A Singular and Whimsical Problem by Rachel McMillan Page B

friend.”
    â€œYou cannot be best friends with a cat!”
    â€œHow would you know? You don’t even know how to be best friends with a human!”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œWhat 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.”
    â€œSt. Jerome’s?” I wondered aloud. St. Jerome’s Reformatory for Vagrant and Incorrigible Females was an imposing structure near theharbor. It was a dreadful place—a place where women were thrown away. I shivered at the thought of it.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œGet 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. Torontowas a battlefield of rival journalists, tripping over themselves to find the first