Solving Sophronia (The Blue Orchid Society, #1)

by Jennifer Moore

“I’m not certain . . .” he began.

  “Was anyone behaving strangely?”

  He squinted, looking unsure of her meaning. “During the lecture, you mean?”

  “No. Yes.” She huffed out a breath through her nose and shook her head, frustrated that she’d not prepared better. She’d hoped to find some new information to share with Detective Graham, but she didn’t know how to tactfully ask if any of Lord Meredith’s friends had appeared murderous on Monday evening. “I’m sorry. I’m not being clear. I suppose I just wanted some interesting details for my story.”

  “If you’d like, I could introduce you to Mr. Baldwin. An interview with the man himself may provide the details you are looking for.”

  The offer’s thoughtfulness surprised Sophie. She hadn’t expected anything of the sort from one of the Casanovas. “Thank you, my lord. I would appreciate that very much.”

  Lord Meredith motioned toward the balloon with the head of his walking stick. “It appears the balloon is nearly ready to ascend.”

  Sophie hadn’t even noticed the silk bladder was completely filled. The brightly striped sphere rising above the crowd was a spectacular site. The balloon looked as if it were pulling to lift off, and men in official uniforms surrounded the basket, holding fast to ropes to prevent it from doing just that.

  “Oh yes.” Sophie turned to a blank page in her notebook. “Thank you for your time. I must start my sketch before I miss the launch completely.”

  He tugged on his hat brim. “Very nice to see you, my lady. I’ll leave you to enjoy your day.”

  Sophie bid Lord Meredith farewell. The crowd had swelled, with people pressing close together. A few scuffles broke out on the edges of the gathering, and she noticed constables moving among the throng, keeping order.

  She found Elizabeth and Dahlia closer to the launch site. Vivian had joined them as well. A pity Hazel hadn’t come, but a crowd this size would be more than their friend could manage. Sophie hoped she would at least watch the balloon from a window.

  “. . . the silk of the balloon is varnished with rubber dissolved in turpentine,” Vivian was saying, “making it airtight to keep the gas from escaping.” She glanced up and smiled. “Good morning, Sophie.”

  “Good morning.” Sophie grinned at her friend.

  “You are just in time. I was just about to explain how the hydrogen is created,” Vivian said in her steady voice. “You see, a quarter ton of sulfuric acid is poured onto a half ton of scrap iron, then fed into the bladder through lead pipes . . .”

  Sophie listened with half an ear as she sketched the balloon and the crowd surrounding it. Two men in top hats and coats had climbed into the basket and now waved at the spectators. Their waves were met with cheers.

  “Monsieurs Charles and Roberts intend to take meteorological measurements of the atmosphere high above the earth’s surface,” Vivian said. “They carry a barometer and a thermometer to measure the pressure and temperature of the air. Won’t the results be fascinating?”

  Sophie wrote down the information for her balloon-launch story.

  One of the men in the balloon basket raised his hands, and the crowd went silent. He called out a command in French. The workers released the ropes, and the balloon started to rise off the ground.

  The crowd gave a collective gasp, followed by cheers and applause.

  One of the men hadn’t released his rope fast enough and was pulled off his feet. The balloon lifted him into the air.

  Below, people screamed. Some yelled for him to let go his hold, but it seemed he was too panicked to do so.

  Sophie held her breath.

  Dahlia’s hands were pressed to her mouth.

  The men inside the basket leaned over the side, yelling commands to the man as they rose higher over the trees.

  Finally, the worker let go and dropped, crashing down through a large birch tree as he fell.

  Police officers ran to the rescue, and Sophie moved for a better view, sketching the balloon rope and the panicked man being pulled into the air as she took a step forward.

  After a moment the circle of police moved away, and the man stood in the middle of them, holding his head. One of the police officers held on to his arm, supporting him.

  Seeing the man unharmed, the crowd cheered again.

  “Oh, thank heaven,” Dahlia muttered.

