“There you are!” Prissy’s glare was so filled with vitriol that Sophie stopped mid-step. “I do hope you’re happy, Miss Propriety.” She spat the name as if it were a curse word.
“You have ruined us, Sophronia.” Lady Mather dabbed a handkerchief to her red eyes. She held smelling salts in her other hand. “This is what comes from allowing you such freedoms. I told your grandmother no good would come from you writing for the paper, and now our reputations are utterly ruined.” She waved around the handkerchief.
“We are not ruined, Mother.” Sophie kept her voice calm. Her mother was prone to exaggeration, and Sophie’s work at the newspaper was one of the many upsetting topics that usually sent her on one of her tirades.
“Oh no?” Lady Mather tapped her finger on a stack of letters on the table. “Three—three cancellations for our dinner party next week. And I am sure more are to come.”
“And what of Everleigh? He will never have me now!” Prissy wailed, taking out her own handkerchief.
“How dare you bring such shame on our household.” Her mother pointed her finger at Sophie. “You and that . . . detective, deceiving high Society—our friends—with your little charade and destroying the future Marquess of Molyneaux’s engagement ball. This disgrace will be remembered in our circles forever. It is beyond the pale.”
“Mother.” Sophie slipped into her chair, feeling badly for the footman who was holding it ready. The poor man was doing his best to pretend not to notice the hysterics happening around him. “I did not destroy anything. A man was murdered. Another shot. The killer ruined the party, not I. And certainly not Detective Graham.”
“It was the most important ball of the Season.” Prissy’s anger had turned her face splotchy. “And Everleigh did not even see me home last night.”
Lady Mather patted her younger daughter’s arm in an attempt to console her. She turned back to frown at Sophie. “To be . . . interrogated . . . like a common criminal. And all because my daughter thinks she is above the rules of decorum. Well, I will have no more of it. You are never to write another word for any newspaper. Never! Do you understand? You may not step one toe inside a newspaper office for as long as you live, and do not dare to reach for that pastry, Sophronia.”
Sophie pulled back her hand. She spooned fruit onto her plate instead and poured a cup of tea. She wanted to calm her voice before speaking. Letting out her own anger would only intensify the situation. “Mother.” She spoke in a quiet voice. “People were murdered. It was a murder investigation. Surely you can see that is more important than a ball.”
“Servants were murdered, Sophronia.” Her mother shook her head as if she were dealing with an imbecile. She rubbed her temples. “A lady’s maid—”
“And Charlotte said she wasn’t even a very good lady’s maid,” Prissy interjected.
Her mother nodded her agreement with Prissy. “You have no idea how this has . . . how it will continue to affect our family, Sophronia. You care only for—”
“Sophronia! Come here at once.”
All three ladies jumped as Sophie’s father’s voice boomed through the entry hall.
In spite of their disagreement, the women looked at one another with confused expressions. Her father rarely took an interest in his daughters’ affairs. In her entire life Sophie had only been summoned into his office a very few times—and never with an angry bellow.
Sophie ignored Prissy’s smug smirk as she left the dining room and crossed the entry hall to her father’s office. The door was ajar, and she pushed it open, stepping inside.
None of the ladies in the household were permitted in Lord Mather’s office, except on very rare occasions—and only if invited. Sophie glanced around, taking in the heavy dark furniture and the rows of bookshelves as she walked deeper into the room.
Her father sat at his desk, reading a newspaper behind a green-shaded lamp.
“Good mor—” Sophie began.
“Do you know what this is, Sophronia?” He cut off her words. He held up a parchment-colored envelope between two fingers. “A letter from the hunting club,” he said before she could answer. “How do you explain this?” He flicked his wrist, flinging the letter onto the desk.
