Solving Sophronia (The Blue Orchid Society, #1)

by Jennifer Moore

  “She was dragged here,” Jonathan said. He noticed the young woman’s boots were old and worn. They were nowhere near the quality of the gown she wore. Perhaps Miss Bremerton’s observations about the woman’s clothing would be useful after all. But the idea that she’d offered helpful insight grated at him.

  Dr. Peabody entered the alley, his cane making a clicking sound where it hit the paving stones. He nodded to the men and knelt next to Miss Bremerton, showing no surprise at her presence, as was his way. Dr. Peabody was rarely rattled. “How do you do, miss? Dr. Phinneas Peabody. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Sophie Bremerton. And the pleasure is mine, Doctor.”

  “Delighted.” The older bowed awkwardly from his kneeling position, then looked down at the dead woman. “Now, what have we here?”

  “We believe the victim was strangled.” Miss Bremerton spoke before Jonathan could respond.

  Sergeant Lester returned to kneel across from the others. He held his lantern closer. “Bruises on her neck, Doctor.”

  “Skin’s cold,” Dr. Peabody said, touching the woman’s cheek with the back of his fingers. He lifted her arm and bent the elbow, checking for rigor mortis. “Hasn’t been dead long.” He pulled down her collar.

  Jonathan crouched beside the sergeant, leaning forward for a better view, though so many people gathered around the body made it difficult.

  “Definitely could indicate asphyxia,” Dr. Peabody said. “Have you finished your initial examination of the scene, Detective? Might we turn her over?”

  “Yes.” Jonathan and Sergeant Lester turned the woman onto her back.

  “Hold a lantern, if you please, Miss Bremerton.” The doctor examined the deceased woman’s neck, then pulled up her eyelids. “Ah, look here.”

  The three leaned closer, the flowers of Miss Bremerton’s hat effectively blocking Jonathan’s view.

  “Petechial hemorrhaging,” Dr. Peabody said. “Another sign of asphyxia.” He lifted the victim’s outstretched hand, studied it, laid it beside her, and then reached across the body to lift the other. “No defensive wounds.”

  “You think she did not resist her attacker?” Miss Bremerton asked.

  “Impossible to say,” Dr. Peabody replied. “I’ll know more once I can examine her in the morgue.” He looked closer at the hand he held, turning it over to study the nails. “Soft hands. A gentlewoman, perhaps?”

  Jonathan spoke quickly before Miss Bremerton had the chance. “I’d considered it, but her clothing and jewelry would indicate otherwise.”

  “Well, that is your area of expertise, not mine, Detective.” The doctor set the hand back.

  “How long has she been dead?” Jonathan asked.

  “Two hours, perhaps three.” He moved to stand.

  Miss Bremerton jumped up and helped the doctor to his feet, retrieving his cane.

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  Jonathan and Sergeant Lester stood as well.

  “I’ll let you know my findings,” Dr. Peabody said.

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Jonathan and Miss Bremerton spoke at the same moment.

  The lady took the doctor’s offered arm and accompanied him to the mouth of the alleyway, where he directed the waiting students from the medical college to retrieve the body and deliver it to the morgue.

  Sergeant Lester picked up his lantern and Miss Bremerton’s notebook and bag and followed.

  Jonathan clasped his hands behind his back and took one last look at the scene, wishing for daylight or a photographer. He had very few clues as to the dead woman’s identity and knew finding witnesses willing to talk would be difficult, if not impossible. As he walked to the mouth of the alley, he ground his teeth, frustrated that this would very likely be another unidentified woman in an unsolved case file.

  “What is the next course of action, Sergeant Lester?” Miss Bremerton asked.

  “We’ll interview potential witnesses, look into the lady’s identity, and hope the doctor is able to find anything on the body to give us direction.”

  She nodded, writing something in her notebook. “Very good. As far as the gown—”

  “That’s enough.” Jonathan had reached the end of his patience. “Listen, Miss Bremerton. I’ve had quite enough of your thrill seeking. This is a police matter. It is not your place to advise my sergeant on police procedure, nor for that matter, should you travel in this part of the city alone.”

