The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder (2 page)

Thanks go to…

My Tante Annette, who gave me not only my first copies of
A Room of One's Own
and
Jane Eyre,
but a lifetime of a strong female role model to look up to.

My agent, Ruth Samsel, who called and said, “What about a female Sherlock Holmes?” and who always believed in my girls as much as I do.

Allison Pittman: You are the wind beneath my wings. I couldn't have done any of this without you. #TeamMcPitt

Kathleen Kerr, who has not only proven to be the brains behind this entire operation but also a truly kindred spirit.

My sister, Leah Polonenko, for the Easter Sunday at St. James that got me over the finish line.

Jared and Tobin, for popping the champagne and celebrating every milestone thus far in my writing journey.

Jessica Barnes, Jessica Davies, Sonja Spaetzel, Team Shiloh, Joanne Bischof, William Murdoch, Martha Kroeker, Bernice Wong, Chelsea Jarman, Christina Jolly, Tim Jolly, Rick and Barb Turnbull, Gina Dalfonzo, Ruth Anderson, Lori Smith, Melanie Fishbane—I love you all.

Gerald and Kathleen McMillan, who always believed that this bookish, anxious, hyper-romantic writer girl could do anything she put her mind to… especially if she kept Matthew 6:33 close at hand.

Prologue

JEMIMA,

Your father and I have decided that, after giving you several opportunities to prove you are pursuing a proper course for a lady of your station and background, we can no longer financially support your endeavors.

While we applaud your dedication to your job at Spenser's, we think it is high time you settled down. Your father and I have long tired of presenting you with eligible suitors, only to have you dismiss them to follow Merinda Herringford around like a bee to honey. We have long felt, and expressed, that she is not fit company for a lady of your potential.
*

As we seem to be making no headway in securing you a future worthy of your breeding, we can only keep you in our prayers and hope that soon you will see the error of your ways, return to your upbringing, and recognize that a lady of your not inconsiderable age (honestly, Jemima, four-and-twenty is hardly the age to be gallivanting about Toronto unwed) should be making prudent strides toward securing a husband.

Please see the enclosed pamphlet suggesting appropriate activities for young ladies who are, as you should be, in pursuit of a proper husband
…

*
The word
potential
was always used liberally by Jemima's teachers at the Susanna Moodie School for Promising Young Ladies.

CHAPTER ONE

A proper lady's activities of choice are as important as the embellishment of her sleeve or the turn of her head. A potential suitor will want to see which hobbies and interests pique the attention of a lady before he pursues her. Ensure your selection boasts fine company, creative accomplishment and, in relevant cases, healthy and wholesome competition.

Dorothea Fairfax's Handbook to Bachelor Girlhood

Toronto, September 1910

A
murder scene is no place for a proper lady.”

Merinda Herringford tilted her chin defiantly and stared at Constable Jasper Forth with an icy eye. “Then it's a good thing I'm not a proper lady.”

Merinda had just declared, rather crassly, that it was “about time for a good murder.” And Jasper, powerless under the stare of her bright cat eyes, had had little say in the matter. She'd trailed so closely behind him as he'd set toward the Elgin Theatre that she'd scuffed the polished heels of his shoes.

Jem Watts swatted the constable playfully on the shoulder. “Yes, Jasper, it's a good thing she's no proper lady.”

“I'd get in hot water if they knew I brought the two of you down here.” He swallowed. “What was I thinking?”

“You were thinking it's about time the police sought out someone as clever as me. And a woman to boot!” Merinda lifted her skirt,
which was already an inch or two higher than respectability and fashion allowed, and stepped to the opposite side of the corpse. “She was strangled.”

“The rope burns would indicate strangulation, yes.”

“But there was no struggle. Look at her arms. Free of bruises.”

The constable had doubtless reached the same conclusion, but he grinned as he watched Merinda. “You're a smart egg.” He narrowed his eyes. “For a woman.”

Jem peered at the corpse more closely as Merinda flashed a glower at Jasper. She was surprised that the body failed to inspire more horror. The white contours of the young woman's face, the flames of her bright red hair, the freckles sprinkling her nose and cheeks, the mouth drawn wide, round, and unsuspectingly calm… Why, she might have been sleeping, though her translucent skin and the blue-green veins in her upturned arms said differently.

