The Lost Mine Murders Read online

  “Not yet. We’re hoping one of the connections we made there will give us a lead.”

  She shivered despite the heat of the dance. “That poor child. Has Lizzie the papers for her?”

  “Not even a record of her birth. And only the late unlamented Jackson’s word that he left the baby in care in Denver.” He was silent for a moment while he neatly avoided another couple and executed a truly masterly turn. “I’m beginning to fear he sold the child.”

  “But that’s horrible! Do you think you’ll ever find her?”

  “I promised Lizzie we’d bring her daughter back.”

  The arms that held her so lightly through the dance tightened a little and his jaw firmed. He’d keep his word, no matter what it cost him.

  Just as he’d done when he cleared his friend Scott of murder. Emily gripped his arm a little tighter, sought a lighter topic. “And how are things with your business? Have you any new clients?”

  He grinned.

  “You do,” she said. “Tell me.”

  But when she’d heard about their new client and his lost mine, her enthusiasm dimmed. She’d heard the stories of men losing their lives in those mountains. “You do know it’s dangerous?”

  A grin was her only answer.

  The dance came to an end and he escorted her off the floor.

  One of the maids stopped and proffered her tray. Emily gave the girl a quick smile as they each accepted a glass of champagne.

  Granville raised his glass to her in a silent toast.

  Emily could feel her cheeks heating, and hoped he’d blame it on the dancing. “This affair must seem awfully dull to you,” she said quickly, “after all the grand balls you attended in London.”

  “Actually I avoided most of them, and spent the better part of the ones I did attend in the card rooms.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. The grander the ball, the more formal it is, and the more rules there are. Too much posturing for my taste.”

  “I know. It’s fun to dress up, but none of this is real.” She waved a gloved hand at the throng.

  “You don’t enjoy the dancing?”

  Most men didn’t dance as well as he did. “Yes, but I’d much rather have spent the evening skating, then stopped for hot chocolate.”

  “Then we must plan such an evening.”

  She flushed a little, but met his eyes. “You needn’t pretend…” she began.

  “Emily!” came her father’s voice from behind her.

  “ …To agree if you don’t,” she finished quickly. Granville’s eyes were glinting, the scoundrel. Removing her hand from his arm, she turned to face her father.

  “Hello, Papa.”

  He gave her the slightly baffled look that said he thought he’d missed something. “Hello, puss. Are you enjoying your chat with your fiancé? “

  “Enormously,” she said. Beside her, she thought Granville choked on his champagne. Serve him right.

  “And what are you discussing so earnestly?”

  “We were talking about whether today is really the dawn of a new century,” Granville said smoothly.

  Here we go, Emily thought.

  “Indeed it is, and it will be Vancouver’s century,” Mr. Turner said with the air of a true enthusiast. “We’ve electric streetcars and lighting, steam trains running clear across the continent. More settlers are arriving every day and real estate is booming. Who knows what might be ahead of us.”

  The same blond maid stopped beside them and held out her tray. Granville and Mr. Turner each accepted a glass of champagne. Emily still hadn’t finished hers.

  Turner raised his glass in a toast. “To progress,” he said. Then catching the eye of an acquaintance, he gave them a nod and strode off.

  Emily and Granville exchanged glances.

  “He’s right, you know,” Granville said softly. “Here we stand amongst the signs of progress,” and with a wave he indicated the glittering crowd, brightly lit by the electricity that had so inspired Mr. Turner. “And the irony is, tomorrow I’ll be tramping into a wilderness that hasn’t changed in thousands of years.”

  “While I will be mastering the typewriting machines Papa says are changing the face of business,” said Emily, watching him.

  “But then, that’s why you’re taking this job, isn’t it?” she asked. “You appear entirely the polished sophisticate, but it’s the wilderness that appeals to you, is it not?”

  Granville looked at her for a long moment, but before he could answer their hostess came bustling up.

  “I must introduce you to the Seymours,” she said, and the moment was lost.

  THREE

  Tuesday, January 2, 1900

  As he folded a pair of sturdy wool trousers into his knapsack, Granville thought about Emily’s comment. Much as he’d hated alternately freezing and roasting with few comforts and less food while searching for Klondike gold, something about the vastness of the primitive landscape had fascinated him.

  And here he was choosing to venture into another wilderness, with only the amenities he could carry on his back. From a tailed frock coat to a Mackinaw in one day, he thought with a grin.

  He checked that both water bottle and whiskey flask were full. Shouldering the heavy canvas knapsack, he took a last look around the narrow, twin-bunked room he shared with Trent Davis, their assistant and would-be apprentice. He was glad he’d insisted the boy stay in town and keep the office open.

  The lad meant well, but they were going into difficult country. With his enthusiastic, no-holds-barred approach to life, Trent would probably get himself killed. Though the boy probably had better wilderness skills than he’d had, arriving in Alaska with the social polish of a gentleman and little else.

  He shook his head at the memory of eighteen months of lessons learned the hard way.

  At least they wouldn’t have to trek in a thousand pounds of supplies this time.

  Pulling open the door, Granville came face to face with Trent. “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to help look for the lost mine.”

