Solving Sophronia (The Blue Orchid Society, #1)

by Jennifer Moore

  In the hours since they’d arrived, Sergeant Lester had not left the younger man’s side, but he had certainly made himself comfortable. His chair leaned back on two legs, and his head rested against the wall, his mouth open and snoring. His feet were stretched out, ankles crossed and propped on the bed next to the patient.

  Jonathan sat in the wooden chair on the other side of the bed and pulled out the folder Lady Sophronia had given the sergeant. He brushed his fingers over Tom Stackhouse’s name, written in precise letters, and vaguely wondered who had written them. Possibly the same person who’d compiled all the information inside. Whoever had done it was almost as skilled as Sergeant Abner at finding documents others had no idea existed.

  Inside the folder was a copy of Tom’s police force application, along with various articles in which he was mentioned as an investigator on a particular case or that documented hearings he’d testified in. One report listed his different addresses over the years, another his birthplace and parents’ names. A letter recommending Tom’s promotion to detective was signed by Warren Pembroke, the man who was now the assistant commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police force. Apparently Pembroke and Tom had worked cases together in the early days of the Force.

  All of it was interesting—documentation of a successful police career—but Jonathan shuffled those pages to the back and looked over the paper he’d read dozens of times since he’d come across it in the folder.

  From what Jonathan could tell, it was a collection of notes made by a news reporter who had conducted an interview with Tom. For what purpose the reporter had decided to interview a police detective Jonathan had no idea. Perhaps that would have been made clear when the article was published. But seeing the date on the notes, he knew why it never was. The notes were taken two days before Tom had died.

  One particular passage stood out above the others. In the reporter’s scrawling writing, he’d scribbled down a quote from Tom.

  The police force is in good hands with the younger generation of men rising through the ranks. Those lads are braver and more intelligent than we ever were. One in particular I’ve known since he was a scrawny orphan scraping out a living, gathering cigar butts and rewrapping the bits of tobacco to sell. Used to give him peppermints. Taught himself to read, he did. And when he joined the force—must have been the proudest day of my life. We’re a family, you see, the police. Look out for each other.

  Jonathan closed the folder, hearing Tom’s voice in his head. “We’re a family.” Reading the quote was like opening an old wound and pouring healing balm inside. Each time, it hurt. But the pain lessened with every reading, and the peace it brought was a feeling Jonathan would never tire of.

  Guilt and anger had burned inside him for so long, but Tom’s words softened them into something warm. Jonathan had considered himself alone in the world and thought he always would be. He’d kept people at a distance, fearing their rejection or pain at inevitably losing them. But when he considered Tom, Sergeant Lester, Merryweather, the officers at H Division . . . Sophie . . . they had all cared about him in spite of his resistance. Was that family?

  Merryweather groaned, shifting beneath the sheet.

  Jonathan set the folder back on the floor and slapped the sergeant’s feet off the bed, making the chair slam down.

  The sergeant woke with a confused grunt, sticking his hands out to the side to regain his balance.

  “He’s awake,” Jonathan said.

  Merryweather blinked his eyelids slowly, as if they were heavier than he could manage.

  Jonathan scooted his chair closer. “How do you feel, Constable?”

  “Martha?” Merryweather muttered.

  “It’s us,” the sergeant said. “Detective Graham and Sergeant Lester.”

  Merryweather’s blinks sped up and his eyes peeked open. He squinted in the light before closing his eyes again. “I remember . . . I was shot, wasn’t I?”

  “Aye,” Sergeant Lester said. “But Doctor Peabody said you’ll heal.”

  “And Ned Tucker?”

  “He didn’t survive,” Jonathan said.

  Merryweather frowned. “I’m sorry to hear it.” He shifted and gritted his teeth, stifling a groan.

  Sergeant Lester stood. His face was worried. “I’ll send for the doctor.” He rushed to open the door and hailed a nurse.

  Jonathan worried the constable would fall back to sleep. “Constable, the doctor can give you something for the pain. But before you go back to sleep, think back. Do you remember what Mr. Tucker was going to tell us? About the men he saw?”

  Sergeant Lester returned to his seat. “Doctor’s coming.”

  Merryweather tried to open his eyes again. “Something about a necktie. One of the men wore a large pin—a ruby, I think.” He grimaced.

  Jonathan could see it was painful for the man to speak, but this could be their only chance to learn anything new for hours. “Anything else?”

  Merryweather grimaced again. “No. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Lie back, Constable,” Jonathan said. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed that the clue they’d hoped for had turned out to be worthless. He rubbed his eyes, discouragement making him tired.

