Sleep never settled around him. The rickety thrum of the streetcars clanging over the tracks and the slurred music from the tavern below did little to lull him to slumber. These noises were no substitute for the song of the crickets or the breeze tickling the grass, nor the smell of pine trees wafting in under the flap of his tent, stirred by the wind.
The next morning he gratefully accepted the eggs, rolls, and coffee provided in the tavern before setting out to find King Street West. Despite the directions the matron had given him, he was soon certain he must be on the wrong path. How could it take so long to travel between two dots that were practically adjacent on the map? The trolley jostled along, starting and stopping, and finally, after an age, the conductor cried “Spadina! This stop Spadeeeena!” Benny hopped down, squinting through the blaring sun as he made out several similar townhouses squished together and sloping back from the sidewalk.
The noise was less insistent than at Yonge and Gerrard, but the workers were just as industrious. Trenches lined either side of the road, deep as moats, as men drenched by the sun worked their shovels up and under. “Toronto is going to be something,” the innkeeper had said proudly that morning. But Benny thought it was something already—something too different from the life he knew. It chafed against him, and he tugged at his collar. Finally, his eyes made out the number from the advertisement, and he slowly ascended the stairs.
A housekeeper with a kind face and mousy hair ushered him into the foyer of a cozy townhouse, taking his hat and coat. He immediately made out sounds from beyond the open french doors of a nearby room.
“Sorry I was late,” one voice said. “Trouble getting a streetcar this morning. Everything is on a slower schedule after the explosion.”
The voices trailed off, and he lost them for a moment.
“It doesn’t matter that you lost your job. You have this one.”
“This doesn’t provide a consistently steady income.”
The housekeeper disappeared for a moment through the open door and then returned. “They’re all ready for you, sir. I will see to tea. You just go through into the parlor.”
Benny followed a trail of whispers through the french doors, where two women sat on either side of the fireplace.
The first was striking, with bobbed blonde curls that framed chiseled cheeks and a strong nose. Her eyes, when they met his, were the most startling green he had ever seen.
The other woman was traditionally pretty, with big blue eyes and chestnut tendrils tickling the sides of a porcelain face. She smiled politely even as her companion leaped to her feet. The blonde woman was wearing trousers, seen in much clearer view as she strode toward him, stretching out her hand.
“Merinda Herringford,” she said.
“You’re a woman!”
Merinda Herringford’s eyes were magnetic. He kept hold of her hand as she studied him. She didn’t immediately pull away, but looked intently at him. “This is my colleague and particular friend, Jemima DeLuca.”
“A-and where’s Watts?” Benny asked, looking at the newspaper clipping.
“Oh, that’s me!” the brunette said in a light voice. “At least, it was. I’m married now.”
“But your advertisement… ”
“Yes! No problem too great or small!” Merinda said.
“Herringford and Watts. Detectives. But you’re women!” he said again.
“Perceptive. We’re also detectives.” She narrowed her eyes. “Come, have a seat and tell us what brought you so far from the Force.”
Benny gaped. “How did you know?”
“Your hair. It’s cut with military precision, but there’s a decided line running at the back of it, embedded just behind the ear line. Clearly not from one of the berets worn by soldiers. Rather, a Stetson. Of course, you could be a cowboy, but then you wouldn’t stand with your feet just slightly apart and your hands behind your back.”
“A Mountie!” breathed Mrs. DeLuca, blue eyes aglow.
Benny was visibly impressed. Perhaps this lady detective would be the solution he was looking for. “Benfield Citrone, Royal Northwest Mounted Police, late of Fort Glenbow. I’m here because my cousin knows how to blow things up.”
Merinda clapped, while Jemima’s jaw dropped.
Benny backtracked. “Er… perhaps that wasn’t the best way to begin.”
“That was the perfect way to begin! You have our full attention! A Mountie with a cousin adept in explosives! How exciting!”
Benny cleared his throat. “Well, Miss Herringford… ”
She cut him off with a restraining hand. “No. None of that. I am Merinda. My friend is Jem, and since I cannot possibly say the name Benfield without snickering, we will need a solution for you.”
Benny was ruffled. “Now, see here. I am named for the greatest Mountie who ever lived.* I am named for… ” But he was never given the chance to explain further as Merinda did indeed snicker. So he said, “My friends always called me Benny.”
“Mrs. Malone!” Merinda said to the housekeeper, who had just come in with the tray. “This is our new client, Benny Citrone. Can you bring some Turkish coffee?”