Solving Sophronia (The Blue Orchid Society, #1)

by Jennifer Moore

  “But, Detective, I—”

  “Bring Sloan to the station for questioning.” Detective Graham didn’t acknowledge her protest but continued to speak to the constable.

  “Yes, sir.” Merryweather put on his hat, tugging the brim and inclining his head as he passed Sophie. “Good day, my lady.”

  “Constable,” Sophie said in acknowledgment. Once she was left alone with Detective Graham, she scowled at the man, sat back down, and returned to her drawing.

  Detective Graham gathered the soiled napkins, the paper with the bloody stripe, and the horse statue. “Is there anything else you should like to see before leaving, Miss Bremerton?”

  She didn’t look up from her work. “I don’t believe so.”

  “You’re angry.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I grow weary of being told what I may or may not do,” she replied, pressing too forcefully with her pencil and tearing through the paper. “But I do not suppose you could even begin to understand what I mean.”

  Detective Graham sat beside her on the settee. “You are right. Though I might try, I cannot understand. Not fully.”

  She gave him a flat stare, bothered that he hadn’t even tried to argue. “You’ve never been ordered about?”

  “Certainly. By my superiors, my rent collector, my employers—as a child, I was ordered about by the sweep I worked for.” His lip curled. “But the difference is none of it was ever done out of care for me or concern for my safety.”

  Sophie saw a flash of something in his face, a vulnerability she was certain he’d not intended to reveal, and it tugged at her heart. She wondered what secrets his past held. Had nobody ever looked after him? Protected him? Loved him? And did he mean he was concerned for her? The idea gave her a pleasant wiggle in her tummy. But of course, policemen were concerned for everyone’s safety.

  He tucked the bundle of evidence under his arm and stood. “I am sorry to add to your distress.”

  “I am not so very fragile.” She held her shred of pride tightly, afraid that if she let it go, he would see behind it the uncertain woman who was neither pretty nor interesting enough to entice a detective to attend a ball with her or keep from disappointing her own parents.

  “I know,” he said. “But still, I ask you to trust my judgment concerning your safety in working on this case.”

  She considered. Were his words a projection of his own pride when it came to his case? Or did he speak out of true concern for her? And why did it matter so much?

  “I do, Detective,” she said, wishing she didn’t sound so naive. “I trust you.”

  Chapter 9

  Jonathan squinted up at the sky as he left the assembly hall with Miss Bremerton. The day was warm, but late-afternoon clouds gathered. An evening storm was likely within the hour.

  Miss Bremerton pulled on crocheted gloves and then took his arm as they descended the stairs to the street.

  Jonathan liked the feel of her hand on his arm. Walking with her was much different from walking with Sergeant Lester or another of the officers. He and Miss Bremerton were not simply walking side by side, headed in the same direction, but together. And the sensation was very agreeable.

  He considered the afternoon they’d spent together. He’d initially dreaded the young lady’s involvement with the case and had braced himself for a day of annoyance at her interfering. But in reality, he’d found himself pleasantly surprised with her company. And even more surprised that she’d turned out to be an asset to the investigation. Miss Bremerton was intelligent and insightful, both attributes he’d not expected when she’d barged onto the crime scene two nights before.

  He’d certainly not expected Miss Bremerton to draw his emotions so close to the surface—twice within just a few hours. He blamed the reactions on a woman’s influence—something he was very unaccustomed to, both as a man with no family and a police officer. To what else could he attribute his desire to confide secrets, parts of his past he’d never revealed to anyone, and his very nearly breaking into tears—twice? He smiled, thinking how Tom had always warned him to “beware of females and their crafty ways.”

  They arrived at the waiting police carriage, and Jonathan reached for the door handle.

  “Where to now, Detective?” Miss Bremerton asked.

