And he’d warn Gipson what would happen if he ever touched her.

  A tiny frown appeared between her brows. “But what if…”

  “Emily, we’re engaged. He’ll know he can get at me through you. You make far too tempting a target for him.”

  A faint color showed in her cheeks. “But…”

  “Emily, please. I’m asking this of you.”

  She sat back in her seat, her eyes fixed on him. She seemed to consider for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Yes. All right.”

  “Will you swear it?”

  She smiled at that, and her eyes warmed. “Most men would not believe a woman had enough sense of honor to swear. Yes, I swear.”

  “Thank you. And you won’t meet again with Riggs, or anyone else you feel may be involved.”

  She met his eyes, hesitated.

  “Emily, someone has killed my client. They also tried very hard to kill the three of us. I can’t leave town to search for Sarah until I know you won’t give them a reason to go after you.”

  Emily breathed out a little sigh, then nodded. “I swear.”

  That fear laid to rest, Granville turned his mind to the problem of Gipson’s possible involvement. “What exactly did Gipson tell you?”

  “Very little. Mostly he dropped broad hints about lost gold mines.

  Granville turned that information over in his head. It seemed likely Gipson knew about the map, though it would be like him to mislead Emily, if only to cause confusion. He had no difficulty envisioning the man involved in a plot to kill him, though. He turned to Trent. “Is there a record of telegrams sent and received?”

  “You’re thinking of the one the boy sent from Port Hammond?”

  “Yes.”

  “The railway keeps carbons of every incoming and outgoing message,” Emily said. “I’m sure Papa could obtain a copy for you, if you explained about the attack.”

  She was as quick as ever. “Thank you, Emily. And perhaps the operator might remember who collected that particular message.”

  “Even if he does, how likely is he to tell us?” Trent said.

  “Maybe the telegraph operator would talk to a reporter.”

  Granville was surprised to hear Clara’s soft voice.

  Emily looked less surprised. “Like Mr. O’Hearn?”

  Clara nodded, a faint color dusting her porcelain cheeks. She might look like a china doll, but she was no fool. Not that Emily would have a fool for a friend. “Thank you. I’ll talk to O’Hearn.”

  He smiled at Emily. “Shouldn’t you be in class?” He pointed to the large clock over the door, black hands standing at two.

  “I am officially ill today.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Emily smiled. “I was ill yesterday, also, because I was looking into lost mines.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mr. Gipson implied that your map leads to the lost mine of an Indian named Slumach. I went to New Westminster to research the original newspaper stories from when Mr. Slumach was caught, tried and hung.”

  “Go on.”

  “He surrendered to his nephew, a man named Peter Pierre, who apparently spent the week prior to the hanging with Mr. Slumach. The nephew might know something that would help, though the articles didn’t mention the gold or the map. But rumors of nugget-sized gold and a map to a lost mine somewhere near Pitt Lake seem so numerous that almost everyone takes them for fact.”

  His mind raced. If he could find this Pierre, perhaps the man could tell them something that would assist them in finding Mary.

  “But you still haven’t told us what happened to you,” Emily said.

  In a few succinct phrases Granville described their journey, the discovery of the mine and the ambush. He downplayed the severity of his injury, but Emily’s eyes flashed to his arm and her lips tightened.

  He had the feeling she was seeing the bandage beneath his tight jacket. Though she said nothing, there was no mistaking the concern in her eyes. It was time for a change of subject. So he told them about his search for the map’s rightful owner.

  “But how will you find her?” Emily asked. “With nothing but the name Mary and a last name that may not be hers.”

  “That isn’t quite all.” Granville drew out a torn sheet of paper and handed it to her. Clara craned to see over her shoulder.

  “What is it?”

  “A fragment of a letter that may be either from or to the map’s owner. And it mentions Mary.”

  Emily considered the spiky handwriting. “It’s a man’s hand and he seems to be talking about mining. Where is Cripple Creek?”

  “I’ve never heard of it, unfortunately.”

  “It’s too bad there isn’t more information.”

  Granville drew out the photo from a silk-lined inside pocket of his coat and handed it to her. “There’s this, also.”

  She looked at the photo for a moment, then back at him. “Is this she?”

  “I be
lieve so. The name is the same, and I can think of no other reason for Cole to be carrying it with the map and letter.”

  Granville watched as Emily fingered the much-handled photograph. He had spent a half hour that morning studying the pale composed face, the formal hair and clothes. The sepia tones suggested brownish hair and light eyes. There was no name or date, but printed on the brown border of the card in faded gold script was the name of the studio; “A.J. Morgan.” There was no address.

  “She has a sweet face,” Emily said.

  Trent beamed.

  “I suspect the photo was taken five or more years ago, judging by her dress,” Granville said.

  Trent’s suddenly neutral expression didn’t quite hide his disappointment. Emily smiled at him. “I see an English gentleman’s education includes fashion. In this case, you may be wrong; the photo may be more recent,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “If she is indeed short of funds, then she may be wearing cast-off clothing. They would be a season or more out of date before being were passed on.”

  “Emily’s right,” Clara said. “You can just see where the collar has been turned. This is not a young woman who has new clothes every season.”

  “I bow to both your knowledge.”

  Emily was studying the photograph. “Perhaps I can help. May I keep the photo for today? And we can meet here again tomorrow afternoon. At four?’

  He didn’t see how Emily could put herself in danger looking for a photographer, so he agreed to both suggestions. Trent and Clara also nodded their agreement, though Clara gave Emily a look he couldn’t interpret. “Until tomorrow then. Trent, are you with me?”

  “Granville, I’ve been thinking about it,” Trent said as they walked past the imposing brick edifice of the Alhambra Hotel.

  “About what?”

  “Slumach’s lost mine. Did I tell you Pa knew Slumach? He’d a trap line that crossed ours.”

  “Did your father believe the man had found a gold mine?”

  Trent shook his head. “Nope. Said he never seemed to have much money, even when the traps ran well. But after Slumach died, the rumors got to Pa. We had a look for the mine a few summers back, but it’s big country up there.”