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    A Singular and Whimsical Problem
    A Singular and Whimsical Problem
    A Singular and Whimsical Problem
    Ebook82 pages1 hour

    A Singular and Whimsical Problem

    By Rachel McMillan

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    About this ebook

    Christmas, 1910. Merinda Herringford and Jem Watts would be enjoying the season a lot more if they weren't forced to do their own laundry and cooking. Just as they are adapting to their trusty housekeeper's ill-timed vacation, they are confronted by the strangest mystery they've encountered since they started their private investigation firm.

    In this bonus e-only novella, what begins as the search for a missing cat leads to a rabble-rousing suffragette and the disappearance of several young women from St. Jerome's Reformatory for Incorrigible Females. From the women's courts of City Hall to Toronto's seedy docks and into the cold heart of the underground shipping industry, this will be the most exciting Christmas the girls have had yet...if they can stay alive long enough to enjoy it.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarvest House Publishers
    Release dateDec 1, 2015
    ISBN9780736966467
    A Singular and Whimsical Problem
    Author

    Rachel McMillan

    Rachel McMillan is the author of The London Restoration, The Mozart Code, the Herringford and Watts mysteries, the Van Buren and DeLuca mysteries, and the Three Quarter Time series of contemporary Viennese romances. She is also the author of Dream, Plan, Go: A Travel Guide to Inspire Independent Adventure. Rachel lives in Toronto, Canada. Visit her online at rachelmcmillan.net; Instagram: @rachkmc; Facebook: @rachkmc1; Twitter: @rachkmc; Pinterest: @rachkmc.

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      Book preview

      A Singular and Whimsical Problem - Rachel McMillan

      GIRLHOOD

      One

      November, 1910

      The blade was at Merinda’s neck.

      I had a revolver in the pocket of my trousers. We were clad in men’s clothes, three steps ahead of the Morality Squad and legions away from feminine propriety. My shaky fingers felt for and slowly extracted the pistol.

      You’re sure taking your time, Jem! Merinda cried.

      Quiet, or I’ll finish the job. A dark voice echoed between the surrounding walls.

      All right, all right! I held the gun out. There! Consider yourself threatened! I cocked the pistol as Merinda had taught me, and though perspiration trailed into my eyes and my hand was far from steady, I aimed it just above her shoulder blade and at the breast of her captor. He was larger than she and far taller too.

      "Don’t shoot me! Merinda pleaded. Cracker jacks, Jem! Do you want him to slice me in two?"

      Could he really slice you in two? I wondered in a wobbly voice. He could just slice your neck in two… I peered at the man in the shadow.

      Put the gun down! he challenged.

      Not until you let her go! I screeched.

      The prop knife clicked closed and Constable Jasper Forth of the Toronto Police, our long-time friend, folded it into his pocket, gently disentangling Merinda from his hold. Self-defense class is over. You fail, both of you.

      Fail! Merinda stretched a crick in her shoulder. "We did not fail."

      You fail because any real criminal would have killed you both by now. It was a mistake to think I could teach you. These lessons are over.

      Please don’t say that. You’re a wonderful teacher, I pleaded. Upon Merinda’s whining, Jasper had agreed to teach us some tricks of his trade, and I didn’t want the lessons to be over before they got going.

      He shook his head, sighing. "I never in a million years expected to provide pro bono training for Merinda Herringford and Jem Watts, lady detectives."

      I passed Merinda the ivory-handled pistol. Jasper, I wish we could use a fake gun. This one worries me.

      There are no bullets in it, Jem.

      But what if…?

      He took the pistol, unlatched the cylinder, and shook it demonstratively. See…

      Merinda and I gasped as a bullet fell from the overturned weapon to the floor.

      Oh Merinda, I could have shot you. Or you, Jasper. I teetered a little, the weight of what might have been hitting me full force. Jasper caught me tightly around the waist. When I looked up at him, my world was still turning.

      Easy, Jem, he coaxed, his face all concern. Nothing happened.

      I shrugged off the dizziness and slowly straightened. Guns made me woozy.

      You have to stop fainting, Jem, said Merinda. I won’t be able to carry your slumped figure while darting after a perpetrator.

      It’s not Jem’s fault she keeps fainting. Jasper looked at me kindly. Normal people have natural responses to dangerous situations. They don’t dart after them. He winked at Merinda. It’s not decent.

      I don’t give a hang for decency and I never did! She pulled a pocket watch from her vest. Come, Jem! Back to King Street! You know we have an appointment.

      The days were dawning early and cutting off shorter as November sank into December. Night and a swift sparkle of snow fell outside the broad window of our flat. For it was indeed ours: Merinda’s and mine. No husbands, no parents. Just two bachelor girls on the wrong side of twenty, our comings and goings noted only by Mrs. Malone.

      That kindly old housekeeper had chosen the most inopportune time to visit her sister. We possessed little talent for housekeeping, having been so long dependent on our dear Mrs. Malone, and our flat was in disarray. Stockings, garters, and a lace chemise or two dangled from a string Merinda had tied from over the top of the hearth to the French doors bordering our parlor. Our delicates and dainties were on display for everyone to see. A line of negligees. My best corset!

      Merinda, can’t we send the washing out until Mrs. Malone gets back? With our client’s arrival imminent, I whisked the underthings from the line and into a basket crooked in my arm.

      I wasn’t fast enough. The bell rang, and I opened the door to greet a well-dressed lady adorned in a dark blue day suit and a feathered hat. She raised an eyebrow at the basket of lingerie. I blushed, hurrying to the kitchen to make tea while Merinda greeted our client and showed her into the sitting room.

      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

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