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  The short, round ticket agent tapped his toe behind the counter. He defiantly pressed his glasses up his nose with a sausage-like finger. “You may telegraph whomever you like, Mr. Saxton. There is simply no more room. We will gladly put you on the next train on Friday.”

  Saxton’s face reddened. “That is three days from now and will not work. I want on the train today, as I made my arrangements for. My cargo must be delivered in a timely fashion. Furthermore, I already have passage booked on the ferry back to Boston. That reservation is dependent on me arriving on time via this train.”

  “That does seem to leave you in a bit of a pickle.” The man wiggled his bushy eyebrows.

  “I wish to speak to the stationmaster.” Saxton crossed his arms over his chest. “At once, if you’d please.”

  The man’s jowls quivered as he threw his head from side to side. “I’m afraid that just isn’t possible either. He’s out for the holiday. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, you know? He won’t be back until Saturday. Afraid I’m in charge until then.”

  “If you’re in charge, then you can make the managerial decision to get me on the train.”

  “As I said already, she’s full up. Be a right shame if the Friday train were as well. With it being the day after Christmas and all, that could happen.” The man waved his hand dismissively at Saxton. “There’s wonderful boarding in town, but it might fill up quickly as well. I do suggest you hurry if you wish to sleep under a roof.”

  “This isn’t over.” Saxton stepped away from the counter.

  The next customer walked up and was promptly turned away. The ticket agent explained again that they were all booked up. The customer whined a little before going to sit on a polished bench by a row of big windows. The man, maybe eighteen or twenty, stared out at the massive train. Saxton looked out at it too.

  A great black serpent, backlit by the dying sun.

  Travelers milled about, bundled up against the cold. A pair of children shrieked and pointed excitedly at the brass accents and bright red paint around the engine. Families hugged and kissed and said long goodbyes. An old man paced awkwardly on his cane, a glowing cigar swinging in his other fist. Mounties in their vermillion uniforms, marched up and down the platform. One of them knelt in conversation with overly excited child that apparently felt the need to animate every word. Railroad men inspected the vehicle, one shining his light around and the other busily ticking off items on his clipboard. Saxton banged a fist against the wall and started to join the rest of them outside when a brass bell over the office door heralded a new arrival.

  Saxton grimaced and stopped in his tracks.

  ***

  At the far end of the platform, a hired guard sat on a crate and puffed away at his cigarette with his legs swinging. His heels struck the box slats like hammer blows. He was a large man, hired for his imposing size alone rather than any skill in the field of security. It showed in his inattentive approach to the job. A man of his stature could always find extra work in these rough, frontier towns. It was cold and windy, but he got paid very well to endure the conditions—especially considering his only responsibility was standing next to the cargo and glaring at people menacingly. Being so close to Christmas, and in such bitter weather, there weren’t all that many people to intimidate.

  In the shadow of the station, a much smaller man stared at the cargo with a more mindful eye. His intentions being the exact opposite of the guard’s, however. He fished a coin from his pocket and eyed it for a moment, then dropped it back into his pants and retrieved two of a smaller denomination.

  The first one, he tossed nearest the guard. It hit a crate with a hard crack. The big man turned his head to listen for any other sounds. The second coin stuck a baggage cart a few feet further away, ricocheting noisily off the wooden frame and bouncing away.

  The guard slid from his perch and lumbered into the darkness to investigate. The stationmaster would be just as likely to fire him over a stray cat getting into the luggage as he would a thief. British Columbia was full of overgrown men eager to replace him. He raised a small, battered lantern and panned it around. Nothing seemed bothered by his presence or the light. As he got nearer to the back of the station something stirred. It moved quite fast, in fact. The smaller man lashed out with the prybar and the guard’s nose exploded. The spattered blood steamed in the evening air in its lazy arc to the ground. The little man hooked the prybar under the guard’s belt and used it to drag him behind a trash receptacle. Shadows and an old blanket would make sure no one found him until long after the discovery would matter. The thief made his way to a large box with four padlocks lining its sturdy side. Experience taught him the best prizes were under the most locks.

