Sophie walked beside him, having no idea what they were meant to find in an empty room. She didn’t imagine the murderer would have left a signed confession tucked behind a painting. The large windows on the far side gave the ballroom light, but the space still felt cold and empty without the chandeliers glowing and music playing. The pair walked around the edge of the room. “How exactly did George Lewis die?” She winced at the loudness of her voice and spoke softer. “Was he strangled like . . . ?”
Detective Graham took a small paper sack from his jacket pocket. He offered Sophie a peppermint, then put one into his own mouth.
“Blow to the head,” Detective Graham replied. “Dr. Peabody said the object used was heavy with a straight, sharp edge. Smashed in half of his skull, which is another reason I don’t believe Mr. Smudgely could have done it.” He checked a window latch. “A strike like that would have taken exceptional force.”
“By someone very strong,” Sophie said around the piece of candy. She hoped her face didn’t reveal the shock at hearing the detective speak so bluntly about the violent act and the grisly results. If he took her to be squeamish, he may not entrust her with further case details.
He nodded. “And possibly very angry.”
“Nick Sloan?”
“So far, he is the only suspect we’ve come across with a motive. The jilted lover.”
They completed the circuit of the ballroom and returned to the entry hall. Sophie’s stomach felt ill as she considered the violent nature of the murders. Solving them, stopping the monster who was capable of something so gruesome, became even more vital.
Detective Graham looked between the different doors and rubbed his knuckle against his lip, apparently lost in thought. After a moment, he looked up. “Let us consider. Jane Duffin had a few rare hours to herself two nights ago, and what did she decide to do?”
“According to Miss Primm, she left to meet George Lewis.”
Detective Graham nodded. “She dressed in her loveliest gown and set off for a romantic visit with her paramour.”
“Did she arrange to meet him somewhere? Perhaps in Spitalfields?” Sophie shook her head as soon as she said it. “No, that doesn’t make sense. According to Mr. Smudgely, George Lewis was working Monday night.” Sophie held out a hand, palm down. “Here.”
“I imagine he wasn’t eager to lose his position,” Detective Graham said. “So the encounter likely took place here, at the assembly hall, where he could steal away for a short time.” He opened his notebook, writing something inside. “I’ll send officers to speak to cabdrivers, see if any remember her.”
“But that night this place was filled with men, aside from the staff. As a woman, she’d have drawn attention.”
The detective glanced toward the kitchen. “Not if she came by way of the delivery entrance.”
“I suppose that is possible,” Sophie said. “But she’d surely have been noticed by someone.”
“I agree,” the detective said. He removed a paper from his notebook and handed it to Sophie. “If Jane Duffin was here, someone assuredly saw her.”
“But who?” Sophie took the paper and saw that it was the employee list from Mr. Smudgely’s secretary. “How can we possibly interview all of these people?” She moved a finger down the list and counted in her head. “There are more than fifty on this list alone, not to mention the guests.” A pity the full staff wasn’t working today. Would they need to call on each of the employees at their residences? The people lived all over the city. And what of the men who had attended the dinner and lecture? Finding and interviewing each of them would take . . . perhaps weeks. “Oh,” Sophie said as an idea occurred to her.
“What is it?” Detective Graham asked.
It was so simple. She considered for a moment, then turned to face him directly. “Detective, I have a thought.” Seeing his nod, she continued. “In three days, there is to be a ball here at the Belcourt—the engagement ball for Lord Ruben and Lady Lorene Stanhope. It promises to be a very grand affair, and I am certain it will be largely attended.”
“I’m not certain how that pertains—”
“With such an extensive guest list, the hall is sure to be fully staffed,” she interrupted. Now that the idea was developed, she was certain it was a good one. “And most, if not all of the Kingsclere Hunting Club will be in attendance. Lord Ruben is a very prominent member of the club.”
Detective Graham’s puzzled expression indicated that he still didn’t understand her point.
“All of the suspects and witnesses will be in attendance.” She shook the paper for emphasis. “The employees and last night’s guests.”
“I see,” Detective Graham said. “And I assume you will be a guest as well. You intend to interview each of them over the course of the night?”
“Indeed not.” She put the paper in her notebook, closing it with a snap. For a detective, his powers of deduction were at times very poor. She folded her arms. “I thought you would accompany me.” The moment the words were out of her mouth, she realized how very forward they sounded. A tingling blush spread up from her neck and over her cheeks. She looked away and attempted to keep her expression from showing embarrassment.
“I? Attend the ball . . . with you?”
“It was a silly idea.” Sophie’s voice came out softer than she’d intended, and the heat spread down into her chest. She opened her notebook again, took out the pencil, and cleared her throat. “Forget I mentioned it. Now, let us return to our storyline. Jane Duffin entered the assembly hall through a back entrance to meet George Lewis.”
Though she didn’t look up, she could feel Detective Graham studying her. “Yes,” he said at last, and she released her breath. “And we must ask ourselves, what would a young couple with only a short time together wish for?”
“Somewhere to be together,” Sophie said. “Privacy.” Curse this blush. If the conversation continued on this course, the heat in her cheeks would never have a chance to disperse. She peeked up at him.