  Sophie continued to walk closer, wanting to get at least the man’s name for her story. If he was in any condition to provide a comment, that would be even better.

  By the time she was able to push through the crowd, she saw a nurse holding a cloth against the injured man’s head. Police still stood around the scene of the accident.

  An officer walked toward her, and Sophie smiled when she saw it was Constable Merryweather.

  He pulled on the brim of his bucket hat. “Lady Sophronia.”

  “Constable Merryweather, what do you do here? This is a long way from Whitechapel. Are you on duty?”

  “London City Police needed some extra security for the event.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Distracted crowd. All eyes looking upward. Perfect opportunity for dippers and the sort.”

  Sophie put a hand on her bag, glad for his warning against pickpockets.

  “Suppose you’re hoping for an interview?” He stabbed a thumb over his shoulder, motioning toward the injured man.

  Sophie glanced behind the constable. The man who had fallen had been led to a spot in the shade, and the nurse attending him was inspecting his arm. He winced when she lifted it.

  “An interview is not necessary. But perhaps a report on his status? And do you know his name?”

  “Name’s Clive Butler,” Merryweather said, watching her write in her notebook. “Broken arm, I think. Knock on the head left him seeing stars, but doesn’t seem the worse for wear.”

  “That is fortunate,” Sophie said. She glanced upward. The balloon was very high now, and so small. “I am glad I found you today.” She smiled at the constable. “Are there any new developments in our murder case? Were you able to interview Nick Sloan?”

  Constable Merryweather frowned, apparently considering whether or not he should share details of the case with her when the detective wasn’t present. “I did,” he answered after a hesitation.

  “And what did you find?”

  “Sloan seemed genuinely distressed when he heard about the murders.” The constable glanced around as if nervous he’d be overheard. “I didn’t detain him. He appeared convincing to me. Detective Graham agreed with the decision, since we’ve no evidence to the contrary.”

  “I hope to call on Detective Graham tomorrow, with the list he

  needs.”

  Constable Merryweather nodded. “He’ll be glad for the information.” He pulled on his hat brim again. “Keep an eye on your valuables, my lady.”

  Sophie turned, her thoughts back on the murder investigation. She’d fetched the list from the Kingsclere Hunting Club this morning after calling on Dr. Peabody, and the sheer number of names on it had made her ill. At this rate, they’d never narrow down the suspects.

  She did not pay attention to where she was walking and bumped into someone going the other direction. She looked up and winced when she saw it was Lord Everleigh. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  “Lady Sophronia.” He gave a curt bow and continued on, most likely in search of her sister.

  She returned to her friends. The other ladies had decided, in her absence, to visit Hazel, and Sophie was thrilled by the idea. An afternoon with the Blue Orchid Society was just the thing. Then, Saturday night, they’d meet again at the assembly hall for Lord Ruben and Lady Lorene’s engagement ball.

  The heat returned to her chest and neck when she remembered Detective Graham’s rejection of her proposal to attend the ball as a means to finding the murderer.

  Pushing aw
ay her embarrassment, she considered the man himself. She’d spent hours with him the day before but still did not know the first thing about Detective Graham. The man was private, and his past certainly held secrets. Was he more than he appeared? She remembered the bullet on his pocket watch fob and the small scrap of information he’d given about it. What was his friend’s name again? Tom Stackhouse.

  Sophie’s curiosity was piqued, and she decided to send a note to the Illustrated London News’s research assistant, Mrs. Ingram, requesting some information. Perhaps the real mystery wasn’t the murders but the man solving them.

  Chapter 13

  Jonathan leaned back against his desk, standing with one leg crossed over the other. He studied the board propped against the wall behind it. Miss Bremerton’s drawing of Jane Duffin’s body in the Porky Pie alley was stuck with a tack to one corner, and beneath it was George Lewis’s name, written on a scrap of paper, along with the crime scene photograph of Alfred Burgess, the Bluebird Furniture delivery driver. The coroner’s reports were on the board, as well as photographs taken by the doctor of the victims’ injuries. Jonathan had attached a drawing of the horse statue and a map of the city with the Belcourt Assembly Hall and the locations where the bodies were found circled in red ink. Over the past days, he had written and crossed out various leads. The door to the pub had turned up nothing, and no physical evidence had been found at the scene, aside from the body. He’d pinned lines of thread identifying relationships and possible motives, but instead of making the case clearer, as laying it out in a practical manner was wont to do, the board only created confusion and more questions.

