He popped a peppermint into his mouth and offered one to the sergeant, hoping it would keep the man quiet as well as ease the discomfort in his own stomach brought on by the odor of the remains. Speaking about Miss Bremerton dredged up emotions that were . . . complicated. And Jonathan didn’t appreciate complicated.
The photographer’s carriage arrived at the same time as Dr. Peabody’s, and the sergeant helped carry the photography equipment through the worksite of the burned building. Jonathan walked with the doctor, leaving the medical students behind at the hospital wagon.
When the photographer saw the body, he cursed and cringed away, holding his nose.
“Come on, then.” Sergeant Lester spoke in an encouraging voice, patting the man on the shoulder. “’S not so bad, once you get used to the smell. Now, where do you want this tripod?”
As the sergeant and photographer arranged the photography equipment, Jonathan and Dr. Peabody stepped closer to the body.
“What do you think, Doctor?” Jonathan asked. “Can you estimate a time of death?”
Dr. Peabody leaned forward on his cane and squinted through his spectacles. “Hard to tell without examining the internal organs. But based on the bloating and the smell, I’d estimate he’s been dead at least three days.” He pointed to the muddy patches. “Moisture could have exacerbated the process, however.” He tipped his head to the side and crouched down, leaning his cane against a pile of bricks as he looked closer. “Cause of death is likely a blow to the head.” He pointed to a dent in the man’s skull. “But you undoubtedly deduced that already.”
“All right, sirs, if you please,” the photographer called. “I’m ready.”
Jonathan and Doctor Peabody stepped to the side.
Sergeant Lester held the flashgun and lit the powder when the photographer removed the cap from the photo box’s lens.
Even through his closed eyes Jonathan saw the burst of white light as the powder ignited.
The photographer replaced the cap and informed them the photograph would be delivered to the station as soon as it was processed. He dismantled his tripod as he spoke, anxious to leave.
Jonathan thanked the man, and Sergeant Lester walked with the photographer back to his carriage.
“Anything else on the two in the morgue?” Jonathan asked the doctor as they returned to the body.
“I’m afraid not.” Dr. Peabody shook his head. “Is that peppermint I smell?”
Jonathan gave the doctor a sweet, and the pair rolled the corpse onto its back.
Both turned away quickly, holding their hands over their noses; the putrefaction smell was now, if possible, even stronger.
Jonathan held his breath and poked fingers into the dead man’s pockets, hoping for a clue to his identity. The man’s clothing was ordinary. A wool jacket, trousers, a worn shirt, and a necktie. He appeared to be neither wealthy nor impoverished—a typical working-class chap. He had no hat, and his hair was brown with a bit of gray, giving a slight indication of his age. The waistcoat pocket contained a simple pocket watch. No engraving. Jonathan turned to the jacket pockets.
“The young woman from Monday night’s crime scene—Miss Bremerton—called on me early this morning,” Dr. Peabody said.
Jonathan paused, and in his surprise he accidentally breathed in through his nose. He coughed, stomach wrenching, and looked at the doctor through watering eyes. “What did she want?” That Miss Bremerton had continued investigating on her own annoyed him, especially after she’d given her word not to. “She didn’t demand to see the bodies, did she?” He reached across to search the pockets on the other side.
“No, nothing of the sort,” Dr. Peabody said, turning the dead man’s head to the side and studying the damage. “Similar to Mr. Lewis’s wound,” he muttered.
“Doctor?” Jonathan prompted. “Miss Bremerton’s visit . . .”
Dr. Peabody looked at him through his spectacles, then blinked, appearing to remember what he was saying. “Yes.” He laid the head carefully back on the ground and lifted a hand to study the fingers. “As neither Miss Duffin nor Mr. Lewis has any family to speak of, Miss Bremerton made arrangements for the victim’s burials.”
Jonathan stared at the doctor, but this time he remembered to breathe through his mouth.
