A Singular and Whimsical Problem (5 page)

I had let Merinda get a few trunks ahead of me, and something had evidently caught her eye. She motioned me over in dramatic whisper.

“Jemima!”

I shuffled over and leaned down.

“Look. Melanie's effects.”

A few letters in French, smelling of rose and soft with wear at the edges. A cameo of a brother or beau. Her initials embroidered on the lid of a jar of potpourri and a sketch of a black cat. A cat with a missing ear.

“Pepper.”

Four

Constable Jasper Forth was stationed at King and Yonge, his regular beat. The wind was whistling sharply but he seemed warm enough in his regulation overcoat, kid leather gloves, and bright blue constabulary hat. We watched from the corner as he flipped his traffic sign back and forth, signaling to the jingling horse-drawn carts and Model Ts as they jostled for road space on Yonge.

“Well, well.” He smiled and saluted us when we finally had an opportunity to dash across the street.

“Hello, Jasper!”

He continued waving and leading traffic, holding out his Stop and Yield sign to prevent clash and chaos. It seemed the entire town was out in a hubbub of Christmas shopping and seasonal spirit. From Spenser's we could hear a brass band playing old favorites.

“What can I do for you ladies?”

“What can you tell us about the Yellow Rose?” asked Merinda. “It's a café on… ”

“On Queen East,” said Jasper. “I can tell you plenty. Better, I can show you. My relief is here in about ten minutes.” He glanced at the pocket watch chained to the breast of his uniform. “Can you wait?”

We peeked in and around the large Spenser's window displays and took in the laughing children and passing pedestrians. Soon enough, Jasper joined us and we headed west.

It didn't take us long to arrive. The street was respectable but not affluent. We passed a number of small restaurants and tearooms on the way to the Yellow Rose.

“Most of these”—Jasper inclined his head toward one—“are just
tearooms. Pastries and the sort. A nice place for respectable young women to lunch. And by respectable young women I am not looking at you, Merinda.” Merinda
harrumphed
. “But some of them are a front. Opium, liquor joints, and—ahem—congregations for particular services that employ women in the world's oldest profession.”

“You couldn't fit more euphemisms into that sentence if you tried.” Merinda, intrigued, was looking through the bright, clear window to the checkered tablecloths and pert iron chairs inside.

“And over here's the Yellow Rose,” said Jasper. “It may have cleaned up its act. But a year ago August, we had it shut down for over a month. I didn't see the end of the investigation, but Jones told me that there wasn't enough to go on. That usually means someone was rich enough to purchase a loophole.” He shrugged. “Why don't we go in for a bite of lunch? I'm freezing and I could use a hot cup of tea.”

Settled, Jasper used an empty chair to position his discarded police hat and ran his fingers through his thick hair. I ordered cream teas for all of us with a plate of extra sandwiches for Jasper. While we sipped, Merinda's cat eyes patrolled the tearoom.

It seemed much smaller on the inside than it had appeared from the street, Merinda was quick to observe. Jasper and I figured a kitchen and perhaps laundry and storage compensated for this strange illusion. Still, I could see Merinda itching to discover the hidden world of the Yellow Rose.

We finished our lunch, but Merinda seemed hesitant to leave. She kept looking around.

The chimes jangled and a figure commanded the entire room, smiling broadly and striding across the dining area to the back room. “Now there's a familiar face,” Jasper said under his breath. “Clinton Walters.”

I wondered if Merinda was thinking what I was. This was the affluent man whose cat had gone missing. The cat whose picture was in Melanie's trunk.

“He isn't eating up front?” Merinda asked.

“I shouldn't expect so. Walters owns the place. Bought it three months ago.”

Merinda's eyes narrowed. She bid Jasper an abrupt farewell and left him finishing the last sandwich. I scurried to follow her.

“We'll get Kat and Mouse to trail him,” Merinda was saying as I caught up with her. “From Jenny's story this morning, I think it is quite obvious the business he is running at the Yellow Rose is far from ethical.”

“And the cat?”

Merinda shrugged and said no more.

At the corner of King and Spadina we caught up with a familiar figure approaching our flat. Martha Kingston—rigged out in a black-and-white checked suit and a cunning little cap. She smiled broadly when she saw us, and we ushered her into our sitting room.

“I was hoping you'd be home,” she said as we divested ourselves of our outerwear. “I came across some information that I thought might be of use to you. At least, I hope it's helpful. I certainly found it interesting.”

Merinda and I leaned in. Before us on the table she was laying out a series of records from the Women's Courts.

“How did you get these?”

“That bailiff happened to be sitting next to me at a diner. It's amazing what sources you can unearth when you know the right people to flatter.” She gave a smirk that was not at all professional.

Merinda was visibly impressed.

“Here, look at these.” Martha pointed a finger first at one page, then another. “Every case here was presided over by Judge Abernathy.”

Merinda and I looked over the contents together. “And signed off by Chief Inspector Henry Tipton,” I noted.

“He's from Station Four, I believe. Jasper has mentioned him,” said Merinda.

“Every woman tried by Judge Abernathy is sentenced almost exclusively to St. Jerome's,” said Martha. “They're quite a pair, that Tipton and Abernathy.”

“Look!” Something else caught my eye. I scooped up a sheet of paper and pointed. “Melanie!”

