The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder

by Rachel McMillan

  “Before she was murdered,” Merinda said bluntly.

  Brigid nodded. “Fee told me I should stop going to Elm Street dances. She’d met a man there and he wasn’t who he said he was. He’d promised her everything. A new life and all that. But he was false. And then… And then she was gone.”

  They walked in silence a moment.

  “You have no idea who this was?” Jem asked at length.

  “Not a hint. I’d stopped working at Montague’s by then and gotten the job at the King Edward laundry. And Fee… well… ”

  “What about these notes?” Merinda said.

  “The notes tell me to keep quiet and to think before I speak.” Brigid suddenly turned to look for danger in the crowd around them. Apparently seeing nothing troubling, she continued. “The notes all threaten that I’ll be in trouble too. They keep mentioning Grace, who was a friend of mine. We worked together at the laundry, of course. But I didn’t know her as well as Fee.” Brigid began to sniffle and Jem held out a handkerchief.

  “When was the last time you received a note?” Merinda asked.

  “Yesterday. I don’t know what information I have that this person is so afraid I’ll share. I have no… ” She bit her lip. “I don’t know if this is helpful, but one of the girls at the laundry recognized the man who brought the last note. His name is Forbes, and he is on the Morality Squad.” She looked at Jem and Merinda. “Is that important?”

  Jem shrugged. “It could be. Thank you.”

  Merinda looped her arm with Jem’s as they strolled back home late that afternoon. “Isn’t the city something?”

  “It’s something, all right.” Jem wasn’t as enamored with Toronto, especially with someone targeting young women. “Who’s this Forbes fellow? Anyone you’ve heard of?”

  “No,” said Merinda. “But I certainly intend to find out.”

  * With the exception of one Mr. Murdoch and his lost chicken, Fidget. Merinda and Jem chose not to include this case in their official count.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There is nothing so debilitating or hopeless as the onslaught of winter in the Ward. As October collides with November, the snow shrieks in. At first, it is tantalizing: trails of dancing crystal that children stick out their tongues to taste. But the flurries stir heavily, the temperature plummets, and play is suspended as they return to makeshift shelters that do little to shield them from the elements. The Ward groans as the cold deadens the skin and stabs the bone.

  Excerpt from a journal Jem still should not be reading

  When Ray arrived at St. Joseph’s it was as if the curtain of his memory was pulled back and he was once more a young man newly arrived in the city. He remembered how his eyes were constantly rimmed blood-red and raw with dust and how daylight and dusk blended into one unending day.

  He remembered feeling hopeless, with coins too few—foreign coins he had trouble learning to count. He remembered how certain he was that, because he couldn’t understand the foreman, he was being cheated of his full pay. He remembered how the rent was too often due to their grim landlord, who seemed to be a wolf-man torn from the pages of a fairy story.

  When he began his exposé and prepared to face the flophouse once more, Ray took a carpet bag so bare it was nearly worn through, tossed in sweaters and trousers, socks and suspenders, a new notebook (though he still longed for the old, comfortable one), and a ratty old Bible, a memento of the St. James poor box.

  He ensured that the woodstove was off and the bed was made. He kept his sparse bookshelf dusted and the floor tidy. When addressed by others at the flophouse, he responded in gruff, one-word sentences. He kept cigarettes in his pocket and a flask by his bed. He’d use them to bribe a few friendships, especially if he felt someone could tell him about Montague and link him to the Corktown Murders. Yes, he was here for McCormick, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep his eyes open too.

  If Montague wanted to restore the city to the “Toronto the Good” of old, Ray decided one morning while splashing frigid water on his face, surely he could begin by stocking his flophouse with something better than this, where mattress ticks overran the lice and where there was a sewage system a century more primitive than what he had left behind in his boardinghouse just a few blocks away.

  The other occupants of the flophouse were an eclectic bunch. Lars, the Swede who kept the woodpile stocked, was silent but friendly. His height, girth, and broad shoulders assured no one crossed him. Then there was Forbes. He was more of a force than a man, making any room he entered immediately smaller.

