I heard bitter laughter, but that didn’t seem reasonable. What was there to laugh at when I spoke of justice?
“We must send for the chief constable at once,” I said loudly over the noise. “He’ll question Mr. Tremblay and any who saw what happened. The law will make sure the truth is discovered. Justice will be done.”
“I have already sent someone to fetch...” began Sing Kee, but Henri Tremblay’s guffaw interrupted him.
“Incredible!” the Frenchman said. “You will send for the law, Monsieur Ted? Pourquoi? Why disturb the chief constable? It was only a Chinaman, a Celestial. What matters the death of one of them?”
Two
Ah Mow was only one of many who had died in Barkerville. Death was a frequent visitor to the gold fields where the work was hard, the winters harsh, and diseases sometimes seemed to hover over the town as thickly as the black flies did in the summer heat.
Death wasn’t unusual in my town, but murder was.
I was glad to see Chief Constable Lindsay when he finally arrived. Although I stayed by the dead man’s side, the mob had become unruly. I hadn’t been sure how long I could keep the men from seriously injuring Mr. Tremblay. Anger surged around him, and though he laughed and shouted curses, I could see that his bravado was failing, that he was afraid.
The chief constable dismissed me with thanks and took over the unpleasant job of dealing with Ah Mow’s body. So I left to continue the errand that had brought me to town early this November morning.
Two hours later I was ready to begin my day’s work. But before I went to the carpentry shop I walked farther up the road to where Ah Mow had died. I stood for a moment outside his restaurant, staring at the dark stains on the stairs, then began to retrace my steps toward Pa’s carpentry shop. Just past the restaurant was a small building known as the Tai Ping Fong, or Peace House. It was here that ill or dying Chinese men were taken. Others in their community tended to them, bringing them food and medicine, staying with them until they recovered or death claimed them.
Although much of Barkerville had been destroyed in the great fire in September 1868, today no signs of the devastation could be seen. Most of the lower town had been completely rebuilt, and the fire had spared the buildings in the community’s upper end. The tiny Tai Ping Fong, like most of the buildings of Chinatown, had survived the blaze.
There was a young woman in front of the Peace House. Even though I saw only her back, draped in a long green shawl, I recognized her. That was Bridget’s shawl.
She worked at the Hotel de France, and more than a year ago she had been my close companion during a difficult time. It was Bridget who had comforted me, as I her, when together we mourned the death of a friend.
“Bridget!” I called, “Oh, Bridget, I’m pleased you’re here.”
She turned toward me, but it wasn’t Bridget.
Confused, I blurted out, “Excuse me. I thought you were Brid...I thought you were someone else.”
She smiled. “Nae, do not apologize, sir. It was not a glaikit mistake at all.”
“Excuse me?” I said again, this time because I didn’t understood what she had said.
“It is not glaikit, or foolish, at all to mistake me for Bridget. I am her cousin Jenny, newly arrived from Scotland to live in this wild country. Although I have only been here a short while, many have mistaken us for each other, even though I am much younger than my cousin.”
Jenny wore a bonnet, and her hair was tucked under it, but a few unruly blond curls had escaped and lay against her cheeks. Her hair was a soft gold, while Bridget’s was brown. Except for the colour of her hair, she looked a lot like a smaller, younger Bridget. But when she spoke she didn’t sound at all like Bridget. She had brought Scotland with her in her voice.
I glanced at her feet. They were encased in thick boots that made them appear clumsy. She followed my eyes. “This country of yours is cold, sir. My cousin lent me a warm shawl and a pair of her boots. They’re a mite too large for my feet, but they’ll suffice for now. I do fear my clothes are nae so stylish as those I wore at home. I see few stores here that carry fashionable garments for women, though Mr. Moses’s barbershop seems to be well stocked with ribbons, lace, and leather gloves.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Jenny. My name is—” I began. But she carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Have you heard, sir? There was a murder just a few steps up the street this very morning!”
“Ah...yes, I’ve heard.”
“This Barkerville is a dreadful town. Why, there was another murder here not so long ago. The murderer was hanged on the evidence of a barber who recognized an oddly shaped gold nugget that had belonged to the dead man.”
“I recall that incident well.”
“The streets of this town seem paved with violence. Well, since they’re nae paved at all, just snowy, rutted paths not like the streets of Inverness, which are real streets—”
“How long have you been here, Miss Jenny?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“A mere two days, sir. I was thankful to end the long journey. Would you believe it, a small satchel—a very small satchel—was all I was permitted to take aboard the ship that brought me to this country. How on earth a woman is expected to clothe herself adequately with only the contents of one small suitcase-well, it’s very difficult. The boots I had with me were nae suited to this climate, and I lost my good shawl on the boat from Victoria to New Westminster. It was a long, cold stagecoach journey up the Cariboo Road without it, I assure you. Bridget lent me some of her clothes until I can find more suitable attire.”
For some reason I felt myself blushing. “F-forgive me,” I stammered. “You have much the same manners—and looks— as Bridget, though now that I see your face there is...I mean, I know Bridget well...I mean, she’s a friend...I mean, she was a good friend of a friend of mine...I mean...” What was wrong with my tongue? I wondered. It wouldn’t behave, and the words it struggled with made little sense. But Jenny seemed not to have noticed.
“Mistaking me for Bridget is easily done, sir,” she said, smiling. “Don’t be distressed by your error. Indeed, I’m pleased that so many in this town know my cousin. I hope I, too, will find friends here.” The smile changed her face, making her resemblance to Bridget no longer so striking.
I finally found my tongue. “Welcome to the gold fields, Miss Jenny. I’m a friend of Bridget’s and—”
“You’ve been crying. Is all well with you?”
“Crying? Me. No, not at all. It’s the wind.”
She stared at me silently.
“The wind, yes, it’s only the wind that’s made my eyes water,” I repeated.
“Oh, the wind, was it? I see.” She looked as if she didn’t believe me, but then she turned again to gaze at the small building in front of her. “Perhaps you can tell me, sir. This wee building—is it the one the Chinese people call the Peace House?”
“Yes,”