“Who?”

“Melanie LaCroix,” Merinda explained to Martha. “We met her at the court yesterday. She was sent to St. Jerome's for stealing from her employer.”

“Allegedly,” I put in.

“Allegedly. But look who her employer was!” Merinda pointed a long finger at the page, and Martha and I both leaned in.

Martha gave a low whistle.

“Judge Abernathy!” I exclaimed. “Her accuser was the
judge
? Why, it can't be legal.”

“Certainly it's not legal,” said Martha. “This is a ghastly business.”

Merinda bit her lip and squinted at the bottom of the page she was examining. Then the telephone in the kitchen clanged and Merinda dashed to get it. It wasn't long before she returned, pale as a ghost.

“That was Mabel. The matron called from St. Jerome's. Jenny's gone missing.”

Five

Gone missing.
One thing was clear: We had to get to the bottom of this business, and soon.

Merinda and I were glad of the freedom our disguises gave us—particularly when we were clad in our favorite bowler hats and trousers—while knowing that if the Morality Squad ever got its clutches into us, they would breathe a sigh of relief as they clamped us away. But now we seemed to be sidestepping an even greater danger, one that saw women stolen from their homes.

The easiest prey was poor women who had no familial attachments. Women whom the Morality Squad easily profiled. It would be easy enough for someone like Mr. Walters, a shipping magnate, to pursue the enterprise that made women disappear as barges sailed in and out every day.

“The Yellow Rose might be an easy way to meet with girls and see if they are acceptable,” I mused, staring at our chalkboard in the sitting room. “They may be tricked into doing something they should never have to do.”

Merinda stood next to me, listening without comment as she shrugged into her long coat. I turned to collect mine as well. It was the type of cold that tickled your nostrils and froze your eyelashes to icicles, and I was not in the mood to keep bounding around Toronto with Merinda's indefatigable energy. But we needed to check in with Kat and Mouse.

Merinda had convinced Ray to help Kat and Mouse secure positions as newsboys for
The Hogtown Herald.
They would be positioned
outside Mr. Walters's office near the harbor and outside the Yellow Rose, respectively. The perfect places to observe any nefarious goings-on.

We paid for their first stack of papers at a penny apiece, and Merinda gave them their instructions before they were sent off to their posts. Kat and Mouse were not as warmly dressed as we, and I made a mental note to find them warmer attire. Their faces were smudged with dirt, their eyes hollow and wide.

Merinda took a few bills from her pocket, which Kat and Mouse eyed greedily. “Listen for any information about Abernathy and Walters. About vagrancy, incorrigibility. St. Jerome's. All of it. Then you bring it to me.” She handed each of them a fiver, telling them to keep the change for a meal and a night at the YWCA.

I flashed them the largest smile the whistling arctic wind would allow, and we set off for home.

Three days passed—three cold days. By this time I had secured them toques and scarves from the St. James Christmas Bazaar. We gave them pennies aplenty to duck into the warmth and secure a treat when needed, and with the prospect of sustenance and the knowledge that they were on an important case, they stood sentinel, each evening recounting whom they had seen and where.

On that third afternoon, Kat hopped on the back of Judge Abernathy's automobile as it was leaving Walters's office and trundling down toward the harbor. She jumped off just as it skidded past Front Street to the Queen's Quay. Several hours later, shivering, and grateful for the cocoa and sandwiches we provided her, she related, wide-eyed, what she had seen.

“Girls.”

Mouse watched her friend's animated face from the edge of the sofa.

“There were girls in that cart. It was shrouded with canvas. And then once we got down to the docks they were whisked off to a boat.”

Merinda and I looked at each other. This was deep indeed.

“I waited around. Behind a skiff. And that's when I heard it.”

“Heard what?”

“Sneezing.”

“Sneezing. Is it that unusual?”

“Fierce sneezing.” She took a long sip of her cocoa. “Over and over again.”

Sneezing
was an interesting addition to our blackboard.

I gathered Merinda was as perplexed as I as she paced around a bit before demanding Mrs. Walters's card and telephone contact. I ruffled around the bureau and gave it to her.

“You know in the fall when the ragweed sprouts up and you have a runny nose?” she said.

“I have a hypersensitivity,” I sniffed. “At least that's what the doctor said. There's this Viennese pediatrician he quoted once… ”

“Yes, regarding research around the idea of allergens affecting our senses and giving us cold-like symptoms. People may have the exact same reaction to animals. And to cats.”

“The sneezing.”

“If the cat's owner had remnants of cat hair on him or if the cat itself was around, some might find their senses to be more delicate.” She held Mrs. Walters's card up to the light. “I wonder… ”

A moment later, I could hear her side of the conversation:

“Mrs. Walters… Melanie LaCroix. Yes. Yes. Of course. Well. Yes. Pepper. Yes. Very well. Of course. Yes. Mangy cat… I mean, dear cat. I understand.”

Then the receiver reverberated a vehement click and she returned to the sitting room with a triumphantly raised fist.

“Melanie LaCroix was in the employ of Mr. and Mrs. Walters, but she was allergic to their cat.”

“Pardon?”

“And Mrs. Walters was just as happy as a clam as she told me this in hopes it will help find her silly cat.”

“So she doesn't know what happened to Melanie? That she is in St. Jerome's?”