A Singular and Whimsical Problem (2 page)

I was still assembling the plate of biscuits when I heard an emphatic “No!” Quickly gathering up the tea service, I returned to the sitting room and began pouring out three cups.

“No?” The woman recoiled at Merinda's vehement denial. “But I can pay! I'm told that most of the work you do for immigrant women is done out of the goodness of your hearts: I am a paying client.” The well-dressed lady settled on our doily-ornamented settee, gingerly sipping the hot black tea I supplied her.

“Yes, you can pay.” Merinda sounded bored. “But my mind cannot handle your case.”

I smirked: “Too complex, Merinda?”

“It's a cat, Jem,” she hissed at me.

“Not just
any
cat,” the woman said. “Pepper!”

Merinda made a sound I cannot emulate in prose. She stretched her legs and narrowed her eyes. “No. No cats! I don't even like cats!”

“Ms. Herringford, please. Please. My husband is Clinton Walters. I will pay you whatever you wish.”

I took in a hiss of air. Clinton Walters was a shipping magnate—one of Toronto's most prosperous citizens. But Merinda seemed unimpressed by the name. “You'll pay for a mangy cat?”

“Merinda.” I leaned forward in the armchair opposite the hearth and spoke carefully. “We could use the money.” I opened my blue eyes wide and bored them into her, willing her to understand what I hesitated to say aloud: Our accounts were close to empty.

“Oh, cracker jacks. Very well! We'll find your wretched cat!”

“Brava!” Mrs. Walters clapped her gloved hands and reached into her pocketbook. “Consider this an advance for your services, Ms. Herringford.” She unscrewed the cap from a heavy pen and wrote out a check for a generous sum, finishing with a bold flourish on her signature.

Merinda, mumbling something about needles in haystacks, wasn't paying attention to the check held out to her. I rose instead and accepted it politely.

“Thank you, Mrs. Walters,” said Merinda. “I'll let you know when we find Peepers.”

“Pepper,” I said quickly.

“I am much obliged to you. Here.” Mrs. Walters lifted a locket on a long chain from underneath her high collar and opened its delicate clasp. Inside was a portrait of an ebony cat with one ear. “This will help you recognize Pepper.”

Merinda didn't even turn as Mrs. Walters rose and I walked her to the door, ducking under our laundry line. “Jem, take her particulars!” Merinda bellowed.

“Is she always like this?” asked Mrs. Walters in a low tone.

“You're lucky to find her in such a pleasant mood,” I said.

I returned to the sitting room, waving the check. “This is quite a tidy sum, Merinda. And how hard can it be to find a cat?”

Merinda had rather brilliant cat eyes herself, and they were eyeing
me skeptically. “Jem, this is a big city. Lots of black cats. We ought to just find the first one that crosses our path and present him to Mrs. Walters.”

“But she is awfully attached to him. He is her best friend.”

“You cannot be best friends with a cat!”

“How would you know? You don't even know how to be best friends with a human!”

“The game is afoot!”
she cried, quoting Holmes. “And that game”—here, she sneered—“is a feline. Come, Jem! We best gather the troops! We'll need Kat and Mouse!”

Kat and Mouse were two young urchins who lived near the docks. They were our eyes and ears in the dark corners of Toronto, observing and collecting information otherwise unavailable to young ladies of our station.

But before Merinda could rise from her chair to enlist their services, the bell rang again—more firmly this time. I escorted another woman into the sitting room. She was tall and classically beautiful, with warm brown eyes and the most stunning red hair I had ever seen. She seated herself in the chair Mrs. Walters had just vacated, a strange sort of command in her bearing.

“What can we do for you?” I asked.

Before the woman could answer, Merinda recognized her. “Of course! You're Martha Kingston,” she cried, leaning forward in her chair. “The notorious advocate for women's suffrage. I've seen you in the papers.”

The woman nodded regally. “I am. I've followed the two of you in the papers as well. You too have a noble cause—aiding women in distress.” Her long fingers played with the brooch at her lace collar. “I'm here today because one of my colleagues has gone missing. At the last rally the police got involved, and several of us were thrown in jail for the night. It's a consequence of the work we do. But while most of us were released the next day, one of my colleagues, Jeannette, hasn't been seen since.”

“St. Jerome's?” I wondered aloud. St. Jerome's Reformatory for Vagrant and Incorrigible Females was an imposing structure near the
harbor. It was a dreadful place—a place where women were thrown away. I shivered at the thought of it.

“This was my suspicion as well. I went to ask after her, but they say they don't have anyone by that name in residence. I wish you could find out what happened to her.” Martha reached into her handbag and extracted a few bills. “I do hope you will let me know if you find anything.”

I accepted the bills and set them on the table. “So she just vanished into thin air? Any idea where she might have gone? Might she have run away?”

Martha shook her head. “She was devoted to our cause. She knew that a night behind bars and a few scrapes here and there were to be expected. I cannot see her vanishing without a word.” Martha looked up and out the window for a moment. Eventually, her eyes met ours. “Something happened to Jeannette after she was put in that cell. I want you to find out what.”

Wordlessly, Merinda nodded. I took Martha's particulars and saw her to the door.

In the Holmes stories, the great detective stimulates his mind with a seven-percent solution of cocaine. Merinda's own addiction was to Turkish coffee with head-buzzing quantities of caffeine. She was on her fourth cup of the day and her fingertips were shaking, her cat eyes flickering.