“Exactly,” he said. A small smirk was the only indication that he’d noticed her discomfort. “They’d find a place to be alone. Somewhere close so George’s absence wouldn’t be noticed.”
“But where—” Sophie began.
But she was interrupted when two constables entered through the main door. Seeing Detective Graham, the men hurried over, removing their bucket hats as they walked.
“Sir.” The shorter of the two spoke. “We found something.”
“Very well. Lead on, Constable.” Detective Graham snatched his hat from the side table and motioned for Sophie to precede him.
As they followed the constables outside, Sophie was glad for the interruption. Their interaction had become strained, and her insecurities were the cause. Of course inviting the detective to a ball was improper. While she’d merely intended for the suggestion to be a means of continuing the investigation, he’d not understood it that way and clearly had not wished to hurt her feelings by declining the invitation. She should have predicted he would perceive it as a flirtation. And consider it an unwelcome one from a young woman with a plain face and a waist that no corset could restrain. Her chest burned in shame. How pathetic she must look to him.
The constables led them down the steps and around to the side of the building, along a narrow lane used for deliveries and maintenance. Other lanes branched off at intervals, leading to nearby businesses. The stables and the field for carriage parking were on the other side of the building, and manicured walking gardens in the rear, were accessible from a patio behind the ballroom. The group passed the kitchen door and a hatchway with a lock that most likely led to a root cellar. Barrels, crates, and rubbish bins were arranged tidily against the outer wall, save for one crate that appeared to have been dragged beneath a window.
“Look there, sir.” The taller of the constables pointed. “On the sill.”
<
br /> Detective Graham stepped up onto the crate and studied the windowsill, then cupped his hands against the glass to look through. “Good eyes, men.” He stepped down and motioned for Sophie to step up.
She took his offered hand, keeping her gaze from meeting his, held on to her skirts, and climbed up onto the crate. Standing on tiptoe, she could see the white paint of the sill was marked with a rust-colored smear a bit wider than her hand. The sight turned her stomach, and the reaction frustrated her. Sophie stepped quickly back down, pressing her hand to the side of the building and landing rather awkwardly—she hadn’t wanted to reach for the detective’s hand again. “Is it blood?”
“Looks like it,” the detective said. “Do you know to which room this window belongs?”
Sophie shook her head, glancing back up at the blemish and calculating which rooms were on this side of the building. “It appears to be on the far side of the ballroom, opposite the dining hall.” They hadn’t even looked in that area. “If I remember correctly, there is a cardroom and a small parlor.”
The detective pushed aside the crate and crouched down, studying the ground beneath the window and speaking with the constables.
Sophie crossed the lane to where she could get the best view of the side of the assembly hall. She sketched the window and the blood smear until Detective Graham joined her.
Together they returned to the front of the building, ascended the stairs once again, and reentered, this time crossing to the doors on the other side of the entry hall. It took only a moment to find the room they were looking for.
Detective Graham tossed his hat onto a table. He pushed aside the curtains that hung at the far wall of the small parlor, revealing that the smear they’d seen on the outside of the windowsill was also on the inside. He checked the window latch and opened the window. Nodding to the constables below, he turned, glanced around the parlor, and opened a closet.
Sophie still stood near the window. Outside, in the lane, the constables searched through rubbish bins. Sophie stared at the smear. Seeing Jane Duffin’s body last evening had been shocking, but there had been no blood. Aside from her scratched shoes and disheveled hair, there had been no immediate sign of violence. She’d appeared peaceful, eyes closed as if she were sleeping. Sophie had been so determined to find a story and to prove that she was up to the task of investigating that she’d hardly considered exactly what she was seeing. But this . . . this was different.
“Miss Bremerton, look here.”
Detective Graham’s voice was muffled, coming from inside the closet. Sophie opened the door wide, finding it to be a small storage space. A broom, a bucket, two chairs, and a feather duster were the only things inside, aside from one detective who was crouched down, studying the wooden floor. He ran a finger over a crack between the floorboards, then looked at it closely. He leaned until his face was mere centimeters from the floor and sniffed.
He sat back on his heels and glanced up at Sophie. “Might I trouble you for a piece of drawing paper?”
“Of course.” Sophie knelt down beside him. She tore a page from her notebook and handed it to him.
Detective Graham folded the paper, then slid it down, deep between two floor boards. When he brought it out, a brown stripe ran along the edge.
“More blood,” Sophie whispered.
He nodded, his mouth pulling into a grim line.
Sophie took the paper, holding it up to see it in the light. Her hand shook the smallest bit. “Is there a way to determine whose blood it is?”
“I’m afraid not. However, Dr. Peabody will be able to tell if it is from a human.”
Sophie gave back the paper and rose to her feet. She checked her skirts, making certain she hadn’t knelt in blood, and sat on a settee as her thoughts spun. “You think George Lewis was killed here? It’s impossible, isn’t it?” The dinner was right across the hall. “Nick Sloan couldn’t have come in here unseen.” Someone would have certainly noticed a murder merely feet away from the party. The thought chilled her. She opened her notebook and began a sketch of the parlor and closet. Concentrating on the drawing kept her from feeling ill.
