Sophie followed the detective’s example, writing down the times in her notebook. A record of the chronology was a very intelligent idea. She wished she’d thought of it herself.
“Can anyone verify your presence at the ball, Miss Grey?” Detective Graham asked.
“Everyone. I wore a very fashion-forward gown and danced the waltz twice with Lord Meredith.” She gave a shrug and a pleased smile. “I’m certain it is all anyone is talking about.”
“And did you not wonder what had become of your lady’s maid?” the detective asked. “Did you make no inquiries?”
“I assumed she ran off.” Charlotte shook her head. “You know how unreliable servants can be.”
Sergeant Lester’s good-natured face seemed to darken as he watched Charlotte.
A hot wave of shame swept over Sophie as she listened to the conversation and watched the men’s reactions. Did they assume Sophie possessed the same self-important prejudices just because she and Charlotte had both been born into high Society? I am not like this. She kept her face turned down toward her notebook as her cheeks burned. Am I? She was different; she knew she was. Sophie glanced up at the two men, willing them to see she was more than the Earl of Mather’s spoiled daughter.
Detective Graham continued writing in his notebook. “And your parents?”
“They ate dinner at home, I presume. They were already at the Hamptons’ when I arrived. Surely you do not think they know anything about Jane’s death?”
Detective Graham looked up but didn’t respond to Charlotte’s question. His expression did not reveal his thoughts. “Sergeant, you will verify Miss Grey’s alibi, won’t you? And those of her parents?”
Sergeant Lester nodded, writing in his own notebook. “Yes, sir.”
“Alibi?” Charlotte gave an offended scowl. “Certainly I am not under suspicion.”
“Did you notice anything different about Miss Duffin recently?” Detective Graham asked. “Was she acting peculiar in any way?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have wished her harm?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. The servants’ private lives are their own.” She rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Detective. I have an outing to prepare for and no lady’s maid to assist with my presentation.”
Detective Graham stood and inclined his head. “Thank you, Miss Grey.”
Charlotte started toward the door. “Always a pleasure, Lady Sophronia.” She spoke the words over her shoulder.
Detective Graham sat in Charlotte’s vacated seat.
“My lady, do you know the location of the Hamptons’ ball?”
“Grosvenor Square, just a few streets away.” Sophie was glad he continued on with the investigation without commenting on Charlotte Grey’s dismissive attitude. “And I could ask my family if the Greys attended. They were all there.”
“While you were in the rookery investigating a murder.” The detective smirked, but he didn’t appear to be mocking her. His behavior felt more like a friendly tease.
Sergeant Lester sat on a sofa on the other side of the detective. “Imagine I’d rather be studying a corpse than mingling in that company too.” He rolled his eyes toward the doorway.
“Not everyone’s so . . .” Sophie grimaced. “She’s definitely one of the worst.”
“Well, that’s a relief, ain’t it?” The sergeant winked.
Sergeant Lester’s simple action gave Sophie a warm swell of gratitude.
“My lady, how long did it take you to get to Spitalfields from Mayfair two nights ago?” Detective Graham asked, recapturing her attention.
“Well, I didn’t go directly there,” Sophie said. “I drove around for quite some time before arriving at the Porky Pie.” She thought for a moment. “I’d estimate a straight trip would take forty-five minutes, maybe more. The roads were very crowded.”
“Don’t suppose the Greys could have left Mayfair, traveled to Wentworth Street, dumped the body, and returned in less than an hour and a half at minimum,” Sergeant Lester said.
“Surely not,” Sophie agreed.
Detective Graham frowned as he considered. “Even with lighter traffic, the absence would have been noticed.” He tapped his pencil on his lips. “So what transpired between when Miss Duffin arranged Miss Grey’s hair at five o’clock and when her body was discovered just after eight?”
“What indeed?” Sergeant Lester said.
Detective Graham looked down at Sophie’s notebook, appearing as if he’d comment on her timeline, but stopped and stood when Mrs. Trenton entered the room. “If you please, madam, gather the staff.”
The housekeeper looked irritated at being ordered around by someone who was not her employer, but she left to do as he asked.
“Sergeant, interview every member of this household. Discover their whereabouts Monday night, and verify alibis.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Lester said.
Detective Graham leaned closer to the sergeant, lowering his voice. “Pay attention to inconsistencies.”
After a few minutes, members of the staff began filling the room.
“I should like to see Miss Duffin’s quarters now,” the detective said when Mrs. Trenton returned.
She nodded. “Come along, then.”
“My lady.” Detective Graham stood aside, motioning for Sophie to precede him.
As the housekeeper led them from the common areas of the house, Sophie’s confidence shrank, and her discomfort increased with every step. She walked as softly as possible on the carpet of the corridor leading through the family’s private rooms and winced at the sound of Detective Graham’s steady footsteps behind her as they ascended to the upper stories. He apparently didn’t share her unease at intruding on the Greys’ personal space.
They continued up a narrow staircase to the attic and started down the passageway. The top floor of the house was very warm, nearly stifling, and Sophie imagined it was uncomfortable at night. Unlit candle sconces were set at intervals along the walls. The upper story must not be equipped with gas lighting, and she wondered if her own household’s servants’ quarters were similar.