  On Ray’s second night at St. Joe’s, Forbes stood in the doorway, bellowing for volunteers. “I need men,” he said with a slur.

  Ray propped himself up on his elbow on his bed. “For what?”

  “Does it matter?” Forbes said, glowering at Ray.

  Ray cocked his head. “For pay?”

  “Of course for pay.”

  Ray declined, but Forbes rustled up a few other takers. Ray watched out of the corner of his eye as they left the room, wondering if Tony was ever one of Forbes’s volunteers.

  He waited a moment, then hopped up, stepped into his shoes, and cracked open the window. The men around him, sleeping or nursing their flasks or cigars or shuffling through day-old newspapers, cared little that he might decide to follow their eager bunkmates into the cold night. Ray could just see Forbes and his volunteers passing under a streetlight. He grabbed his coat, tipped his hat to Lars, and set out after them.

  Merinda had mystery on the brain constantly these days. It intruded into conversation every night at dinner and replaced her appetite. Mrs. Malone had prepared roast chicken, potatoes, and peas, and Jem ate them with relish after a day at Spenser’s.

  “Tippy’s still staying late and fluttering about like an agitated bunny.” Jem tore off a piece of roll. She enjoyed these moments, recounting to Merinda the moments of her day. “She’s either in love or completely mad.”

  “There’s no difference,” Merinda said, taking a big bite of chicken. “You know,” she said, nodding at Mrs. Malone’s back, “if she wasn’t such a good cook, I’d get rid of her.”

  “Merinda! She might hear you.”

  “What?” Her mouth was full again. “We don’t need a chaperone, Jem. I want privacy. We could be latch-key girls.”

  “What’s a latch-key girl?”

  “No chaperones. No maids or check-ins. No breakfast if we don’t want it. Free to leave our clothes wherever, come and go with whomever, without Mrs. Malone clucking her tongue in disapproval.”

  “Well,” Jem said, lifting her water goblet, “your father would never allow that.”

  “My father’s not here to give his primitive advice, is he?” Merinda picked at her dinner a little longer, then shoved back from the table and went into the sitting room. There, she ruminated aloud on her plan for the evening. “If Tertius Montague pays men to act as his personal street-cleaners until he wins this blasted election, then he could certainly hire men to take care of his business with girls he once employed! Maybe he didn’t kill Fiona and Grace himself, but he could have orchestrated their murders.”

  “I’m still not sure what the motive would be,” Jem said from the table.

  “Maybe Fiona was the love of his life and he killed her in a moment of passion. But Grace saw it all, so he had to dispose of her too.”

  Jem laughed. “It’s not like you to see the world so romantically.”

  “Let’s find this fiend Forbes in his natural habitat, skulking around the Ward.”

  “Forbes?”

  “Don’t you remember?” Merinda asked. “Brigid told us about him. He’s on the Morality Squad, and she said he brought one of those mysterious anonymous letters.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jem said, reaching for another roll. “All right, first thing tomorrow.”

  “First thing tomorrow? Now, Jem, now! He probably frequents the Lion or one of those places on Elizabeth Street.”

  “We can’t go there at nigh
t.”

  “The Corktown Murders aren’t going to solve themselves.”

  “No. They will be solved by the police. By real detectives.”

  “Detectives like us!” Merinda clapped her hands. “To the trunk!”

  Half an hour later, leaves danced around their heels in the street and the harvest moon allowed them to see as clearly as they might in daylight. Merinda, dressed in a too-large coat and trousers, rapped her walking stick against the pavement and whistled. Jem, also dressed as a man, shivered and looked about her, on edge.

  The stench of sewage and whiskey mingled in the gutter beside them. Rats scurried for the shadows as Merinda and Jem sidestepped a mound of potato peels and rotting meat scraps from the butcher’s. Through a distant window came the sound of a baby wailing, and they snuck past a patrol cop, tapping his stick on the ground and walking in time with the beat.

  The constable changed direction and headed toward them. Intimidated by the revealing light of the streetlamp, Jem and Merinda ducked behind a low wall and waited.