  “But I am not alone, sir. My carriage driver waits just—”

  “Go home, Miss Bremerton.” He took her arm and led her from the alley. “Make yourself a nice cup of tea. You’ve had sufficient adventure in the rookery to earn the envy of your friends.”

  “Detective Graham, I resent your implication. I—”

  “Constable, see that Miss Bremerton gets home safely.” Jonathan motioned to Merryweather, who took the lantern from the lady and moved to assist her. He felt no guilt ignoring her protests. He turned and strode away without even waiting for an acknowledgment. He could hear Miss Bremerton arguing behind him, but he was not worried. Merryweather would see his assignment completed. The woman would be sent away whether she wished to be or not.

  Jonathan stopped in the light of a gas lamp outside the Porky Pie and checked the time, unconsciously rubbing the uneven edges of the fob hanging from his pocket watch chain as he considered the case. He had no real leads aside from an expensive dress and ill-fitting bustle. He doubted Hutchings would gather much from interviews. People tended to their own business in this part of the city. Perhaps the doctor would discover more, or perhaps the ring might reveal something upon closer examination.

  When Sergeant Lester joined him, the two started back toward H Division.

  With so many factors unknown, two things he was certain of: a young lady belonged nowhere near a murder investigation, and Miss Sophie Bremerton belonged nowhere near him.

  Chapter 2

  Sophie thanked her driver, Jasper, as he helped her from the carriage on Park Lane. When she stepped inside the house, a maid took her gloves and hat. A wave of fatigue moved over her as she climbed the stairs, but instead of continuing on to her bedchamber for a nap, she followed the upstairs passageway toward the first-floor sitting room, where Mimi, her grandmother, would be at her writing table.

  After returning from Spitalfields the night before, Sophie had stayed up into the early hours of the morning, sketching images of the murder scene and making notes when she should have been finishing the illustration she’d promised to deliver to the newspaper editor by tomorrow morning. Then, after only a few hours of sleep, she’d left early for Bond Street to call on various dressmakers in hopes of discovering who had made—and purchased—the gown the dead woman had worn. But lack of sleep was not the full cause of her exhaustion. Sophie couldn’t avoid her mother forever, and anticipating the inevitable confrontation left her weary.

  Last night Sophie had missed the Hamptons’ ball—her third conspicuous absence from an event this week as she’d gone in search of a story. Her mother, Lady Mather, took personal offense to unconventionality of any kind. As it was, a daughter working for the newspaper was nearly more than the countess could endure.

  But, in truth, pleasing her mother was not something Sophie imagined she’d ever be capable of. Not when she’d been presented four Seasons earlier and still remained unmarried—a failure of the highest degree in her mother’s eyes, and one Lady Mather did not neglect to remind her daughter of on a daily basis.

  When Sophie entered the drawing room, the dowager countess set aside her fountain pen, stood from her desk, and smiled. “Good morning, dearest.”

  From the floor beside the window, Dorrit, Mimi’s beloved pug, jumped up and barked.

  Warmth relaxed the tension inside Sophie as she took her grandmother’s outstretched hands and allowed her to kiss both cheeks. “Good m
orning, Mimi.”

  In spite of her age, Sophie’s grandmother was extremely active, both socially and physically. She was a member of various societies, a champion of causes, and a chairwoman of fundraisers. She also served on school and hospital boards and participated in a ladies’ badminton league.

  Her grandmother picked up the dog’s leash from the desk. “Dorrit and I are just headed to the dining room, my dear. Have you eaten?”

  “I had some toast earlier.”

  “Well, that is hardly enough to sustain you. The hour is nearly noon.” Mimi shook her head, making her gray curls bounce around her face. “Come along.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Time to eat, Dorrit.” Mimi spoke in a cooing voice, then gave a whistle.

  The dog ran to her mistress and allowed the leash to be attached to her collar.