I had been taking notes on the chalkboard hanging near the fireplace. A wayward cat. A missing suffragette. Two paying cases in one day! Our prospects were looking up.

“Get your coat,” Merinda said suddenly, setting aside the ornate copper pot that still held the last bitter dregs of coffee. “We can set Kat and Mouse on the trail—and maybe stumble across this wretched cat if we have any luck. And we need to consult with Ray DeLuca. He might have some ideas about Jeannette—or at least who we can bribe to tell us.”

I willed myself not to blush at the mention of Ray DeLuca. Toronto
was a battlefield of rival journalists, tripping over themselves to find the first hint of excitement. On the very bottom rung of respectability, Ray sat behind a peeling desk at a thrice-weekly paper called the
Hogtown Herald
. Lately he had taken to writing our adventures in detection as part of his regular beat—always two steps behind us, catching us in our male garb, with a sly half-smile and a pencil ready to record whatever schemes he found us in. Always with those eyes as dark as ebony and hair that tumbled over his forehead and features that some Renaissance painter would have immortalized…

We bundled in winter coats and hats and left the comfort of our sitting room. We had just closed the door behind us when a newsboy saw us and waved.

“The
Hog,
ladies. You're in this one.”

Merinda reached into her pocket and tipped him a penny, snapping open the paper so we could both read the headlines.

Crime Slows, Bachelor Girl Detectives Reduced to Fowl Play

Who stole Mr. Murdoch's chicken?
That was the only thing on Merinda Herringford's mind as she barreled through St. Lawrence last Tuesday, determined to reunite the bird (affectionately known as Fidget) with its owner…

I couldn't stifle a laugh. “Fowl play!”

“This is detestable! How could he write such a thing? And if he hears we're looking for a cat… ”

“Merinda, you have to admit it's funny. And we
did
find the chicken… and now we have a supply of eggs to last us the winter!”

Our footsteps echoed briefly on the pavement before turning to catch an approaching trolley. We didn't have to go as far as the
Hog
presses down by the harbor to find Ray. He was at his favorite diner, the Wellington, and there we found him tucking into a lunch of corned beef, coleslaw, and coffee—all at a rather alarming pace.

Merinda seated herself beside him, helping herself to a pickle from
his plate. I swooshed my skirt beneath me and lowered myself into the chair across from him.

He swallowed, not looking surprised to see us. “Welcome, Miss Herringford, Miss Watts.”

“Fowl play?”
Merinda chastised, leaning in.

“I thought it was remarkably clever.” DeLuca's words drifted on a lush Italian accent.

Merinda scowled. “We are above this. Do you want us to become a laughingstock?”

“Laughingstock…
livestock
… ” Ray played with a few headlines under his breath, much to Merinda's annoyance. He winked at me while she fumed.

“DeLuca, I want to be respected. I want us to be accepted as the professional investigators we are. Headlines like this don't help us. I didn't even know you were
at
St. Lawrence last week when we were chasing that blasted chicken.”

“You see, but you do not observe,” he said, taking a sip from his drink.

“I want you to take us seriously.”

“Then stop bounding about in pants after dark and getting into scrapes.”

“We don't get into scrapes.”

He looked at me, ignoring Merinda. “Tea, Jemima?” He lifted a hand to the waitress, who acknowledged him with a nod. She returned in a moment with a pot and was rewarded with a smile.

“It's you!” The waitress started at the sight of Merinda and me, almost dropping the pot. I supposed we were easy to recognize from the papers.

“It is,” Merinda confirmed, and dismissed the waitress with a wave after she poured the tea. “DeLuca, if I say the name Clinton Walters, you say… ”

“Toronto's most prosperous entrepreneur. Owns half the city, controls more than half of the council. You really should read the papers more.”

“I read yours.”

“Apparently not often enough.”

“More coffee, Mr. DeLuca? Are you two on a case?” The waitress was still hovering. She leaned in conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “Because if you have a moment… ”

“Did you need to speak to us?” Merinda asked.

“I was hoping to. I just hadn't had the opportunity. You see it's just me and my dad and my older sister, and he worries if I'm not home to fix his supper after my shift.”

“Why don't you sit down?” Merinda asked. “You can tell us all about it.”

“I'm afraid the boss won't like it so much. But I can get another waitress to cover me if I leave a bit early. Maybe I could…?” There was a question in her voice. “I could be at your flat at half past four.”

“Perfect. We'll be happy to help.” Merinda flashed a smile.

“You won't regret your choice!” said Ray. “I'll have you know that Herringford and Watts are the finest lady detectives in Canada. And should your chickens go missing I can recommend no duo better equipped to… ”

Ray grimaced as Merinda kicked him under the table.

“It's set then!” Mabel brightened. “I'd much rather talk to you than the police. It's a rather… it's a delicate matter.” She gave a quick smile and turned toward another table of diners.

I watched her as Ray finished the last of his sandwich. She was plump and pretty, and when she was with us I had noticed her green eyes and soft tendrils of red hair tickling her dimpled cheeks. I wondered if Ray noticed too.

Merinda, meanwhile, was only noticing an article in the newspaper she was rifling through. “DeLuca, get me some pie.”