“Here we are.” Mrs. Trenton opened a door to reveal a small chamber. “Jane’s bed is on the left side.”
Inside the room were two wooden frame beds separated by a narrow bureau beneath a window. A wardrobe and washstand stood on the wall beside the door. So few possessions. A surge of emotion welled up in Sophie’s throat. Seeing the space where Jane Duffin had lived made the tragedy of her death feel very real. She swallowed, forcing back the tears threatening to spill over. The surprise emotions frustrated her. Weeping on an investigation was hardly befitting of an investigative reporter.
Detective Graham strode through the door, not seeming shaken at all. “Who shared this room with the deceased?”
“Miss Primm,” the housekeeper said. “I’ll send her up directly.” She departed, her shoes clacking on the steps.
Sophie hesitated at the doorway, then entered the room. She studied the pattern of the worn quilt on the woman’s bed, keeping her face averted from the detective until she could master her emotions.
He opened the wardrobe, looking over the hanging gowns. “I imagine some of these are castoffs from her mistress as well?”
Sophie wiped her eyes and joined him. Most of the dresses were practical-looking, as she’d expect for a servant, but among them hung gowns of a much higher quality. She tugged the skirt of a rose-colored dress, feeling the fine silk between her fingers. “This one, certainly.”
He nodded and began inspecting the pockets of the coats and dresses.
Sophie wasn’t certain what he was looking for, but the idea of searching through a person’s belongings without their consent troubled her.
She glanced at the doorway, thinking this may be her on
ly opportunity to speak to the man alone. “Detective Graham, I feel I should apologize for Miss Grey.”
He pulled his head from the wardrobe, confusion creasing his features. “Why?”
“Well, she was very rude, and—”
“And how is that your fault, Lady Sophronia?”
She grimaced, feeling foolish at mentioning it in the first place. “I don’t know. I just wanted you to know I disapprove of her behavior.”
He studied her face and after a moment gave a nod, then returned to looking in the wardrobe. “Do you think she’s the murderer?”
Sophie wasn’t certain if the nod was a dismissal of her sentiment or an acknowledgment. But she was relieved to focus once more on the case. “No.”
“Neither do I. She has no motive that I can discern.” The detective took a hatbox from the shelf and peered inside.
“She didn’t act guilty, rather bothered by the whole business, it seemed,” Sophie said. “Besides, she didn’t have time to remove the body to Spitalfields and return for the ball.”
“The murderer and the person who delivered the body to the alley behind the Porky Pie are not necessarily one and the same.” He closed the wardrobe and opened a bureau drawer.
“I had not considered that,” Sophie said, realizing she’d jumped to a conclusion without sufficient evidence. The murderer could have had a partner. Or could have imposed on someone else to dispose of the body.
“Hello.” A slender woman in a simple dress stood in the doorway. By the threads of gray beneath her white cap and the wrinkles around her eyes, Sophie judged her age to be close to forty.
“You must be Miss Primm.” Detective Graham did not appear the least chagrined at being caught pawing through the woman’s clothing.
“I am.”
“Detective Graham, of the Metropolitan Police.” He showed his badge. “And this is Lady Sophronia Bremerton.”
“How do you do?” Miss Primm curtsied and swallowed hard.
Sophie recognized her red eyes and the trembling of her lip as indicators that the woman was near to breaking into tears. She offered her handkerchief and led Miss Primm to sit on one of the beds, then sat on the other, facing her. The space between them was so narrow that their knees were nearly touching. It occurred to Sophie that the women must have been close friends—it would be difficult not to be, sharing such a room. Perhaps they sat this way in the evenings and confided in one another. “We have only a few questions.” Sophie tried to speak in a soothing voice and glanced at the detective, grimacing. She hoped he would not upset the woman further with his interrogation.
Detective Graham lifted his chin toward the woman, tipping his head. He wanted Sophie to conduct the interview.
She took a calming breath, considering how to go about questioning a person who was very much distressed. “I am very sorry about your roommate, Miss Primm. I take it the two of you were friends?”
“Yes.” Miss Primm’s voice was a sob. She cleared her throat and wiped her eyes. “I beg your pardon.”
“Take your time,” Sophie said, feeling her own tears returning. She gave a sympathetic smile and glanced at Detective Graham.
He watched her, brows drawn together.
At the scrutiny, Sophie felt heat rise in her cheeks. Of course he was pondering the case, not her. What a silly thought.
“Jane and I have worked together for the past five years,” Miss Primm said finally.
“And when did you last see her?”
“Monday, late afternoon—I am not sure of the precise time.”
Sophie hesitated, unsure how to proceed. She glanced at the detective, and seeing his nod, she took a deep breath. “When Miss Duffin . . . when she was discovered, she was dressed very elegantly. I expect she was going somewhere special? Perhaps to meet a man?”
Miss Primm looked down at the handkerchief in her lap, creasing the folds between her fingers. “I don’t know . . .” She glanced up, then to the side.