  Her voice sounded tired. Jonathan glanced at her, then looked closer. Miss Bremerton’s face was void of color. He released the carriage door. He had noticed her go pale when they’d discovered blood in the closet, and again when they’d discussed how the bodies might have been removed, but he hadn’t mentioned it in front of the other constables, thinking the observation might embarrass her. He had assumed the shock would pass quickly, but apparently there was more to her reaction than mere aversion to the crime’s details. “Miss, when did you eat last?”

  She rubbed her forehead. “This morning. Breakfast. And peppermints.”

  “And you had only a small cup of tea before we left your house.” That had been more than six hours earlier, Jonathan realized. He’d been so intent on solving the case that he hadn’t paid attention to basic necessities—not uncommon when it concerned only himself, but he felt a responsibility for her. “You must be famished.”

  “I am a bit hungry,” she admitted.

  “Come along.” He motioned for the carriage driver to wait and led her to a bench on the river promenade, helping her to sit. “I’ll be back in just a moment.” He left the bundle of evidence beside her and hurried back up the street, pausing to instruct the driver. It wouldn’t do to leave the young woman alone, but he spoke quietly, thinking Miss Bremerton would not appreciate Jonathan assigning someone to keep watch over her.

  As he left the man and crossed the road behind the carriage, he pondered the very complicated Miss Sophronia Bremerton. She was confusing but somehow not frustrating. More like a puzzle he was intent on solving. He took satisfaction in their easy conversation and how well they worked together. It was strange, but he reasoned he’d not had many friendships outside of the constabulary, and aside from his acquaintance with his landlady, none involved a female.

  Jonathan had only to walk half a block to a street vendor selling meat pies. While he waited for the man to wrap the pies in paper, he glanced back toward the woman on the bench by the river. She faced away from him, looking down, perhaps writing in her notebook. As a breeze blew the feathers of her hat, Jonathan wondered what she was thinking.

  He thanked the vendor and started back, remembering Miss Bremerton’s earlier proposal that he accompany her to the ball. Guilt soured his mouth. His rejection of the idea—or rather, his lack of response altogether—had clearly hurt her feelings, but he’d had no choice. How could he attend such an event? Besides, it wasn’t a rejection of her . . . but she’d understood it as such, and in his incompetence, he hadn’t corrected her.

  He tipped his hat to a group of women walking past, then crossed the street. The sporadic dance instruction he’d received at the orphan school would in no way disguise his ineptitude in that regard. And one sentence out of his uneducated mouth would give him away to the haute ton as an imposter. The bitterness grew stronger, and he swallowed, not wishing to admit that his own pride was getting in the way of what was, in actuality, a very clever plan—all of the potential witnesses together in one place and a noblewoman as a partner . . . But he would be foolish to think a formal coat and hat would convince anyone he belonged among high Society.

  He sat on the bench, offering Miss Bremerton a meat pie. “I know it’s not as fine a meal as you’re accustomed to, but police rarely have the luxury of a fancy dinner while working a case.”

  “It smells wonderful. Thank you.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  She turned over the wrapped parcel, her brow creasing as she pulled at the grease-stained paper. “How do I . . . ?”

  Jonathan felt foolish. Lady Sophron
ia had certainly never been served anything as common as a street vendor’s pie. “You’ll want to remove your gloves,” he said, holding the pie as she did so. He handed it back once her hands were bare. “Now, tear back the paper a bit at a time as you eat.” He spread his handkerchief over her lap. “It can get rather messy.”

  She peeled back a corner of the paper and took a tentative bite. “It’s very good.”

  “I’m sure it’s not of the quality you’re used to, but—”

  “Detective,” she interrupted with a gentle smile. “Stop apologizing. It’s perfect.”

  He smiled, relieved.

  They ate quietly for a moment, enjoying the cool evening breeze and watching the construction on the magnificent Albert Bridge. Jonathan wondered for a moment whether the increase in traffic across this part of the river would also increase crime.

  “You don’t really believe George Lewis’s body was pushed through the window, do you?” she asked, taking him from his wandering thoughts.