“Very considerate of her, don’t you think?” Dr. Peabody set down the hand and wiped his palms on his trousers. “Have you any more pepper-
mints?”
Jonathan gave the man another sweet, and his mind turned over what the doctor had said. The information touched his heart in a way that surprised him. Jane Duffin was just one of the penniless victims in a city that pretended its lower classes didn’t exist. But Miss Bremerton was different. For some reason, she saw what others of her class didn’t. And she cared.
As he contemplated, he continued through the motions of looking through the man’s pockets and from inside the jacket pulled a leather billfold. He stood as Sergeant Lester joined him and the doctor.
“Identification?” the sergeant asked.
Jonathan opened the billfold, finding a few pounds in an inner pouch. The other pouch contained slips of paper. Delivery orders from Bluebird Furniture Emporium.
“May I take the body?” Dr. Peabody asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Jonathan said.
Bluebird Furniture. That must be the source of the wagon Freddy had seen. Was this man the murderer of the other two victims? Was he an accomplice?
Once the doctor and his students had taken away the body and Jonathan had set the constables to searching the scene and looking for witnesses, he and Sergeant Lester started back to the station house.
They stopped at a vendor’s cart for bloaters, and as they ate the herring, Jonathan filled the sergeant in on what he and Miss Bremerton had learned the day before.
The sergeant’s interviews at the Greys’ household had turned up nothing, though he did find a cabbie who’d transported a lady in a blue dress from Hyde Park to Chelsea Monday evening.
Sergeant Lester picked fish bones from his teeth. “You suppose this delivery driver was an accomplice and his partner turned on him?”
“Possibly.” Jonathan looked through the delivery receipts and pulled one out. “The final delivery Monday night—a pair of velvet-upholstered armchairs—was made to a Mrs. Kettle of South Kensington at five thirty.” He pointed to the company’s address on the receipt. “Bluebird Furniture Emporium is located on the road directly behind the assembly hall. I’d wager the two share a service lane.”
“The dead man made his final delivery of the night and returned in his wagon just as the killer was looking for a way to transport the other bodies.” Sergeant Lester snapped his fingers. “His was a murder of opportunity.”
“Or necessity, depending on how you look at it,” Jonathan muttered, thinking through the scenario. The theory made sense.
“Poor bloke was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Sergeant Lester shook his head.
The pair crossed the road to the station house in silence, and Jonathan contemplated the latest developments. If their theory of the crime proved true, the killer—or killers—had murdered three innocent people. But why? What did they hope to conceal? And why move the other bodies to Spitalfields? He was missing something.
Sergeant Lester reached for the handle but paused before opening the door to the station. “I heard what the doctor said about Lady Sophronia, about her buryin’ those poor souls.”
Jonathan raised a brow, waiting for the sergeant to continue.
“Haven’t met many noblewomen,” Sergeant Lester went on. “Those I have were rude or dismissive or bothered to have to deal with the police at all. But not Lady Sophronia. I like her.” He gave a sharp nod. “She’s a good one.” He pulled open the door. “Wonder how she’d like a stuffed mouse. Maybe with a wee sketchbook and pencil . . . ”
<
br /> Jonathan stepped past the sergeant without comment. He didn’t think one was warranted. He picked up his mail from the desk sergeant, hung up his coat and hat, and sat in his chair, pulling a stack of files toward him.
He opened a folder and started to write but stopped as a thought occurred to him. One he’d never have expected. He liked Miss Bremerton too.