  From her vantage point, Jem took in St. John’s Ward. Brick structures and wooden shacks hugged each other, slanting toward the lake to the south. The north side was home to a few haberdasheries, a Jewish butcher’s shop, and a grim tavern serving up watered whiskey and beer that had sat too long in oaken casks. The Lion.

  The constable passed, and Merinda and Jem began walking again.

  Merinda strolled, bold as brass, right to the front of the tavern. For her part, Jem gulped cold air and willed her stomach to desist its sudden flip-flops.

  Merinda adjusted her bowler. “Ready?”

  Jem shook her head. “No.” But she’d never be ready, so she followed Merinda anyway.

  “Don’t say anything. If we’re made out, we’ll say we got lost on the way to a society meeting.”

  “Society of what?”

  “Would you rather admit we’re searching for the Corktown Murderer and Montague’s thugs?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not.”

  They went inside and had gotten no further than the doorway when a curtain of cheap tobacco rose over them. A few patrons glanced at them briefly as they arrived, but soon Merinda and Jem were invisible in the crowd. The clang of a tuneless piano gave a dissonant contrast to the raucous noise in the place. Sucked in, they meandered to the bar, Jem keeping tight on Merinda’s heels.

  It wasn’t long before the name “Forbes” reached their ears, and they quickly located the man to whom it belonged. Forbes stood a foot taller than the men encircling him. He was giving instructions of a sort, and Jem and Merinda shifted along the sticky bar to better hear the conversation. He was promising the men money and decent work.

  Merinda lowered her mouth to Jem’s ear. “So that’s Montague’s Morality Squad.”

  “Mayor Montague is this close to winning the election and getting a second term,” Forbes said. “Which would benefit us all, gents. The people want someone who puts ideas into action.” He explained, poorly, Montague’s dedication to returning Toronto’s reputation to its Victorian morality. They even drank to “Toronto the Good.”

  A patron twice as large as Jem and with sour breath approached her. “Got a light?”

  She exhaled and kept her mouth clenched shut, hoping Merinda would step in. But her friend was preoccupied watching Forbes and company in the corner. The stench of liquor was so tangible on the man she could taste it before it dissolved in salty bile at the back of her throat. She shook her head.

  “You’re not one for speaking,” the man persisted.

  Jem lowered her voice: “I-I’m waiting for someone.”

  The man positioned himself onto a barstool, but even so he was several inches taller than Jem, who remained standing. He squinted at her, then reached over and abruptly plucked the cap from her head. “You’re a woman!”

  Several onlookers gave Jem their sudden attention. Even Merinda whipped her head over her shoulder, concern flashing in her eyes. She gripped the walking stick at her side.

  “I’m c-coming from a society meeting,” Jem explained lamely.

  Beefy knuckles gripped the plait of hair down Jem’s back and pulled her close, and she gave a little shriek. “Forbes will know what to do with you.”

  Jem thought fast and hard. She looked to Merinda, who still hadn’t been found out. Merinda mouthed one word to Jem: Run.

  Jem spied the open door and swooped her cap from the counter. She yanked herself free from the large man and made quickly for the exit, spry and much faster than her pursuer with his lumbering stride. She ran and ran, hearing him cursing behind her. Rounding Center Street, she lost him.

  She stood breathing hard in the shadows, hoping Merinda would follow soon.

  Unattended dogs yelped on the soggy cement. The streets were mostly deserted at this time of night, but through windows she could hear babies screeching while nearly all the languages of the world chimed discordantly. Jem pulled her cap back on and tucked her hair deep into its folds, keeping her eyes down and remembering to walk with her legs and not her hips. She kept her gaze downward, focusing on the first sprinkling of snow on the street.

  So, when she collided with someone so hard she had the wind knocked out of her, she could do little but gasp, waiting for her breathing to return to normal.

  Muffled laughter met her ears.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “Perfect! I was hoping to run into you, and I did. Literally.”

  Jem’s words fled. That voice! The one laced with chocolate and moonlight. She turned her gaze onto the dark hair and eyes she had sketched a thousand times in her head.