“I wonder who would do such a horrid thing,” Jem said, muffling her voice with a raised handkerchief. “She can't be more than seventeen.”

“There's no smell of decay yet, Jem.” Merinda spoke without moving her gaze from the body. “You can put your kerchief away.”

“Maybe they're her smelling salts,” said Jasper gently.

“I don't need smelling salts!” protested Jem.

“What was she doing here, anyway?” Merinda swooped down. “She's not dressed the part.”

The girl's homespun dress, apron, and rubber-soled boots were out of place in the foyer of the grand theatre where she had been discovered. True, her red-gold hair seemed a fit for the luminous interior of the theatre, but the rest of her was oddly mismatched.

“Name's Fiona Byrne. She was from Corktown,” Jasper supplied, “in the employ of Tertius Montague, a member of his house staff.”

“Really?” said Merinda.

“When Jones and I first got here, Montague was identifying the body.”

Merinda's eyes widened. Tertius Montague, mayor of Toronto,
was known to be a benevolent mogul. His thumbprint brushed half a dozen philanthropic enterprises, from hospitals to affordable housing in St. John's Ward, the poorest part of the city. A regular King Midas. Recently, he had decided to invest in the cultural expansion of Toronto, and the Elgin Theatre—a modern and beautiful space like those in New York and Chicago—was his latest addition.

But he was most familiar to Jem and Merinda as the creator of the Morality Squad, a band of plainclothes detectives who rumbled through the city arresting women suspected of incorrigibility or vagrancy. Lately, an offense as slight as a short hem or loitering after dark
*
could merit an arrest.

Montague was using his Morality Squad as a weapon against the immigrant women of Toronto—it was his trump card to move up in the polls for his reelection campaign. He vowed to return the city to “Toronto the Good” of the previous century. Montague was neck-and-neck in the polls with the reformer Horace Milbrook, but he had the backing—and the deep pockets—of Thaddeus Spenser, owner of Toronto's largest department retail chain.

Merinda sniffed. “That Tertius Montague could actually identify or name one of the many scullery maids in his employ is impressive. You're sure he's not the murderer?”

“It's too early to ascertain. He's at Station One for questioning.”

Jem was still gaping at the woman in endless slumber splayed on the red carpet. She had an almost angelic stillness about her. “Surely it's time to move the body to the morgue.”

“Oh, Jem, posh!” said Merinda. “If we removed the body to the morgue, we couldn't investigate the circumstances of the corpse in its surroundings. Search for clues!” Merinda dug into her vest pocket for a small magnifying glass and held it up against the hair of the deceased. It caught a prism of light from the theatre's modern fluorescent lighting scheme. Then she moved it slightly away to a small pile of ash.

“Morbid!” sighed Jem, following Merinda's gaze. “Someone smoking beside a dead body!”

“A left-handed person,” added Merinda, stepping to the right and standing poised, mimicking lighting a cigar and holding it to her lips.

“The mortician will be here in a few minutes, Jem,” Jasper said. “The police have finished their work here.”

“Pish. The police miss everything obvious,” Merinda said. “They probably even think this is the crime scene, when it must be clear to the greatest simpleton that she can't have been murdered here.”

Jem and Jasper were silent.

“Oh, come,” said Merinda. “What are the odds of her arms falling so neatly aligned with the line of her waist?”

Jasper looked at Merinda brightly. “Yes. Of course. Her arms are equally balanced on either side. No human could naturally fall into that position.”

Merinda nodded. “So she was laid here. But why not hide the body? Conceal the murder? And there—feel her coat.”

“It's damp,” Jasper said. “I noticed when we were looking for identification.”

“But it's not raining.” Merinda crouched by the body and held up one of the girl's ivory hands.

“Maybe she was shoved in clothes just from the laundry,” said Jem tentatively.

“Does she smell like she came from the laundry?” Merinda said. “Look here, Jasper!”

Jasper leaned in. The girl's fingernails had the slightest coating of dust. Merinda was about to expound on another theory when Jasper said, “Shhh!” and raised his hand.

They froze.

Jasper put a finger to his mouth and pushed them gently from the foyer, through the side of the auditorium, and to the backstage door at Victoria Street. He clicked it shut behind them as loud male voices broke the silence they'd left behind. It sounded like police talk.