Sophie wasn’t certain how to answer. “I don’t know what the letter—”
“One of our members, suspected of murder?” He cut her off again, his voice becoming louder and his face turning redder. “This club has a glorious tradition, Sophronia. It is a pillar of Society.” He gripped the arms of his chair. “Your father, grandfather, great-grandfather—eight generations.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “For nearly four hundred years, knights and nobility have graced the Kingsclere’s noble halls, and today—” His cheeks puffed out, and he waved around his hands as if it were simply too much effort to put together a sentence in this situation. “My own daughter. You would slander its glorious name for a story?” He folded his arms, waiting for a response.
An uneasy feeling joined Sophie’s frustration and bewilderment at her family’s reactions. How had her mother known Jane Duffin was a victim in this case? And who told her father the Kingsclere Club members were part of the suspect pool? Had the police given out the information when they’d questioned the ball guests? She didn’t believe they would. “What story, Father?”
Lord Mather slammed the newspaper down on the desk in front of her, and Sophie’s heart stopped. She was too shocked to even draw enough breath for a gasp. There, beneath the headline “Kingsclere Rookery Murders,” her drawing of the crime scene in the alley behind the Porky Pie covered half a page.
“No, no, no. It can’t be.” Sophie pulled away the paper from beneath his hand, reading the story. Her stomach twisted with every word. It was all there. The victim’s names, the manner of their deaths, the smear on the windowsill, the investigators’ theories.
“The hunting club is convening a special session today. Very likely, they’ll ask for my resignation,” Lord Mather said.
Sophie could hardly hear him as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. She turned the page, and her heart stopped again when she recognized her drawing of the assembly hall parlor. Jonathan was crouched down in the closet, examining the floorboards. Sophie put a hand over her mouth, glad she’d not eaten that pastry, or she’d likely not be able to keep it in her stomach.
“How . . .?” She looked up at her father, blinking as she tried to process how this could have happened. “I didn’t write—”
A memory popped into her mind. That day at the news office, she’d dropped her notebook and Mr. Leonard had asked about the drawings. But she’d taken the notebook away. No. That’s not what happened. She’d noticed it missing when she’d gone to put Tom Stackhouse’s folder into her bag, and she’d found she’d left the notebook on the editor’s desk.
“He stole my story.” Anger sharpened her scattered thoughts into a blade. “I must go, Father.” She rushed from the room.
“I’m not finished—” Her father’s voice came from behind, but she was already on the stairs.
When she reached her room, she flipped through her notebook, and fury made her hands shake. The pages of her investigation had been removed.
Za
In the carriage on the way to the newspaper office, Sophie read through the news story again. Not only had the Illustrated London News published the police department’s information and the steps of the investigation, they’d also included witness names and testimonies from her notes. Were Martha Payne and Miss Primm in danger?
There, in black and white, was a picture of the murder weapon. Every advantage the police had over the murderers was gone. The enormity of what Sophie had inadvertently done threatened to crush her, and she wished more than anything she’d brought Mimi along for support.
She took the folder from her bag, feeling a bitter guilt as she held it. If she hadn’t been so inquisitive
about Jonathan’s friendship with Tom Stackhouse, none of this would have happened. She began flipping through the pages with nervous energy, and she started reading.
Twenty minutes later Sophie threw open the door to the newspaper office and stormed inside. She marched past Mrs. Ingram, through the staring news reporters, and straight to the editor’s desk.
Mr. Leonard looked up, cigarette hanging from his lips, but did not have a chance to speak.
Sophie shook the paper in his face. “Explain this, sir.”
He gave a wide, walrusy grin and blew out a puff of smoke. “Miss Propriety, that is our best-selling paper, ever. It’s still morning, and we’re running another printing already. You should be congratulating yourself, my dear.”
She pushed the paper closer to his face, pointing at the drawing. “I am not your dear. You stole this information from me. I did not give you permission to print it.”
He folded his hands across his wide belly, and his eyes took on a shrewd look. “You left the article—however unfinished—on my desk, as you do every week.” He lifted his chin the slightest bit, as if daring her to argue.