  ***

  The dapper gentleman in the long raincoat removed a gray homburg from his silver streaked blond hair and extended a hand to Saxton.

  “Alex, how has life treated you? It’s been entirely too long.”

  Saxton chewed his bottom lip and took the man’s hand. “Wells, what brings you to Canada?”

  “Why a train, of course.” Wells chortled and punched Saxton in the arm.

  Saxton forced a smile and a false laugh.

  They couldn’t have been more different. At fifty-five, Saxton was tall, lean, and rugged. He kept his black hair slicked back and never wore a hat, despite his father’s adage that a gentleman always should. He found them cumbersome and distracting. His suits were all brown tweed with white shirts. The morning was for coffee and a cigarette, and not to be wasted picking out one’s clothing for the day. His footwear was classy but sturdy and polished nightly, even when he was working in the field. Most notably, he always stood like a steel post—the rigidity, color, and coldness of which could also describe his eyes.

  Wells, Doctor James Henry Wells, to be formal, had a colt’s tooth and acted like a teenager. Though he was pushing seventy, the man was light and spry with a blithe humor and unwavering energy. He slouched and leaned and spoke with his hands, despite nearly two decades of service as a medical officer in His Majesty’s Royal Army. He was gentlemanly enough to wear the finest suits and carefree enough to join the neighborhood boys in a rugby match while wearing them. Where Saxton lived a life of purpose, Wells made his purpose living life.

  And Saxton hated him for it.

  “You look flustered, old bean.” Wells nodded at the ticket agent. “Were there difficulties with your reservations? These out of the way stations can be oh so problematic with such things. Especially around the holidays.”

  “Yes, so it seems. The ticket man says they’re all booked up.”

  “I hope that doesn’t mean we’ll be stuck here as well,” the woman to Wells’ right said.

  She was a short, robust, lady about Saxton’s age, if he had to guess. Her hair had already fully grayed—no doubt the cost of knowing James Wells—and was pinned in a bun. Her dowdy dress reminded him of terracotta shingles, both in color and utilitarian purpose. She wasn’t dressed for any other reason than to be clothed against the cold and, perhaps, the least picky of eyes. Despite her drab appearance and pale skin, her cheeks were rosy, which seemed to reassure the authenticity of the smile she offered Saxton.

  She extended her hand. “I’m Trudy Jones.”

  “Ah yes,” Wells said lightly. “I should’ve made introductions. Miss Jones allow me to present Professor Alexander Saxton. He studies rocks and knick-knacks of purported historical worth.”

  “One would think you’d have more respect for your fellow fossils, James.” Saxton took Miss Jones’ hand and kissed the back lightly. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear lady.”

  “Don’t be preposterous,” Wells scoffed. “Miss Jones is no lady. She’s an American. She is a wonderful doctor, however, and a remarkable help in my practice.”

  “For a woman, he means,” Jones chided.

  Wells shrugged. “Male assistants cost entirely too much and they don’t know their way around a kitchen nearly as well, my dear.”

  “
Your tongue’s as silver as your hair, James.” Miss Jones fanned herself mockingly. “It’s a miracle we get any work done at all with your charms.”

  Saxton’s laugh was authentic this time.

  “You’ll have to excuse us, Alex.” Wells patted Saxton’s elbow. “I do wish you could find a way on the train, so that we could continue to catch up. I must purchase our tickets and avoid being stuck in this dreary little burg longer than we have too. You must come visit, maybe for New Year’s. If you’re out of here by then.”

  “You old fool, I just told you they don’t have any more tickets.” Saxton watched the doctor make his way to the counter, undeterred. He looked at Miss Jones questioningly, but only got another smile.

  Wells approached the counter and leaned against it, angling himself for Saxton to see. “I need two private compartments. What’s the going rate for those, my good man?”

  “I’m sorry, but we are booked to capacity. We couldn’t possibly make room last minute.”