  Sophie linked arms with her grandmother as they walked down the stairs. “How was your ride?” Sophie could hardly hold back her grin at Mimi’s most recent infatuation. She and a group of her friends had all purchased penny-farthing bicycles and met regularly to ride through Hyde Park in the mornings before the paths became too crowded. Six elderly women pedaling along the paths on the high-wheeled contraptions was certainly a sight to behold.

  “It was lovely.” Mimi waved her hand as she spoke. “The morning hours are spectacular. The air is crisp, birds sing, and a feeling of hopefulness prevails as the city wakes.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Sophie said. “And no falls today?”

  “Oh, there are always a few.” Mimi shrugged “But we don’t let that stop us. Physical activity and fresh air are good for the body and soul, though the hard ground is not always good for my elbows and knees.”

  Sophie chuckled. She loved her grandmother’s eccentricities. And while the rest of her family simply tolerated the foibles with a roll of their eyes, she felt jealous of them. At what age did it become socially acceptable to . . . not act socially acceptable?

  They reached the dining room, and a footman took the leash from Mimi and led the dog away to eat in the kitchen.

  Sophie took her place beside her grandmother at the dining table. The meal was served, and she poured the tea.

  Mimi took a bite of fish. “You returned very late last night. Did you find your story?”

  “Yes.” The excitement of the investigation returned, making Sophie’s stomach flutter. She dabbed pastry crumbs from her lips and leaned toward her grandmother. “I stumbled upon a murder in Spitalfields.”

  Her grandmother stopped with her teacup partway to her mouth. She opened her eyes wide. “Gracious, my dear. Jumped right in with both feet, didn’t you?”

  Mimi’s reaction was exactly what Sophie had expected. Her grandmother never fussed or lectured but gave constant encouragement. Though she didn’t know for sure, Sophie was almost certain Mimi had been the one who’d convinced her parents to allow her to take the position with the newspaper in the first place.

  Sophie scooped fruit onto her plate. “The circumstance was extremely lucky.” Seeing her grandmother’s raised brows over her teacup, she shook her head. “No, not lucky for the victim, of course, but for me to have arrived right as the police did. I was able to assist with the examination of the scene. Watching the investigators at work, seeing what they noticed and what they were able to deduce—it was all fascinating.”

  “Do you know the victim’s identity?” Mimi asked.

  “No,” Sophie said. “She was a young woman, and her dress . . .” She pulled her bag from beneath the table and slipped out the drawings she’d made the night before, leafing through until she found the one she wanted—a picture of the victim’s clothing. “I hope the dress will lead to her identity.” She set the paper between their plates.

  Mimi looked through a quizzing glass, studying the drawing. “Not a gown one would expect to see in Spitalfields, is it?”

  “Exactly what I thought,” Sophie said. “Madame Delacourt, the modiste, recognized the pattern but was not certain whom this particular dress was made for, as the specific embellishments and alterations were done by various seamstresses in her shop, some no longer in her employ. Her records did indicate three gowns in this periwinkle-blue color were sold last year, and she gave me the names of the women: Julia Westerfield, Charlotte Grey, and Abigail Scott. I am acquainted with all of them, to some degree.”

  “But you did not recognize the victim. She was not one of the young ladies to whom the dresses were sold?”

  “No. Someone wearing one of their dresses, I believe.” Sophie explained to her grandmother about the gown’s too-short sleeves and the tournure.

  “How very intriguing.” Mimi dabbed her lips with a napkin. “You truly have a gift for observation and deduction, Sophronia.”

  Sophie’s chest warmed at the praise. She bit into another pastry, set it down, and then wiped the crumbs from her fingers before returning the drawing to her bag. She debated showing the others to her grandmother but decided pictures of a murder scene were hardly appropriate at the breakfast table.

  “Do you believe the gown was stolen?” Mimi asked.

  “I do not know. The doctor pointed out that the woman’s hands were very soft, so she must have enjoyed some level of comfort.”

  Mimi nodded. “But if so, why was her dress not altered to fit properly?”