“Peppermint?” Detective Graham offered her a sweet, and she happily took it, hoping it would settle her stomach.
He popped another into his own mouth and moved back to crouch down and study the closet floor.
A knock sounded from the doorway.
“Sir?” Constable Merryweather stood in the doorway.
“Come in, Merryweather.” Detective Graham stood again, motioning with his hand. “What have you found?”
Constable Merryweather inclined his head toward Sophie. “My lady.” He turned back to the detective, pulling a battered notebook from his belt and shuffling through the pages. “According to a Liza Miller in the kitchen, George Lewis did indeed receive a visit from a young lady in a blue dress Monday evening.”
“And did Liza Miller see what became of them?” Detective Graham asked.
The constable shook his head. “Said the pair of them left the kitchen, holding hands and giggling and figured they were headed off to . . .” He winced, glancing at Sophie. “Ah . . . talk privately.”
“And that’s the last she saw of them?” Detective Graham said.
“Yes, sir.” Constable Merryweather turned a page in his notebook. “I also spoke to the stablemaster, a Mr. Parker. He confirmed that Nick Sloan was indeed working Monday. Said he was here all night, from three in the afternoon until past midnight, cleaning the stalls.”
“Do you believe him?”
The constable straightened his tunic and nodded, tucking the notebook back into his belt. “He appeared to be answering honestly, sir. And as far as I could discern, he had no reason to—”
“Sir!” The pair of constables from outside entered the room. The smaller man rushed forward, holding out a wad of white cloth with rust-colored splotches. “We found this in a bin.”
Detective Graham took it from him. The cloth made a thudding sound when he set it on the low table in front of Sophie.
She leaned forward, recognizing the wad was comprised of cloth napkins wrapped around something about the size of a short boot. And the cloths were most obviously covered in dried blood.
The detective pulled apart the stiff napkins, revealing a brass statue of a rearing horse.
He and Sophie looked at one another, then to the side table, where an identical statue stood beside a vase of flowers.
The detective gripped the horse around the middle and hefted it in one hand as if preparing to strike something with it, then turned the statue upside down and looked closely at the base.
“Oh my,” Sophie gasped, nearly choking on the peppermint. A heavy object with a straight, sharp edge. “The murder weapon.” Now that she looked at the side table, it seemed obvious the matching horse was missing from the arrangement. She turned a page in her notebook and started a new sketch, trying to push away the light-headed feeling that came over her.
“I believe you’re right, Miss Bremerton.” Detective Graham set the statue down. “Good work, lads.” He sent the men away to speak to cabbies between Mayfair and Chelsea.
“But how did nobody notice anything?” Sophie said, not caring that she spoke with the sweet still in her mouth. “Surely a murder is noisy. And there is the matter of a body—or bodies. How did the victims end up in Spitalfields?”
“It’s true,” Constable Merryweather said. “With the river so close, why not dump them there? Why take the time and effort to transport the bodies through the city when the risk of being caught was so much greater?”
“I don’t know,” the detective said.
“Perhaps to divert police attention from the assembly hall, hoping the murder would not be traced back here?” Sophie offered.
“It’s possible,” Detective Graham said. “There are still a good many unanswered qu
estions.”
Merryweather looked through the window. “Do you suppose the blood on the sill is from pushing the body out of the window?”
The idea was preposterous. “Surely not,” Sophie said. “It would have certainly been seen. And people don’t just drop bodies from windows. It’s . . . barbaric.”
“Murder is always barbaric, miss.” Detective Graham’s voice was tight.
Sophie suspected he was holding back a laugh at her outburst. Well, let him laugh. She was not the one with the ridiculous theories. She kept her gaze purposely away from Merryweather, lest she see him laughing as well. This whole business was becoming more confusing and more horrifying with each discovery. It frustrated her, and she did not care to be mocked on top of everything else. “Certainly the blood is from the murderer escaping,” Sophie said.
“Could be both,” Detective Graham said. He joined Merryweather at the window, looking down. “If a carriage was waiting in the lane, it would be easy enough to escape quickly.”
“With the bodies.” Merryweather nodded. “Do you think he had an accomplice, then?”
“At this point, I’ll not rule anything out.” Detective Graham clasped his hands behind his back and stared toward the closet. “I still believe Nick Sloan is our best suspect. Did Mr. Parker say where to find him?”
“Sloan frequents a pub on the South Bank,” the constable said.
Sophie stood, glad for a reason to leave the room with the blood. “Shall we go speak to Mr. Sloan, then?”
Merryweather’s eyes widened, and he darted a look at the detective.
Detective Graham frowned. “Absolutely not, Miss Bremerton.”
She braced herself for a battle. “Detective, I am perfectly capable of visiting a tavern in the middle of the afternoon, I assure you. And I am not afraid of a disreputable neighborhood. Do not presume it is your place to shield me from—”
“Constable Merryweather will go,” Detective Graham said in a hard voice that reminded her very much of his gruff temperament two evenings before.
Solving Sophronia (The Blue Orchid Society, #1) Page 10