  Ray DeLuca.

  “Jemima Watts,” he said, helping her up. “Posing as a man again, I see.”

  She brushed herself off and took her first full breath since the collision. “Are you here reporting something, Mr. DeLuca?”

  “I might be reporting you. Who’s to say I haven’t followed the girl in trousers halfway around the city?”

  “Reporting me? I—”

  “Calm down.” He led her to the side of the street. A group of revelers passed, moving in the direction of the Lion tavern, from which she’d just run.

  Jem lowered her voice. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Of course you haven’t.” Ray looked her over. “This is the second time I’ve found you wandering around at night wearing men’s clothing. Silly girl.” Ray shook his head.

  “I am not silly.”

  He raised his eyebrow. “Really?”

  “I am here on important business.” The look he gave her stirred her wrath. “In fact, I am here on behalf of a client.”

  “A client?” His eyes flashed. “Who?”

  “That information is confidential, Mr. DeLuca.”

  “This,” he said, indicating her getup, “is very amusing but very dangerous. Where’s the other one?”

  “Just finishing up at the Lion.”

  Ray extracted his notebook and pencil. He knew he should be dashing over there, leaving Jem to keep Forbes and his recruits in sight, but he wasn’t going to leave this girl out here in the middle of nowhere.

  “Jem!” A loud whisper reached them.

  “Ah.” Ray couldn’t keep irony from his voice. “The other one.”

  “Jem! Jem! You’ll never believe… whoa!” Merinda stopped and looked at Ray. “Hogwash Herald! You’re here too!” She rapped her crowbar stick in her open palm.

  “Miss Herringford.” He tipped his hat.

  Merinda grabbed Jem’s elbow and pulled her aside. “I found Forbes. I bought him a drink. He had a pair of snakes with him and—”

  “And I was nearly assaulted back there!” Jem said breathlessly.

  Ray’s eyes widened at the exchange. “Assaulted?” He looked around. “By whom?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jem said, still looking at Merinda. “I’m fine.”

  “I am glad I found you both.” Ray put one hand o
n Merinda’s shoulder and one hand on Jem’s and turned them to face him. “I have a proposal for you, and I will make it while walking you both safely to the streetcar stop.” He turned them both around and started marching.

  “What’s this proposal of yours?” asked Merinda.

  “I’d like to make you two the subject of my next serial in the Hog. It will be an easy exchange,” Ray promised, giving them one of his easy smiles—though, Jem noticed, not one that reached his eyes. “I will not report you to the authorities, and you will talk to me exclusively.”

  “Report us to the authorities?” Jem was flabbergasted. “You wouldn’t!”

  Ray shrugged so innocently Jem couldn’t tell whether he was serious or not. “I thought you would be the type to go for a… what is the word… ultimatum.”

  “I am not the type,” Merinda said. “Neither is Jem.”

  “I can’t help but be useful to you,” Ray persisted. “The exposure is free advertisement for your business. Besides, I do you a courtesy by asking. If you were anyone else in the city, I would write without permission.”

  “Free advertisement.” Merinda said, distractedly. “It would expand the business.”

  “Of course it could.” Ray was adamant. “Everyone will read about you.” Ray looked between the pair, a slight smile creeping up the side of his mouth. “I want to continue to write about the Corktown Murders, as well. So if you stumble upon anything… Though I should be telling you it is dangerous and not appropriate for women and you would be better off darning socks or joining a ladies’ society!”

  Merinda’s eyes under the streetlight were pure green fire: “Will you undermine us… as girls?”

  “I am sure the two of you are likely to do anything you decide to do.”

  Merinda gave him a Cheshire grin, and Ray took it as her assent. “Excellent. Miss Watts?”

  Jem quavered under his charcoal eyes. “Y-yes.”

  Merinda punched Ray’s arm playfully. “Not so bad, are you, DeLuca? Come on, Jem. Our chaperone has been most valiant and steered us into the safer parts of town.” She winked up at Ray. “But we can get home ourselves from here.” She grabbed Jem’s arm and marched purposefully onward.