  He glanced at his watch, flipped it closed. “Walk with me, but lower your voice. The shops on Water Street can barely keep up with the demand to outfit Klondike hopefuls, even now. One mention of a local mine and half of them will be following us instead.”

  “There’re rumors anyway. People have been looking for that mine for years.”

  Granville settled his pack, turned towards Burrard. “Tell me.”

  “‘Bout ten years ago, an old Indian named Slumach was hanged for killing another Indian. Later, people talked about how he used to come into town and pay for things with gold nuggets. Rumor was he drew a map to his mine before he died. A lot of folks looked for it, but no one found the mine. Or the map.”

  “Anyone know where the nuggets came from?”

  “Nope. Old Slumach had a trap line, spent a lot of time in those mountains behind Pitt Lake. But my Pa talked to a geologist once; the man said it was the wrong country for gold. Wrong kind of rocks, or something.”

  Granville nodded to an acquaintance on the far side of the street. The streets were still fairly empty—too much celebrating the night before. Which meant they wouldn’t be overheard.

  “Gold can be a funny thing. Sometimes it washes downstream for miles, sometimes it hides just under the surface. One streambed can be rich with nuggets, while another just a few yards further down the mountain has nothing. Unless you look in exactly the right place, you don’t find the gold.”

  “And you think your new client knows where the right place is?”

  Granville shrugged. “He has a map.”

  “Slumach’s map? Let me come with you!” The boy’s eyes were shining. “I’m strong, and I work hard. Please, Granville?”

  “Chasing gold this time of year is dangerous work. Ever been in the mountains behind Pitt Lake?” Granville asked, expecting to hear a no.

  Trent gave him an odd look and a cocky grin. “Sure. Pa and I used
to hunt there every year.”

  “In fall, perhaps. Mountains can be deadly in winter.”

  “It was winter. We was trapping weasel, and they sell for more after the fur turns white. It’s a big area, but I know parts of it pretty good.”

  Granville gave him a considering look.

  In the month since they’d met, good food had filled out some of the hollows in Trent’s face and he was starting to take on some bulk to match his height. His knowledge of the region could be useful; otherwise they’d be at the mercy of their client’s knowledge.

  Still, it was a risky undertaking—probably best to leave the boy behind. “We need you to wait on word from Denver.”

  Trent’s face fell, but he nodded. “You’d best take the interurban tram to New West, rent horses there. Central Livery on Begbie are honest and they’ve good stock.”

  Mentally saluting Trent for accepting his disappointment like a man, Granville picked up the olive branch he had offered. “On Begbie? Thanks.”

  “When d’you plan to be back?”

  “No more than a week. We’ll take enough grub for longer, though.”

  If there was one thing he’d learned on the creeks of the Klondike it was the danger of packing in too little food. The cold and the lack of amenities he could deal with, but he’d had enough of starving.

  Trent was looking at the rifle strapped to one side of the pack. “You planning on hunting for fresh meat?”

  “That’s my intent.”

  “I’m a good hunter.”

  “Trent…”

  “And I hate to miss an adventure. I could help. Really.”

  For a moment Granville wavered. He remembered being Trent’s age and feeling exactly the same way when his older brothers forbade him to join the Hunt. “You’re not good enough yet, John,” William had drawled.

  William was the Baron now, with a growing brood of his own. He hoped the years had taught his eldest brother to have more empathy in dealing with youngsters, but suspected they hadn’t. He felt a flash of pity for his nephews.

  In that moment, he nearly said yes to Trent’s beseeching look. Then his gaze traveled to the shadows still evident under the boy’s eyes and he thought better of his impulse. “No. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’ve faced danger in those mountains before.”

  There was something in that simple statement that stopped him.

  Granville looked hard at the youngster matching pace with him, saw the changes that presaged the man to come. The boy was growing up. He deserved the chance to prove himself.

  “Right,” he said. “You can come, but I’ll need your word of honor you won’t take foolish risks.”

  “You have it,” Trent said, but the gleam in his eye almost made Granville regret his words.

  Ten o’clock found Trent, Scott and Granville still at the interurban depot on Carroll, anxious to be underway. Cole was late.

  “Finally,” Granville said to Scott as they boarded the cream and olive car.

  Scott grinned at him. “This isn’t London, y’know,” the big man said. “More than one train a day’s a luxury. Few years ago, you’d be waiting until tomorrow.”

  Scott was definitely in better spirits today. He’d made the right decision in agreeing to this mad venture, after all. Despite Cole’s lies. “I’m surprised Trent suggested taking the tram, then.”

  “You’d lose more time riding. This way, we cover nearly fifteen miles of very rough ground in less than an hour, courtesy of electricity, so stop griping. And you even had time for a second cup of coffee.”

  “You call that coffee?”

  Scott’s grin widened.

  Settling into padded leather seats, watching the gray, dripping forest fly by the windows, he had to admit Scott had a point. They’d be out in the damp and the cold soon enough.

  Things went smoothly when they reached the terminus in New Westminster. Central Livery, just two doors down from the train station, was as clean and efficient as Trent had promised. Proprietor Pat Devoy quickly found four mounts for them, plus two mules for their packs. Running an expert eye over the animals’ proportions, Granville was pleased to approve.