Chapter 12
The green in Hyde Park north of the Serpentine was filled with spectators when Sophie arrived with Elizabeth Miller and Dahlia Lancaster. The air balloon wasn’t scheduled to ascend for at least another hour, weather permitting, but crowds had already gathered, eager to watch the spectacle. Vendors taking advantage of a waiting company on a warm day sold flavored ices and sweets. Some enterprising merchants sold miniature balloons, silken fans adorned with balloon paintings, and even brooches in balloon shapes. Ladies and gentlemen wore their finest clothing and strolled among the booths, greeting acquaintances and enjoying the sunny morning. Working-class folks gathered as well, their clothes less fancy but every bit as carefully groomed. Children laughed, running throughout the chatting groups. The mood was festive and had the feel of a fair or a holiday celebration. Sophie couldn’t help but smile in anticipation, opening her parasol as she stepped from beneath the trees of the footpath, into the sunshine.
In the center of a treeless expanse of lawn, the main attraction, a silken mass, striped blue and yellow, was being filled with gas. Over the colorful bladder stretched a netting of rope, attaching the balloon to a large basket. Bags filled with sand surrounded the basket, anchoring it to the ground.
“Oh, there is Vivian.” Dahlia pointed toward the balloon.
Sophie spotted Vivian Kirby right away. Her scientific-minded friend was bent over, peering at a contraption of gears and speaking to the men operating the large pumps that distributed the gas.
“I must say I’m hardly surprised,” Sophie said.
Elizabeth squinted toward the men. “In a perfect world, she would be directing the operation, and the men would ask the questions. I’m sure she understands the workings of a hydrogen balloon much better than they do.”
Sophie smiled, pleased with the way her friends spoke about one another, even when the object of their discussion wasn’t near. The behavior was not something she had formerly been accustomed to. She had no doubts that the Blue Orchid Society would defend her name as well, and knowing it, being able to trust this group of women, filled her with a warm comfort.
“Do tell us more about your new story, Sophie,” Dahlia said. “Are you really investigating a murder?”
“Two murders, actually,” Sophie replied, still surprised to be speaking so comfortably with Dahlia Lancaster, the most sought-after debutante in high Society. After the words were out of Sophie’s mouth, she winced. “But I shouldn’t say any more. I promised Detective Graham I would not disclose details of the case—not yet anyway.”
“So this man tells you to remain silent?” Elizabeth snorted. “Typical.”
Sophie shook her head, a burst of defensiveness prickling under her skin, even though she knew her friend’s words were spoken partially in jest. She’d come to realize over the past weeks that Elizabeth was not always as angry toward the opposite sex as she acted, though the young lady did not tolerate injustice in any form and did not hesitate to speak up in the face of discrimination. “No, it’s not like that at all,” Sophie said. “He’s not like that. In fact, the detective often asks for my opinion about the case. And he listens when I give it.”
Elizabeth didn’t look completely convinced.
“He simply doesn’t want any part of the investigation revealed while we still search for the killer,” Sophie explained further. “Tipping the murderer off to the police’s plans to apprehend him would hardly do.”
“That seems wise,” Dahlia said.
“Or controlling,” Elizabeth muttered. She gave an impertinent smile as her gaze, holding a tease, darted to Sophie.
Sophie smirked and was about to tease back when they were interrupted by the approach of Lord Meredith, Lord Ruben’s closest friend.
“Good morning, ladies.” He pulled on his hat brim and inclined his head in a slight bow. The ruby pin in his necktie glinted in the sunlight.
The women greeted him in return.
Lord Meredith wore his tailored coat with an easy elegance that gave the impression that he hadn’t given more than the briefest thought to his presentation, though Sophie did not think it likely. Not when the cut of his trousers and his waistcoat were the very height of style. Unlike the other members of the West End Casanovas, Lord Meredith wore no mustache but grew his side-whiskers down past his ears.
“How do you do today, Miss Lancaster?” he asked Dahlia.
“Very well, sir. Thank you.”
Dahlia’s voice was soft, and she appeared to be uncertain—a trait Sophie did not realize the young lady possessed. Her wound at the hands of Lord Ruben was still raw.
Lord Meredith cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind his back. “I thought to inquire . . . perhaps call on you sooner, but—”
“Meredith, there you are.” Lord Ruben pushed through a group of people, emerging with Lady Lorene Stanhope on his arm. His eyes widened when he saw Dahlia, and his brows wrinkled. The expression was gone just as quickly, replaced by his typical bored arrogance.