  “Why indeed,” Sophie said. “I intend to pay a visit to Misses Westerfield, Grey, and Scott this afternoon.” She winced, glancing at the clock. The young women were very likely not taking visitors this early, and if she was to attend Mrs. Jeffries’s garden party this evening, she needed the entirety of the afternoon to prepare her article and drawing that were due tomorrow morning. She blew out a frustrated breath. “Or perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Since when are you friends with any of those young ladies?” Priscilla’s voice came from the doorway.

  Sophie and Mimi turned in their chairs.

  “Good morning, dear,” Mimi said.

  “It would be a good morning if I hadn’t awoken so early.” Prissy flounced into the dining room and sat in a chair on the other side of the table. She reached for the basket of pastries.

  “And what are you doing today, Prissy?” Sophie turned the subject away from her investigation and onto her sister’s favorite topic—herself.

  “Paying visits with mother this morning.” Prissy rolled her eyes, but then she tipped her head, giving a superior smile. “Everleigh has invited me to a picnic at Kensington Gardens tomorrow.” She sighed, clasping her hands. “He is so handsome, and he quite prefers me, you know.”

  “And why wouldn’t he, Priscilla?” Mimi said. “A gentleman would be foolish not to take notice of my lovely granddaughter.”

  Prissy smiled. “Thank you, Mimi.” She blinked as if an idea had just occurred to her. “You should come as well, Sophie. Really, you must. All the Casanovas and Darling Debs will be there.”

  Sophie was surprised her sister would make such a suggestion. Prissy had certainly never sought her company socially—let alone acknowledged in public at all the fact that they were related.

  “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I have plans tomorrow.”

  Prissy pouted, setting down her teacup with a clatter and folding her arms. “But Everleigh’s dull railroad friend Hans, from Germany, is invited.” She spoke the name with a groan and rolled her eyes. “If you came, you could keep him occupied, discussing . . . whatever it is tedious people discuss.”

  Ah, this explanation makes sense. Sophie did not take offense. Her sister seldom thought before speaking, nor realized how her words would be received.

  “That does sound very tempting, but I’m afraid I will be busy,” Sophie said.

  “What could you possibly need to do that is more important than picnicking with the most prominent members of high Society?” Prissy wrink
led her nose. “Drawing pictures, no doubt?”

  “Illustrations for the newspaper are hardly more frivolous than—” Sophie bit off her witty rebuke when Lady Mather entered the dining room, and at the sight of her mother, the muscles in Sophie’s neck tightened.

  Lady Mather sat beside Prissy and nodded in acknowledgment as the others bid her good morning. She slid her teacup closer and stirred its contents. “I heard the carriage earlier.” She glanced at Sophie. “You’ve been out already?”

  “Yes.” Sophie pushed the bag with her drawings farther beneath her skirts. “To the dressmakers’.”

  “I take it your waist has expanded beyond your corset’s capacity to contain it.” Her mother sighed. She shook her head, glancing at Sophie’s plate. “You are not taking your reducing diet seriously, Sophronia. How many times have I told you to limit your pastries? And now your gowns must be altered . . .”

  Mimi snorted. “Honestly, Maxine. Sophronia’s waist is perfectly suitable for its purpose of housing her vital organs, and the idea that she must conform to Society’s ideal of—”

  Mimi’s words stopped as Sophie clasped her hand beneath the table, giving it a squeeze. She knew Mimi would understand that as grateful as she was for her grandmother’s defense, the argument was unnecessary, as her mother’s mind would not be changed by a lecture on the abstract criterion of feminine beauty.

  “The dressmakers’!” Prissy obviously took the pause in the conversation as an invitation to speak—or, more accurately, to complain. “I have need of new gowns as well. I’ve seen two other young ladies in the very color I’d intended to wear to the opera tomorrow. Could you imagine my humiliation if we were all attired similarly?”

  Prissy continued speaking, but years of living with the young woman had given Sophie the ability to ignore her sister’s prattle. She caught her grandmother’s eye, giving a grateful smile. What would Sophie ever do without her staunch support? She thought how Elizabeth Miller adored Mimi and imagined her grandmother must have been very much like her new friend when she was young.