  He wiped gravy from his lip. “Perhaps both bodies.”

  “You think Jane Duffin was killed in the parlor closet as well?”

  “We have no evidence to support it, but it stands to reason since the two were likely together.”

  “I don’t see how it’s possible.” Miss Bremerton tore away more of the greasy wrapping and blew on the pastry and the gravy inside to cool it. “If Nick Sloan killed one, the other would have yelled or fought back. He could not have overpowered both at the same time. Surely someone would have heard.”

  He nodded. “It does add credence to the idea of a second person’s involvement.” He crumpled his empty paper into a ball and brushed crumbs from his trousers. “Not only to assist in the commission of the murders but in the disposal of the bodies as well.”

  “But who would do such a thing?” She swept a finger over her lip but missed a small crumb at the very corner of her mouth. “Who would be imposed upon to assist with something so horrible? Someone who owes Mr. Sloan money?”

  He touched the corner of his own mouth in a demonstration of wiping away an imaginary crumb.

  “Oh.” She wiped her lip but on the wrong side.

  “No. It’s here.” He brushed it away with his thumb.

  Pink spots burst across Miss Bremerton’s cheeks.

  Jonathan pulled away, appalled at his action. “I apologize, my lady. I did not even think.”

  “So it is my lady again, is it?”

  “I should not have behaved so familiarly.”

  She looked at her pastry. “Do not let it trouble you, Detective.”

  Her voice was low, and it sounded . . . well, he wasn’t exactly certain how it sounded. Was she angry? Hurt? Offended? He looked around for something to defuse the awkwardness of the situation, and his gaze landed on her notebook. “May I?” He lifted it onto his lap.

  “Of course.”

  He turned the pages, studying her artwork and notes. “George Lewis and Jane Duffin left the kitchen to find somewhere to be alone.” He was glad to return to the comfort of discussing the case. “What is more private than a closet in an unoccupied room?”

  “Yet Nick Sloan knew they were in there,” she said. “But how? Did someone tell him? And once he knew, he convinced a partner to help him to sneak into the assembly hall, murder the pair, and move the bodies to Spitalfields?”

  A thought occurred to Jonathan. “Or . . . there is another possibility . . .” He spoke slowly as the idea formed. “What if their presence was initially unknown to the murderer—or murderers?” He turned to the sketch of the parlor. “This room was on the other side of the assembly hall from the dinner and lecture—not only a perfect spot for a romantic meeting but for a secretive conversation. It is possible that Jane Duffin and George Lewis overheard something they weren’t meant to . . .”

  “And when they were discovered in the closet, they were killed for it,” Miss Bremerton finished. She turned her knees to the side, glancing back over her shoulder at the assembly hall as she leaned toward him. Apparently her former discomfort was forgotten, and for that Jonathan was glad. “Detective, the murderer may not have been Nick Sloan at all.”

  Jonathan nodded, rubbing the lumpy pocket watch fob as he considered. The witness list and the suspect list had just become one and the same.

  “But it couldn’t have been a member of the Kingsclere Hunting Club,” Miss Bremerton said as she turned back toward Jonathan.

  “You think only servants capable of murder?” He could not keep the resentment from his tone.

  “Of course I don’t.” She took a bite of her pie, chewing as she looked toward the Thames. “But I know those men.” She spoke more softly, and now she looked afraid. “Some I’ve known my entire life. I cannot believe any of them capable of something so evil.”

  He nodded, understanding fully as his burst of anger faded. In his years as a police officer, he’d seen countless good people driven to abhorrent acts, and when revealed, their friends and family were nearly always unwilling to believe their guilt.

  He turned a page in the notebook. Now that the idea of an overheard secret had taken root, it seemed the most logical. It provided motive, and unfortunately for Miss Bremerton, the most likely perpetrators in this scenario were the lecture attendees. Not only would two gentlemen have moved unnoticed through the assembly hall but they also would have been able to leave the party for an extended amount of time without drawing attention—something impossible for a servant. They’d also have had the means to transport the bodies. But this new theory brought its own batch of questions.