  Each of the horses had good lines, strong teeth, and the thick coats that said they’d survive the weather. Even the mules looked healthy and surprisingly obedient, for mules. “We’ll need them for a week, maybe longer,” he said, with a nod of approval.

  “Good enough. We need five dollars down per mount, two for the mules, and we’ll settle up on your return,” Devoy told him.

  They’d been riding for more than an hour when the tiny hairs on the back of Granville’s neck prickled. His hand went to the revolver that rode low on his hip, and he turned to look back.

  It was drizzling lightly, and the flat light made it difficult to see any distance. They’d kept a steady pace along the flat lands bordering the Fraser and left the township well behind. He watched for a long moment, but nothing moved except a tug pulling a log boom down the river.

  Scott and Trent both saw him reach for his gun and sat alert.

  Cole’s eyes were watchful but not worried.

  Granville nodded to them, tightened the reins and fell back.

  Once the others had moved out of earshot, he listened hard, his eyes scanning the riverbanks and the woods beyond them.

  Nothing.

  No sound, no movement to explain the feeling of being watched.

  After a bit, he urged his mount forward and caught up with the others, though the uneasy feeling persisted.

  Another hour’s hard riding saw them reach the merging point of two rivers. Granville reined in and stared at the water stretched wide and flat before him.

  The Fraser was a muddy brown, slow moving and dotted here and there with chunks of ice that must have broken off somewhere further upstream. The second river flowed a deep blue-green, its faster current spreading into the brown of the Fraser in drifting patterns.

  “That’s the Pitt,” Trent said, pointing to the blue water. “We follow it north and east.”

  His eyes followed the river upstream. The land was marshy, the banks low, covered in long grass and brambles and edged with poplars and firs. The curve of the river and the height of the trees screened any hint of the mountains they were heading for. “Which bank?”

  “The south. North bank’s steeper,” Trent said. “We’ll have to cross the Pitt on the railroad bridge and the horses won’t like it, but it’s easier going later.”

  Granville turned to his client. “Does the map indicate the best way to the mine?”

  Cole smiled, showing long yellow teeth. “Nope. Just shows where the color is, nothin’ about getting there.”

  “Figures,” Scott said, rolling his eyes at Granville.

  Trent looked interested. “Can I see the map?”

  Cole examined him up and down. “Can I trust him with it?”

  “Yes,” Granville said and Scott nodded.

  Cole brought out the map, unfolded it. “Hold it careful,” he said, handing it to Trent.

  “Course,” said Trent absently, his attention already on the yellowed paper with its faded ink lines. “This Pitt Lake?”

  “Yup,” said Cole.

  Trent frowned.

  Granville moved to look over Trent’s shoulder. “What is it?”

  “If it’s where I think it is, it won’t be easy to get in there. In summer it would take us a day, maybe two. This time of year, with the snow that’ll have filled the valleys and covered over the trails, it’ll take three at least, and that’s just going in.”

  Granville grimaced, but he’d expected as much. “We have provisions for that long.”

  “And we can’t take the horses.”

  “What?” Scott asked, riding up on Trent’s other side.

  Trent pointed to the section of the map bordering the mine’s location. “It’s too steep to ride with the ice that’ll be on these trails. And see these hatch marks?”

  “Yes.” />
  “Ice fields. The horses can’t cross them.””

  “Can we leave them somewhere on the trail?” Scott asked.

  “This time of year?” Trent shook his head.

  Granville looked at Cole. “Is this true?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Prob’ly not worth risking it, though.”

  “And you couldn’t have said something before we hired the horses?” In his annoyance, Granville’s Oxford accent was more pronounced than usual.

  Cole smirked. “We needed them to get to the lake.”

  “And what do you propose we do with them then?”

  “Wal, we could leave them with the traders. Or the Indians.”

  “There’s a Katzie village at the mouth of the lake, and a trading post a mile or so east, place called Port Hammond.” Trent said.

  What other little surprises did their client have in store for them? “Can we make either today, before the light fails?” Granville asked.

  Trent nodded.

  “Since it’s closer, I propose we head for this Katzie village.”

  “No, we’ll stop the night in Port Hammond. Have to camp, but at least we’ll get a hot meal.” Cole’s tone was definite.

  “Might I ask why?” Granville said.

  “Why is my business. I’m payin’ the bills.”

  Cole was up to something, but the more they learned about the man before the reached the wilderness, the better. “Port Hammond it is, then.”

  FOUR

  Wednesday, January 3, 1900

  Granville woke abruptly, disoriented. The scent of wet canvas, fresh mountain air and dirty socks was so familiar he half expected to pull back the tent flap and see the tumbled boulders and deep trenches of Stikine Creek. Then he remembered setting up the tents just beyond the cluster of wooden bungalows that constituted Port Hammond.

  The town boasted a general store —where he and Scott had purchased snowshoes—a tavern, a livery stable and a Chinese laundry, strung along a main street built of rough logs. On the far end of the street, a red lantern hanging outside a double size cabin indicated the local brothel. All the necessities, he’d thought dryly.