  “Too many suspects,” Sergeant Lester muttered from his chair in front of the desk. He tossed the list of assembly hall employees onto the desk and rubbed his eyes.

  Jonathan stuck the paper to the board.

  A sharp rap came at the office door, and Sir Peter Dennington, the chief inspector, entered the office.

  Jonathan straightened, and Sergeant Lester jumped to attention, offering the chief inspector his chair.

  Sir Dennington ignored the gesture. “Three bodies?” He waved at the board. “And all related? Tell me you have a suspect.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “We’re following up every possible avenue, sir, but so far—”

  “I’ve just had a visit from Assistant-Commissioner Pembroke. The borough council is calling for this case to be solved, immediately. Some are questioning my competence to manage the division.” He placed both hands on Jonathan’s desk and leaned forward, his face reddening. “I don’t need to tell you your future here is on the line, Detective.” He glanced to the side. “And yours, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Lester said.

  “I understand, sir.” Jonathan kept his voice calm, knowing the chief inspector needed only to release his frustration. Once he yelled and blustered, he’d return to the rational, sharp-minded person Jonathan admired, leading the H Division station house with a firm hand and unwavering loyalty to his men.

  Sir Dennington nodded and stood, straightening his coat. He let out a breath and relaxed his shoulders. “Now then, where are we in solving this? What do you need from me? Manpower? Warrants? The constabulary is at your disposal, Graham.” He rounded the desk, taking a closer look at the board. “Who are our suspects?”

  Jonathan moved to the side to give him space. “Sir, the case is . . . complicated. We proceed cautiously by design.”

  Dennington turned toward him, folding his arms. “And why is that?”

  “The murder could very likely be a member of the Kingsclere Hunting Club,” Jonathan said.

  Sir Dennington cursed, rubbing his temples. “Tell me you jest.”

  “I wish I were, sir. To accuse a man of rank—possibly a nobleman—without sufficient evidence . . .” Jonathan left the remainder unspoken.

  Sir Dennington nodded. He looked back at the board. “A false accusation in that case would be far worse for H Division than three unsolved murders.”

  “Agreed,” Jonathan said.

  “Your discretion is understandable,” the chief inspector said. “But you must remember the delay could end all of our careers.”

  “And leave a murderer walking the streets, free to kill again,” Sergeant Lester reminded him.

  “Quite right.” Sir Dennington gave a quick nod. “Use any resources you need; follow every lead. Solve this case, Detective. Promptly.” He turned and left the office without another word.

  Sergeant Lester sat back in his chair. “How do we proceed then, sir?”

  Jonathan sank into his own chair, tossing the sergeant a peppermint and then putting one into his own mouth. He folded the empty sack, disappointed to have eaten the last sweet.

  He could think of only one plan they’d not pursued, and the idea of doing it—of attending tomorrow’s ball—left him with a pit in his stomach. There must be something else.

  The hour was nearly ten when Sergeant Abner poked his head into Detective Graham’s office. “Beg your pardon, Detective. A lady’s here to speak with you, sir.” He glanced over his shoulder.

  Constable Hutchings appeared in the doorway behind the desk sergeant, looking excited. “An elegant lady, sir.”

  Sergeant Lester perked up. “Lady Sophronia?” He hurried from the office. Jonathan heard his voice echoing though the station as the sergeant gave an impromptu tour. He entered a few moments later with Miss Bremerton on his arm. “And here is Detective Graham’s office. Desk’s rather untidy at the moment.” He swept an arm toward the chair he’d vacated.