  Wells grinned at the agent and then turned to give Saxton a wink. The grin turned mischievous as he reached into his pocket.

  “I have always loved trains, such marvelous inventions. As a lover of trains, I read about them constantly. Have ever since I was a boy, as it were. I can tell you everything about them.” He pulled out a thick stack of bills, folded in a pewter clip. He peeled away three bills and laid them on the counter. “For example, I can tell you the passenger capacity of each of those cars outside.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that has to do with anything.” The ticket agent stared at the money. “We are all booked up.”

  Wells let another bill fall to the counter. “Simply put, you’re nowhere near full.”

  Another bill fell beside the other four. It was easily three times the worth of the two compartments and far more than ticket man’s salary.

  “Or maybe, I’m mistaken and you really don’t have room.” Wells swiped the money off the counter.

  The ticket agent caught his sleeve. The agent eased the money from Wells’ fingers and slipped it into his pocket before handing him two bronze-colored tickets. “Apologies, I forgot about the two compartments that opened up just before you arrived. Last minute cancellations can be so hard to keep up with.”

  “Yes, of course. An easy mistake to make with the holiday hubbub.”

  “Thank you for your understanding and patronage, good sir.” He pushed his wire-framed glasses back up his nose. “Someone will be most happy to help stow your luggage shortly.”

  Wells flashed Saxton his biggest smile. His false teeth were straight and perfect. He lost a few in a Manchester pub and just redid the full set for simplicity. It had been a marvelous brawl, Saxton reminisced while he rubbed the scar on his middle knuckle. It was a scar that came from one of those teeth being embedded in it.

  Yes, they were the worst of friends.

  “In New York, we call that knowhow,” the doctor gloated.

  Saxton sneered. “In the rest of the world, it’s called bribery and corruption.”

  “If it works, you can call it whatever you like. See you on New Year’s, old bean.” Wells tapped the tickets against Saxton’s lapel with a hearty guffaw.

  Saxton stomped to the counter and held out his hand. “My ticket, now if you’d please.”

  The agent whistled and shook his head with a self-assured smirk. “Afraid I just sold my last two.”

  The professor nodded sagely. “Are you sure about that? Last minute cancellations can be hard to keep up with.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He dragged the little man over the counter by his tie. The agent nodded vigorously, his jowls jiggling wetly with the motion.

  “I remember your reservation. Yes, yes, that’s it. That’s why it says we’re all booked up. I put it somewheres safe, so it wouldn’t get sold by mistake.” He fumbled for the little box he retrieved Wells’ ticket from and presented it with a constipated smile. “Here’s your ticket, right in here.”

  Saxton let the man slide back to his post. The agent’s shaky hands popped open the tiny hasp and he produced a ticket, which the professor gingerly plucked from the man’s fat fingers.

  “Thank you, I’ll be outside with my cargo awaiting one of those employees that will so happily stow it for me.” He walked over to Wells and Jones and waved his ticket with a roll of his wrist. “In Boston, we call that mediation.”

  Wells shook his head with a grin. “I believe in the rest of the world it’s called coercion.”

  “If it works, you can call it what you like,” Miss Jones said.

  Saxton was almost out the door when the scarlet-clad police officer stepped in.

  The officer looked about as he spoke, not sure of who he was actually searching for. “Professor Saxton, Professor Alexander Saxton.”

  “I’m Professor Saxton, what seems to be the trouble?” He rubbed the ticket between his thumb and index finger, nervous someone might have reported his mediation with the agent.

  The officer stood stoically with the bearing of a military man. Polished lieutenant bars caught light from an oil lamp and twinkled beneath his granite chin. His voice was solemn, but commanding.

  “I’m Lieutenant O’Hagan of the Mounted Police. I’m going to need you to come with me. There’s been a murder.”

