Anson, who had almost forgotten the infectious sensation of joy, suddenly recognized the oddity of the situation. “Why on earth is this piano on the wharf? Why hasn’t it been taken indoors?”
The children blinked, as if they found the questions silly.
“But, doctor,” Edward said, looking toward the cannery buildings, “it’s the salmon season.”
Anson frowned. “Yes, I know, but why does that…”
Louisa, in a peevish voice, explained, “Father and Uncle have no time for anything except work when the salmon come.”
Feeling sorry for the children, and the girl in particular, Anson sought to recapture the joy of the moment before. With careful diplomacy, he thought he might be able to arrange piano lessons for the child.
“Perhaps I can help,” he said. “I will see what I can do. No promises, but a talent such as yours, Louisa, is a very rare and special gift. You understand that?”
The girl pushed her long hair back and revealed a hopeful smile. Anson could not see the tears in her eyes, but he knew they were present.
“But the Chopin?” he said, suddenly curious. “Where have you heard Chopin before? Does your family have a gramophone?”
The girl shook her head and replied in a trembling voice. “At the Parmiters. Mrs. Parmiter was playing it. From a book.”
From a book! Anson cupped his chin with his hands and murmured a brief paean in Latin. Finally, noticing the children’s confusion, he laughed and pointed at the piano.
“Well, Louisa, I cannot be satisfied with such a brief concert. Will you do me the pleasure of playing that piece again? I don’t know when I’ll have another chance to hear something so lovely.”
God truly works in mysterious ways, Anson thought, and as the music rose again, like a spring rain reversed and returned to the heavens, he could almost forget the murderous ways and the bloodied path he’d been forced to walk, away from the softly tolling certainties of his own childhood and youth.
V
The only thing interesting about a sunset, J.H. Craig mused as he stood on the wharf outside his New Westminster cannery, watching the agent’s dainty approach up the gangway, is that it tells fools to stop working. A seagull flapped out of the red sky and unfolded like a dirty newspaper on the planks a few feet away. It screeched and started to peck at something. Briefly admiring of the bird’s industry, Craig caught himself. He snarled at the bird and stomped toward it, waving his arms in small circles. Screeching louder, the gull flapped away. Craig bent to the red pulp of salmon flesh, disgust turning his lips thinner. Goddamned waste. Such a firm piece of fish belonged in a tin. He stood, gingerly brushing dirt off the piece, and watched the agent almost tiptoeing toward him. Belvedere Smith. A ridiculous name, but it suited an English gadfly more interested in fancy clothes than in the workings of a cannery. Still, he could be useful.
The agent’s orange suit in the red sunlight made Craig wince. He did not wait for any pleasantries. “Well? Who is he? What’s he here for?”
The agent wheezed a laugh out of his pasty, sparsely whiskered face. He looked like an underfed fox that the hounds had cornered, except that he was too stupid to even realize it. “Having your supper, Craig? I trust I’ll merit something better.”
Craig whistled sharply at a Chinaman lazing against a piling fifty feet away, and the toothless old man, wearing the usual blue smock, shuffled over.
“Get this into a tin,” Craig said and handed the piece of flesh to the coolie. “And tell Kwan I don’t want to see waste like this again. Or I’ll deduct it from the contract.”
A sharp pain flared along Craig’s gumline. He glared at the agent, but the man was too stupid and too English, which amounted to the same thing, to take the hint.
“A week from now,” Smith said and nodded southwest in the direction of the rivermouth, where the dingy sails of the returning skiffs could just be seen, “and you’ll be up to your knees in fish that you won’t be able to tin. That’s what the Indians are saying.”
“Whose Indians? Did you talk to Dare’s? Goddammit, man, I’m not paying you for your predictions on the next run.”
“All right, all right, just let me have a smoke.”
The agent delicately bit the end off a cigar, lit a match and held the flame to the tobacco, and was about to fling the match away when Craig grabbed his arm.
“Not on the wharf. Can’t you tell it’s like tinder in this heat?”
The agent shrugged, inhaled deeply, and blew out a puff of smoke.
“Well?” Craig said. “Did you learn anything or not?” He sucked at his molar and tried to shut out the shuntings of the cannery and the gurglings of the tide so he could better focus on the agent’s answer.
“He’s American, a doctor from the east. Doesn’t talk much, but he’s definitely come to meet with Dare. And I don’t think it’s to discuss whether he should set up practice at Crescent Slough either.”
“How do you know that?”
“Henry Lansdowne asked straight out. They wouldn’t mind having a doctor at Chilukthan, you know. The Landing’s large enough to support one.” Belvedere Smith shook his head. “But not this doctor. He’s not thinking of his prospects. At least that’s what he told me, and I believed him. Worn-out chap, really.”
Craig closed his eyes against the pain in his mouth. A doctor? Perhaps he was the source of Dare’s financing? Somehow or other, the damned nigger had the means to hire a new crew of coolies in Victoria. Now it looked as if he’d be ready for the big run after all. Owen, for all his shrewdness, hadn’t been able to stop him. Then again, Dare hadn’t been seen for days. Craig cursed under his breath. Not knowing what a rival was doing pained him more than any tooth could. He pushed his tongue hard against it and thought, Maybe this doctor doesn’t even know Dare is a nigger. Inspired, he phrased the thought into a question and asked it aloud.
The agent smiled through the grey rings of smoke. “I never brought it up. I could tell it wouldn’t have mattered. The doctor’s one of these noble chaps, you can tell just by looking at him. A good American. Apparently he saved a bunch of Dare’s coolies from drowning the first night he arrived.”
“Yes, I know about that,” Craig said. “So the Lansdownes didn’t mention that Dare was a nigger either?”
The agent guffawed. “Henry Lansdowne? He takes the Lord’s view of such things. And his brother, whether he likes it or not, follows suit. Anyway, I’m not so convinced that Dare is—”
“I don’t care what you think about that. Just tell me about this doctor. You think he’s a friend of Dare and that he’s here to help him?”
“I don’t see any other reason for him to be here. And he did ask a lot of questions about the canning business. About the salmon too. Seemed to expect me to know why the damned things come back to the river when they do.”
The agent wheezed out another laugh; it ended in a snivelling gasp.
Craig had had enough. Dare on his own was already a problem that had to be removed. And Dare with help? Well, that meant there was no waiting for Owen’s canny bribing of a magistrate. A more direct means of elimination would be necessary. And there were plenty of shiftless failures around who’d rather earn a dollar with a gun than with a set of oars and a net.
The white sails of the skiffs drifted closer. Craig could almost hear the lusty voices of the men crying out for a higher wage. Even the sun seemed to stick its bloodied hands into his pockets. He turned and started to stride away.
“Wait a minute,” the agent said. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”
Craig turned slowly back, one eye narrowed to a slit. “You’ve been paid. And too well for the service.”