“But you know I didn’t intend you to print this,” Sophie said.
His expression changed into something more calculating, and he set the cigarette in a tray. “My lady, you did marvelous work—far better than I’d have expected. You’ve proven yourself to be as competent a news reporter as any I’ve known.” He took the paper from her, spreading it out on his desk and smoothing it with his hands. “If you’re willing to accept a position as a senior news reporter, I’d be pleased to have you.”
Sophie snatched back the paper, crumpled it into a ball, and resisted the compulsion to throw it into his face or light it on fire with his smoldering cigarette. “I shall not, sir. Not now, not ever. Your selfishness has caused more damage than you could ever know.” She dropped the paper onto the ground and spun, needing to leave as quickly as possible. Jonathan would know how to fix this, but she had to make one stop before going to the station house.
She stepped outside and slammed the door behind her, saying goodbye forever to “Miss Propriety’s People and Prattle” and the Illustrated London News.
Chapter 19
Jonathan stared at the news story. She couldn’t have . . . she wouldn’t. He didn’t know whether his head or his heart hurt worse. Sophie had betrayed him. She’d used him for her news story. And he was the fool who had allowed her to do it. Who had allowed himself think that just maybe—
Sir Dennington pounded on the desk, shaking the portrait of his family hanging on the wall behind him. “. . . a visit from the commissioner himself!” the inspector said. “Says you infiltrated the marquess’s son’s engagement ball with the help of a disguise and a group of young ladies—that you accused the Kingsclere Hunting Club of concealing murderers!” He crossed his arms, staring across his desk at Jonathan and Sergeant Lester, awaiting their answer.
“I—yes, sir. But it was myself, and not the sergeant, who involved civilians.”
“What were you thinking, man?” Sir Dennington held up his hands, using them to chop the air and punctuate his words. He shook his head. “Impersonating nobility? I’ve had visits and letters all morning. The marquess is threatening to involve the prime minister.” He pounded the desk once more, and his voice echoed through the station house.
Jonathan wished the man would just hit him or throw him into prison—anything would be better than this ache in his heart. How had he let himself be so utterly deceived? It was just as Tom had always said: Never trust a pretty face. “We hoped to gain information we would otherwise not have access to. Most of the nobility won’t speak candidly to a police officer, sir.”
“And now a constable is wounded.” Sir Dennington sank into his chair, apparently done with his yelling—for now. “So tell me—what happened, Detective?”
Jonathan reported everything that had transpired since Sir Dennington had left his office two days earlier, explaining his reasoning for assuming a disguise and for recruiting the young ladies to assist in gathering information. He spoke in an emotionless voice, giving no personal details. Apparently they had all been imagined anyway.
He especially downplayed Sophie’s involvement in the planning. Part of him still wished to protect her from any repercussions, and the other was too ashamed to admit he’d been so taken in.
The inspector listened, nodding here and there and leaning close when Jonathan described the shooting.
“Did you see from whence the shots came?”
Jonathan looked at the sergeant, giving him the chance to answer.
“From the assembly hall, sir. Based on the angle of the bullets we pulled from the stable walls, I’m sure of it.”
“Your suspicions about the hunting club are not unfounded.” Sir Dennington nodded, scratching his chin. “And you detained everyone in attendance last night?”
Jonathan shook his head. “Some resisted, sir.” He gritted his teeth, frustrated that so many members of high Society were above the law. “Others left before reinforcements came to guard the exits.”
“But we talked to most,” Sergeant Lester said. “Apparently nobody saw or heard anything unusual.”
“Not even gunshots?” Sir Dennington asked in disbelief. “And no one saw a shooter fleeing the scene?”
Jonathan shrugged. “Most were just put out at having their party ruined.”
Sir Dennington nodded. He sighed. “I’m sorry to do this, but I’ll ask you to turn in your badge and warrant card now.” He stood back up, clasping his hands behind his back. “You’ll be on leave without pay until this situation either runs its course or I’m ordered to ask for your resignation.”
