Read Online Apparition Trail, The by Lisa Smedman - Free Book Online
Authors: Lisa Smedman
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don’t you?” he asked.
Steele gripped his Stetson tightly, then gave a brisk nod. “As much as I do in science.”
“I don’t know if I do,” the Commissioner said.
Steele clenched his jaw.
The Commissioner’s mouth twisted into a slight smile under his moustache. “But after hearing this man’s report, I’m ready to reconsider the reports you’ve assembled for me — especially after seeing that most unusual storm today, first-hand. I’m prepared to consider your request with an open mind. If the Indians really do have paranormal powers that they can use with fatal effect, we need a police force capable of stopping them. Q Division is officially approved.”
Steele let out a whoop and smacked his Stetson against his thigh. His grin was as wide as the prairie. “Thank you, sir,” he said, then gave a brisk salute. He tucked the Stetson under one arm and strode toward the door.
“Come along, Corporal,” he told me. “Q Division has its first case — the complexity of which has proved too baffling for the limited wits of Inspector Dickens — and I want you to investigate it. I’m sending you to Fort Pitt, and thence to the Victoria Mission, on the North Saskatchewan River.”
“What am I to investigate?” I asked.
“The disappearance of Reverend John McDougall and his family — and of the Manitou Stone.”
Chapter II
History of the Manitou Stone — A suspect in the McDougall case — Inspector Dickens’s strange wound — A mysterious traveler — Poker and a pretty woman — A most unusual card game — The Society for Psychical Research — Recollections of two deaths — A ruse revealed — Unseen worlds — A gruesome murder
Inspector Dickens leaned toward me, cupping a hand behind his ear. “What was that, Corporal Graystone?” he said, in a thick British accent.
“Grayburn,” I corrected, raising my voice a little louder. I’d forgotten that the Inspector was hard of hearing. “I was hoping you could tell me more about the Manitou Stone. Superintendent Steele thinks it’s connected with the disappearance of the McDougalls.”
We were seated at the table that served as Inspector Dickens’s desk in his office at Fort Pitt. Messy stacks of papers covered the table, and on top of them sat an opened tin of Crosse & Blackwell’s Yarmouth bloaters. The smoked fish smelled slightly off; I guessed it was due to the heat. Beside the tin stood what looked like a bottle of spirits. Dickens uncorked the bottle and held up a glass.
“Brandy?” he asked.
I shook my head, declining it. Outside the window, which had its shutters open, I could hear the whush-whush of the perpetual motion machine that worked the bellows of the nearby blacksmith’s shop. I wondered how the smith could possibly stand to work his forge in this heat.
“No thank you, sir,” I said, as he moved to fill the glass despite my headshake. “I only drink while I’m off duty.”
Dickens winked. “I only drink when I’m on duty.” He poured a liberal dose into the glass, and set the bottle on the table in front of him.
I stared at him a moment, reflecting on the great disparities between Inspector Francis Dickens, who commanded this lonely outpost on the North Saskatchewan River, and the dashing Superintendent Sam Steele. The only thing they had in common was the Mounted Police uniform. Where Steele was athletic and trim, with a clean-shaven chin, Dickens was short, pudgy, and balding, with a long beard that did little to hide his weak chin. His nose and cheeks were veined with red from too-frequent tippling, which he somehow maintained despite the fact that the sale of intoxicating liquors was prohibited in the North-West Territories — a prohibition the Mounted Police were sworn to uphold, although it was as unpopular with them as it was with the settlers.
Dickens was completely unfit to be an officer, but he had friends in Ottawa who had helped him to purchase his commission. I had heard that no less a
Steele gripped his Stetson tightly, then gave a brisk nod. “As much as I do in science.”
“I don’t know if I do,” the Commissioner said.
Steele clenched his jaw.
The Commissioner’s mouth twisted into a slight smile under his moustache. “But after hearing this man’s report, I’m ready to reconsider the reports you’ve assembled for me — especially after seeing that most unusual storm today, first-hand. I’m prepared to consider your request with an open mind. If the Indians really do have paranormal powers that they can use with fatal effect, we need a police force capable of stopping them. Q Division is officially approved.”
Steele let out a whoop and smacked his Stetson against his thigh. His grin was as wide as the prairie. “Thank you, sir,” he said, then gave a brisk salute. He tucked the Stetson under one arm and strode toward the door.
“Come along, Corporal,” he told me. “Q Division has its first case — the complexity of which has proved too baffling for the limited wits of Inspector Dickens — and I want you to investigate it. I’m sending you to Fort Pitt, and thence to the Victoria Mission, on the North Saskatchewan River.”
“What am I to investigate?” I asked.
“The disappearance of Reverend John McDougall and his family — and of the Manitou Stone.”
Chapter II
History of the Manitou Stone — A suspect in the McDougall case — Inspector Dickens’s strange wound — A mysterious traveler — Poker and a pretty woman — A most unusual card game — The Society for Psychical Research — Recollections of two deaths — A ruse revealed — Unseen worlds — A gruesome murder
Inspector Dickens leaned toward me, cupping a hand behind his ear. “What was that, Corporal Graystone?” he said, in a thick British accent.
“Grayburn,” I corrected, raising my voice a little louder. I’d forgotten that the Inspector was hard of hearing. “I was hoping you could tell me more about the Manitou Stone. Superintendent Steele thinks it’s connected with the disappearance of the McDougalls.”
We were seated at the table that served as Inspector Dickens’s desk in his office at Fort Pitt. Messy stacks of papers covered the table, and on top of them sat an opened tin of Crosse & Blackwell’s Yarmouth bloaters. The smoked fish smelled slightly off; I guessed it was due to the heat. Beside the tin stood what looked like a bottle of spirits. Dickens uncorked the bottle and held up a glass.
“Brandy?” he asked.
I shook my head, declining it. Outside the window, which had its shutters open, I could hear the whush-whush of the perpetual motion machine that worked the bellows of the nearby blacksmith’s shop. I wondered how the smith could possibly stand to work his forge in this heat.
“No thank you, sir,” I said, as he moved to fill the glass despite my headshake. “I only drink while I’m off duty.”
Dickens winked. “I only drink when I’m on duty.” He poured a liberal dose into the glass, and set the bottle on the table in front of him.
I stared at him a moment, reflecting on the great disparities between Inspector Francis Dickens, who commanded this lonely outpost on the North Saskatchewan River, and the dashing Superintendent Sam Steele. The only thing they had in common was the Mounted Police uniform. Where Steele was athletic and trim, with a clean-shaven chin, Dickens was short, pudgy, and balding, with a long beard that did little to hide his weak chin. His nose and cheeks were veined with red from too-frequent tippling, which he somehow maintained despite the fact that the sale of intoxicating liquors was prohibited in the North-West Territories — a prohibition the Mounted Police were sworn to uphold, although it was as unpopular with them as it was with the settlers.
Dickens was completely unfit to be an officer, but he had friends in Ottawa who had helped him to purchase his commission. I had heard that no less a
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