Lady Lorene gave Dahlia a haughty sneer. She pulled on her fiancé’s elbow. “Come along, Ruben, darling. Lord Everleigh has claimed an ideal viewing location for us on that hill.”
Sophie and Elizabeth looked at Dahlia and then at each other.
Dahlia’s cheeks were dark, and her chin quivered.
“It’s a balloon, my lady,” Elizabeth said in an irritated voice. “When it rises, anywhere in the city is an ideal viewing location.”
Lady Lorene ignored Elizabeth. “You’ll join us as well, Lord Meredith?”
Lord Meredith looked between the two groups, his gaze lingering on Dahlia with something very like concern in his eyes. “Ah yes. I’ll be along in a moment.”
Elizabeth watched Dahlia as well, but instead of concern, anger sparked in her eyes. “Please excuse us.” She pulled her cousin away without waiting for acknowledgment from the others.
“How very rude,” Lady Lorene said. She curled her lip, watching Dahlia’s retreating form, and pulled Lord Ruben away, inclining her head to Sophie as she passed. “Lady Sophronia.”
Lord Ruben touched his hat brim in the briefest acknowledgment.
Sophie muttered a farewell to the couple and turned to bid farewell to Lord Meredith as well but changed her mind when she realized she had the rare opportunity to speak with one of the Casanovas alone.
Lord Meredith glanced between the two departing pairs. “I suppose things must be . . . difficult between Miss Lancaster and myself now.” He grimaced. “I wish it were not so.”
“Perhaps,” Sophie said, not exactly certain what answer to give.
He cleared his throat and looked down at Sophie as if surprised she were still there. He must have been speaking to himself.
“Lord Meredith, I wonder if I might ask you some questions,” Sophie said before he could leave. “It will take just a moment.”
“Writing a story, are you?”
“Yes.” Sophie took the notebook from her bag. “Did you attend William Charles Baldwin’s lecture on Monday evening?”
He gave a nod. “I did. Fascinating, to say the least.”
Sophie considered what questions to ask. “And was it well attended?”
“Extremely. I reckon it was the most popular event the Kingsclere Hunting Club has hosted in years. The hall was very crowded.”
“Can you tell me the names of some of the attendees?” She smiled in what she hoped looked like an interested and not interrogative manner. “Readers love that sort of detail. Just
some of the people you remember.”
Lord Meredith scratched his cheek. “People came late and left early all evening, but let me see if I can remember specifics . . . I sat on the second row beside Ruben, and your father was directly behind us. We spoke for a few moments before the lecture began.”
Sophie nodded, writing the names in her notebook. That coincided with what her father had told her as well.
“Everleigh was there with his German friend. We had dinner together. And Benedict, though he left early, of course. Photographs of hunting trophies are not exactly to his liking.”
Sophie wrote Lord Benedict’s name down, noting that he left early. In this she wasn’t surprised. Lord Benedict was, by reputation, unconventional. The future Duke of Ellingham was a great lover of nature and animals. Sophie had even heard he refused to eat meat. She didn’t believe he’d be pleased to hear details about an African hunting expedition or see the evidence of the animal casualties that had resulted from it. Besides, she and the detective were looking for someone who had arrived late to the lecture or perhaps hadn’t attended at all. If the murder had occurred between six and seven, she and Detective Graham had reasoned, it would have been during the dinner.
“And you must have heard Prince Alfred attended,” Lord Meredith said.
“I did hear,” Sophie said.
“Charles Stratford, Arthur Grey, Jack Rothschild, Chatsworth, of course . . .” He continued listing names, and finally Sophie stopped him.
“Lord Meredith, did you notice anything unusual that evening?” she asked.
Solving Sophronia (The Blue Orchid Society, #1) Page 13