  Jonathan stood. “Good morning, Miss Bremerton.” Abner was right; she did look elegant, making the room appear shabby by comparison.

  “Nice to see you, Detective.” She handed a piece of paper across the desk. “The list of Kingsclere Hunting Club members. As you see, it is quite extensive.”

  Jonathan glanced at the paper, and his insides dropped. He retook his seat, looking closer at the names. There were well over seventy. “Have we an idea which of these attended the event Monday?”

  “I made a few discreet inquiries.” She came around to his side of the desk and leaned over his shoulder, pointing. “A star beside the name means he attended for certain. An X indicates he did not attend. And this little circle means he arrived late. As you see, I managed to identify only a very few.”

  Jonathan was tempted to glance up at her but feared if he did, she’d move away. And he liked the feel of her so close.

  Sergeant Lester leaned across the desk and peered at the list as well, viewing it upside down. “It is a good start, my lady.”

  She looked up, but instead of responding, Miss Bremerton gasped, looking past the detective. “Gracious, what on earth? What is this?” She pushed past the sergeant to the side of the room and moved a pile of papers away, revealing a pair of taxidermic rabbits in boxing clothes. The animals were enclosed in a miniature pugilist ring and posed in the act of fighting.

  Jonathan had grown so used to the rabbits on the top of his cabinet that he’d completely forgotten about them. Aside from a photograph of Queen Victoria on his wall, the animals were the only adornment in his office.

  Miss Bremerton touched one of the animal’s ears. “Good heavens. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Jonathan rose. A burst of defensiveness flared inside him at the idea that the woman would be repulsed by the dead animals and that she would say as much within hearing of Sergeant Lester. “Miss Brem—”

  “How utterly charming,” she interrupted before he could distract her. “Look at the tiny gloves. And their fluffy little tails. Wherever did you find such a thing, Detective?”

  Relief relaxed the tension in Jonathan’s gut, and he sat down again in his chair. “The display was created by Sergeant Lester.”

  “No.” She touched her breastbone and turned to the sergeant, who had go
ne completely red. “This is absolutely splendid, Sergeant. I didn’t realize you possessed such a talent.”

  Sergeant Lester shrugged, looking as pleased as a stray cat that had come across a misplaced Christmas turkey. “I do enjoy my wee friends.”

  “And are you a pugilist, then, Detective Graham?” she asked.

  Now it was Jonathan’s turn to shrug and look modest. “I box now and then.” He rose and stuck the hunting club list to the board beside the list of assembly hall employees, glad for an excuse to turn away.

  “’e’s just bein’ humble. Scrappy one, Detective Graham is. A real bruiser. Learned to fight as a lad in—”

  “That’s enough small talk,” Jonathan interrupted, not wanting the conversation to continue on its current course. “We’ve three murders to solve.”

  “Yes.” Miss Bremerton moved back past the sergeant and took a seat in the other chair across the desk from Jonathan. “What new developments have we?” She looked up at the board behind him, her brow wrinkling. “Did you say three murders?”

  “Aye,” Sergeant Lester said. “Found another stiff just yesterday.”

  Miss Bremerton rose again and came around the desk to look closer at the photograph.

  Jonathan stepped toward her, blocking her path.

  Miss Bremerton nearly ran into him. She stopped, grabbing on to his arm to keep her balance, then took a step back, releasing her hold.

  “It’s not a pretty sight, miss,” Jonathan said. “Perhaps you’ll just take our word for it.”

  The corners of her eyes tightened in a look he recognized as stubbornness.

  “’e’s right, my lady. As gruesome a corpse as I’ve ever seen,” Sergeant Lester said. “What with the rats gnawed on him and all the worms. Poor chap was so bloated—”

  Jonathan cleared his throat, shooting the sergeant a look instructing him to desist in the description. He touched Miss Bremerton’s arm with one hand and motioned with the other for her to return to her chair.

  She looked as if she’d argue but returned and sat all the same, folding her arms. “You believe this new murder to be related to the others?”