Sophie recognized her look of guilt. If it were known that Jane Duffin had had a beau, her position would likely have been terminated. She reached forward, placing a hand over Miss Primm’s. “I know you want to keep her secret, and that is admirable, but if we are to discover what happened to Jane, we need to know the truth. She is beyond reprimand now.”
Miss Primm spoke after a long pause. “George Lewis.” She didn’t look up. “He works as a footman at the Belcourt Assembly Hall.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said.
“Did Jane have any family?” Detective Graham asked. His voice had softened, sounding more gentle.
Miss Primm shook her head. “Her parents died, and her brother.”
“Did either Miss Duffin or Mr. Lewis have any enemies?” Detective Graham asked.
“Jane was well-liked. I can’t imagine anyone wishing her harm.” Miss Primm creased the handkerchief some more. “But George—Jane told me he was in a fistfight last week with her old sweetheart, Nick Sloan. Nearly got the pair of them sacked.”
“And does Mr. Sloan work at the Belcourt as well?” Sophie asked.
She nodded. “In the stables.”
“Is this George Lewis?” Detective Graham lifted a frame from the bureau and turned it toward the women. The photograph inside was not of good quality and was very small. It appeared to have been taken at a fair or exposition. But the woman was clearly recognizable as Jane Duffin. The man standing beside her was young and had a trimmed mustache and long sideburns.
“Yes, that is him.”
“I’ve seen this man,” Detective Graham said. “And I can be fairly certain he is not Jane Duffin’s murderer.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Sophie asked.
“George Lewis’s body lies at this moment in the city morgue.”
Miss Primm gasped.
“He was found Monday night just a few streets away from Miss Duffin,” Detective Graham said. He tapped his finger on his lips as he studied the picture. “Dr. Peabody estimated the time of his death to be between six and seven that evening as well.”
“Another murder?” Sophie rose and took the photograph from him. “Why did you not tell me?” She had assumed they were sharing their information, but he had deliberately kept this from her.
“Murder victims being discovered in the rookery are not so uncommon that I even considered the two might be related.”
“Well, they clearly are.” Sophie still felt indignant at being taken by surprise.
“I think we’re done here,” Detective Graham said. “Thank you, Miss Primm. Make certain you also speak to the sergeant.”
“Yes, sir, Detective.” She stood, curtsied, and held out the handkerchief to Sophie. “My lady.”
“Keep it.” Sophie clasped a hand over the woman’s and patted her shoulder. “And again, I am so very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Miss Primm hurried from the room.
Sophie gave the photograph to the detective and started to exit as well.
Detective Graham caught her elbow, stopping her. “Well done, my lady.” He glanced toward where the maid had gone. “You conducted a fine interview.”
Chapter 7
After making certain Sergeant Lester had the remaining interviews of the household well in hand, Jonathan sent for constables to meet them at the Belcourt Assembly Hall, and he and Lady Sophronia left the Greys’ house for Chelsea.
While the carriage made its way through the quiet streets of Belgravia, Jonathan glanced to the side, considering the young woman who sat next to him. Lady Sophronia Bremerton was very much an enigma. And while Jonathan considered himself to be an exceptional judge of human nature, this young lady was a puzzle he had yet to solve. In less than a day she’d repeatedly surprised him, and each time he thought he’d reached an assessment of her nature, she proved him wrong yet again.
Was Lady Sophronia the impertinent snoop he’d encountered at the murder scene, the smug aristocrat who’d withheld the victim’s identity, the hopeful journalist who wished only for a chance to further her career, the hesitant trespasser in a high-Society house, or the gentle woman who’d comforted a servant with kind words? Were all of these attributes the facets of a complicated woman? Or was each a mask exhibited deliberately to manipulate a situation and achieve a desired result?
He was, both by nature and as a result of his occupation, a distrustful person. But in spite of Lady Sophronia’s contradictions of character, she had, at moments, seemed very genuine. Her emotional reaction to entering the dead woman’s room had surprised him, as well as her kind treatment of Miss Primm. Neither response had felt contrived.
Jonathan would certainly not have been as patient with the weeping servant. And he didn’t flatter himself thinking he’d have done a better job questioning her. Lady Sophronia’s understanding had produced more information from the woman than he could have collected with his tried-and-true tactics. He grudgingly admitted to himself a feminine perspective, in some situations, was perhaps not the worst idea.
“Is that a bullet?” Lady Sophronia asked.
Her words shook him from his musings, and he shifted in his seat to better speak to his companion. “Pardon me, my lady?”
“If you don’t mind, Detective, while we are working, I would prefer you call me Miss Bremerton. And introduce me as such.”
“I hardly think that is appropriate.”
She wrinkled her nose, her expression thoughtful. “Being referred to as lady might put people off. I don’t wish to jeopardize our investigation because someone is intimidated by the title.”
She was probably right. People were likely to be on their guard speaking to the daughter of a nobleman. Getting information from witnesses was difficult enough without the added layer of caution. And here was yet another of the woman’s surprising attributes. He didn’t imagine many would so readily obscure something as powerful as a title in order to put others at ease. But he also didn’t imagine many peers or their families participated in murder investigations.
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