  He turned another page, looking at the drawing of the alley behind the Porky Pie. “This really is remarkable,” he said. “Your memory for details and the ability to render such a picture . . . I must admit some jealousy.”

  She glanced at him, her expression doubtful.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asked. “Surely you must know how rare your talent is.”

  “Unfortunately, drawing remembered details is not the talent my parents hoped for.” She pressed together her lips and glanced up at a couple walking past.

  Jonathan wondered what sort of people found such an amazing ability to be lacking. “And in what discipline would they rather see their daughter excel?”

  “Beauty, I suppose.” She shrugged, giving a sigh that somehow managed to sound resentful and resigned at the same time as she stared down at the last bits of her pastry. “And desirability. To my parents, the greatest accomplishment lies in making a fortunate match. And as you see, I am hardly equipped—”

  “Beauty is not a talent,” he said. “It is luck. But you do possess quite a bit of it.” He thought it impossible that her parents didn’t see what was to him blatantly obvious. Miss Bremerton was lovely and grew even more so the longer he spent in her company. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the first time they’d met, but now he wondered how he’d missed it.

  Her blush returned. “I’m sorry. My intention was not to beg for a compliment.” She folded the paper around the remains of her pie. “I . . . well, let’s say my interests lie in another direction—in journalism—and that disappoints them greatly.”

  Then they are fools. Perhaps he’d begin his interviews of the hunting club members with Miss Bremerton’s father, Lord Mather. And conduct it in the cells.

  To keep from giving voice to the disgust he felt toward Miss Bremerton’s parents, Jonathan looked back at the drawing, and this time something caught his eye. There appeared to be a shadow in the window above the alley. He turned the page toward her, tapping his finger on the window. “Miss, what is this here?”

  She studied the spot he indicated. “Yes, I remember the curtains moved as if something . . . or someone . . . passed behind. I’d forgotten about it.”

  “That someone might be a witness,” he said, feeling the charge of excitement that came with
a new lead. He rose and pulled her to her feet, retrieving her bag, notebook, and the bundle holding the statue. Her face had regained its color, and for that he was glad. “I do hope your energy is restored, Miss Bremerton.” He offered his arm, walking with her to the waiting carriage. With any luck, this discovery could lead to a break in the case.

  Chapter 10

  Sophie felt immensely better after eating the pie. She settled back in the seat of the police carriage and opened her notebook. Seeing the sketch of the parlor closet, the sight and smell of the blood returned. But this time the nausea didn’t accompany the memories. Detective Graham had been right about her just needing food, and once she’d gotten the knack of eating a greasy pastry with her fingers, she’d thought a vendor’s pie on a riverside bench to be one of the most pleasant meals she could remember. Perhaps a large part of her enjoyment could be attributed to the absence of her mother criticizing each bite that passed her lips, but that didn’t account for all.

  She added some details to the sketch, remembering the upholstery pattern on the chairs in the closet and the design of the window drapes.

  In the fading light coming through the carriage window, Detective Graham studied the drawing of the alley. His brows were pulled tightly together, and he rubbed his forehead as he contemplated.

  Sophie’s mood was unexpectedly amiable. She was tired. The carriage was sturdy but hardly comfortable, and next to her was a man who’d had given her a tongue-lashing and sent her away only two days earlier. None of that explained her contentment. As she considered, she came to the conclusion that her weariness was caused by hard work, and that, along with the quest for justice, brought a fulfillment that was very satisfying.

  Detective Graham leaned back his head against the seat and closed his eyes.

  Sophie wondered if he was sleeping or thinking. She suspected the latter. The detective didn’t seem to be a man to rest when there was work to be done. An admirable trait. And it brought to mind other aspects of Detective Graham’s character.