  Chapter Three

  The awaiting baggage sat in tidy rows with little paper name tags flapping in the breeze. Crates, a few casks, and one lonely coffin lined the middle, between the proper luggage and an odd assortment of footlockers, duffle bags, and tied-off pillow cases. Two members of the Northwest Royal Mounted Police stood in front of the area with rifles clutched across their chests, while two more constables attempted to shoo away the curious bystanders, snoops, and scandalmongers. Their high, polished boots, with matching holsters and belts stood in stark contrast to their bright red uniforms.

  The lieutenant waved for one of the guards to move. That’s when Saxton noticed the sheet on the ground, pinned in place with a couple of loose bricks on opposing corners. A pair of brown shoes stuck out from underneath it, unmoving. A second man, much more alive than the other, stood against Saxton’s crate with a tightly rolled cigarette between his pencil-thin lips.

  The second man didn’t shiver against the cold. He didn’t even put gloves over his chapped hands, and his frock coat was much too light. He was indiscernible from the bitter December evening itself. His gray suit may as well have blown in on the snow drifts along with the platinum locks that kicked about in the frigid breeze and the matching imperial mustache that curved up and away from his narrow mouth. His features were as sharp, angular, and icy as any glacial shelf Saxton had seen and his eyes were of the same pale luminescence.

  The iceman flicked an ash and let the wind swirl it about in a chaotic dance. He didn’t offer a hand when Saxton approached, nor did he accept when Saxton made the gesture. Instead, he took another short pull off his cigarette and jerked his head toward the crate.

  “That yours?”

  Saxton stuffed his ignored hand back into his jacket pocket. “Who’s asking?”

  “Is there any answer I could give that would change your own?” The man blew smoke in Saxton’s face. “I think not. For what little it matters, my name is Inspector Mirov of the Dominion Police Force. Now that we’ve cleared that up, I’ll ask you again. Is this yours?”

  “Yes.” He pointed at the corpse. “And is that yours?”

  Mirov looked at the body and snorted. “I suppose it is, for the time being.”

  Lieutenant O’Hagan cleared his throat. “You don’t actually have jurisdiction here. With all due respect, that is.”

  Mirov flicked his cigarette against the Mountie’s shiny right boot and left a smudge of ash. He smirked at his handiwork. “By all means, lieutenant, since you’re taking jurisdiction, tell me what caused this.”

  “Can’t say as I know.” O’Hagan shifted nervously. “Simply saying that the body is in the custody of the Northwe
st Mounted Police. We appreciate any insight you might offer, Inspector, but we don’t expect you to trouble yourself any more than you already have. Your train does depart soon, as it were.”

  “Oh, I’ll make my train on time. Don’t worry yourself with that. What of the guard?”

  “The thief knocked him unconscious. One of my men is trying to straighten his nose back out, but I feel it’s a lost cause.”

  “Do I look like I care for the man’s wellbeing? Am I his mother, do you suppose?” Mirov pinched the bridge of his nose. “What did he see? He’s a guard, no? Paying attention is the bare minimum for which he was hired.”

  “He didn’t see anything, sir. He woke up, discovered the body, and came to fetch me.”

  Saxton stepped between the police officers and checked the locks on his crate. The chains that held the tarpaulin in place lay loose on the ground, but the others were undisturbed. He knelt and picked up the fallen lock. It was unbroken and deftly opened without the use of the key. A few lock picks were scattered on the cobblestones next to a broken cane. He inspected the walking stick and found it wasn’t broken, but rather the top section had been unscrewed. That piece was hollow to hide the burglar’s tools. He admired the ingenuity. Muffled voices behind him caught his attention.

  A man in black robes drifted into the crime scene. His beard and long hair matched his attire. Alert, amber eyes flicked about curiously between his overgrown eyebrows and olive cheeks. Snow flurries speckled the heavy, dark fabric and melted invisibly into his robes. Saxton noticed the brief flash of a priest’s collar beneath the beard when he turned his head to address the inspector.

  “May I offer the poor man his last rites?” the priest asked humbly.

  “I don’t suppose I give a damn what you do with a dead man. If you want to talk to him, feel free. Unless he talks back, I couldn’t care less.” Mirov turned to the professor. “Well, what do you have in there? What was the man after?”