Jonathan set his badge and card on the table. “Yes, sir.”
“And you as well, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Lester swallowed. He took the card from his pocket and unpinned his badge.
Jonathan winced with the guilt of seeing his loyal friend punished for following his orders.
“That will be all for now, gentlemen,” Sir Dennington said as a dismissal. His voice was not unkind, but it left no room for argument.
The two crossed the station to Jonathan’s office.
Jonathan took a bag of peppermints from the coat hanging on his chair, offering one to the sergeant, then putting one into his own mouth. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. I should never have allowed this.” He put on his coat, then slipped the peppermints back into the pocket.
A copy of the London Illustrated News sat on his desk, open to Sophie’s—Lady Sophronia’s—article.
Sergeant Lester stared at the paper, looking utterly devastated. “What do we do now, sir?”
Jonathan rounded the desk. He clapped the sergeant on the shoulder. “If you’d care to join me, I intend to visit the hospital. Let us see if Constable Merryweather has awoken.”
Sergeant Lester nodded. He brushed the paper from the desk into the rubbish bin and stood.
Jonathan put on his hat. He picked up the papers Miss Thornton had given him the night before with the list and the ladies’ notes on each suspect they’d spoken to. He was tempted to toss them, but he held on to them.
The other detectives and constables avoided eye contact as Jonathan and Sergeant Lester walked back through the station house.
Jonathan didn’t blame them. He had made the most enormous mistake of his career, and H Division’s reputation and the other policemen would suffer for it.
Sergeant Lester opened the door, but before Jonathan stepped through, Sergeant Abner came around the reception desk. “Sir, I’ve the information you asked for.”
Jonathan took the file. “What is this?”
“The property history of the workhouse construction site. You asked me to uncover the records . . .” He raised his thick red brows. “Surely you remember, sir?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, of course. Thank you, Sergeant Abner.” Not wishing to appear ungrateful, Jonathan slid Miss Thornton’s papers into the file from Abner and tucked it under his arm.
When they arrived at the hospital, they entered through the main entrance and continued on to the ward. On a typical visit to Dr. Peabody, Jonathan descended the stairs to the morgue. And, truthfully, he preferred that route. The hospital smelled of medicine and illness. People waited outside rooms, looking up with faces that contained a horrible combination of fear and hope whenever a doctor approached. And in the rooms beyond he heard moans and cries of pain. At least in the morgue, no one suffered anymore.
They entered the ward where Merryweather was being tended and found Lady Sophronia standing at his bedside, speaking with Dr. Peabody.
Jonathan wasn’t prepared for the jolt of shock at seeing her. Anger and hurt warred within him, making his insides shake. His first impulse was to run; then he wanted to yell. But he did neither, only continued forward and assumed an aloof expression.
When she saw them, her face lit up, and she hurried toward them. “I’m glad you’re here.” She spoke to Jonathan, then turned and gave a smile and a nod to his companion. “And you as well, Sergeant Lester.”
The sergeant inclined his head, but he didn’t smile. “My lady.”
Lady Sophronia’s brow furrowed at his cold response, but she did not comment on it. “Detective, we need to talk. Something terrible has happened. The newspaper—”
“I’ve seen the newspaper, my lady.” Jonathan kept all inflection from his voice, worried he’d betray his anger—or his hurt.
Her brow furrowed again. “Yes, well, we must figure out what to do. I have already—”
“I have come to inquire after the constable.” Jonathan pushed past her. “Please excuse me.”
“Detective?” She sounded confused. She spoke softer and much slower now. “I—would like to talk with you. Please.”
He spun, his hands in fists at his sides. “You lied to me, my lady—betrayed my trust, manipulated me—to get your story. Well, now you have it, and I have nothing else to say to you.”
Solving Sophronia (The Blue Orchid Society, #1) Page 20