  “Sir,” Sergeant Lester said. His eyes were bright, and he leaned forward, looking excited. “The killer is a Casanova.”

  Jonathan stared at the constable, having no idea what his words meant. “What did you say?”

  “The West End Casanovas.” Sergeant Lester snapped his fingers. “Miss Propriety writes about them in her society column. The Casanovas always wear a ruby tiepin. It’s a sort of status symbol.” He touched his own necktie and gave a wise nod. “They are a very exclusive group, sir.”

  “How many are there? And who are they?” Jonathan asked. A small flame of hope lit. If the suspect list could be narrowed further . . .

  “There are only five: Lord Ruben, Lord Meredith, Lord Everleigh, Lord Chatsworth, and Lord Benedict.”

  Jonathan raised a brow. All were peers—one an heir to a dukedom. Something tickled at the back of his mind, a thought he couldn’t quite grasp. One of the names reminded him of something—but what? “And they are the only men in this entire city who wear a ruby tiepin?”

  “I rather think so, sir. The accoutrement is quite well-known, and custom made. If another were to imitate it, they would seem to be pretenders, if you get my meaning.”

  Jonathan would never understand the thinking of the upper class. To claim ownership of a particular adornment seemed beyond conceited. But if it identified a suspect, he was all for it.

  He rubbed the pocket watch fob between his fingers as he considered. If what the sergeant said was true—and Jonathan had no reason to believe otherwise—the murderer was one, or perhaps two, of five men. Five of the most powerful men in the country. Over the course of the ball, he’d been introduced to each of them, but what had he learned? Unfortunately, not much. Though they’d spoken, their conversation had been mainly about hunting, women, or the drudgery of balls in general. A few had discussed business ventures. Had any of them given a clue that could identify him as a killer?

  Dr. Peabody came to check on Merryweather, and the men gathered their things to leave him to his patient.

  Jonathan picked up the notebook and the folders, considering their next course of action as they left the hospital. He couldn’t very well arrest the five men without cause. And a dead stable hand’s testimony about a necktie bauble was hardly evidence.

  The pair sat on a bench outside the hospital. He handed Sophie’s notebook to the sergeant. “See what you can find in here,” he said.

  An idea occurred to him, and he flipped open the file from Sergeant Abner. He’d gone through the file a few hours ago, finding nothing of interest aside from city records and proposals for the building site.

  Jonathan turned a page and found what he’d be
en looking for. I knew I’d seen one of the names recently. He poked the sergeant with his elbow. “See here. The Brookline Group made a proposal to Parliament two months ago, requesting a permit to build a railroad line through Spitalfields”—he studied the drawing, following the line—“and down to Wapping. They plan to reopen the Marylebone Tunnel beneath the Thames.”

  “A train beneath the river?” Sergeant Lester scoffed. “Impossible.”

  Jonathan stared at the map, running his finger along the rail line. “The proposed line would go through the workhouse building site and the Porky Pie.” He looked up as a thought occurred to him. “What if the sites where the bodies were discovered weren’t random? If a neighborhood or a worksite is deemed too dangerous . . .”

  “The government is more likely to agree to tearing it down,” Sergeant Lester finished.

  Jonathan flipped through the pages more quickly this time. He pulled out the document he was looking for, turning it for the sergeant to read. “The Brookline Group is a partnership with two owners: Hans Hofman and Lord Everleigh.”

  ***

  Jonathan tapped his foot against the floor of the police cab as he and Sergeant Lester rode toward Grosvenor Square. He felt the familiar weight of the badge on his chest and the warrant card in his pocket. Sir Dennington had been skeptical about the tiepin as evidence, but when he was presented with the timeline and the city records, he’d agreed there were just too many coincidences to overlook and that the suspects should at least be brought to the station to answer some questions.

  The sergeant was going through Sophie’s notebook. “Not one mention of Lord Everleigh at the lecture,” he muttered, turning a page. He closed the book and twisted toward Jonathan, drumming his fingers on the cover. “Sir, do you think Lady Sophronia might have been telling the truth?” He grimaced.

  Jonathan took the book, more for something to keep him from having to meet the sergeant’s gaze than to do any actual reading. He opened it, recognizing Sophie’s handwriting. She’d written each name neatly in a list down one side of the page, leaving room for notes in between.

  “Maybe she didn’t give permission for the article to be published,” the sergeant continued.

  Jonathan shrugged as if he’d not given Sophie’s claim much thought—which could not be any further from the truth. At least his anger had dissipated, but the ache that had taken its place was so much worse. “That article nearly cost our jobs, Constable. It gave crucial police information to a murderer.”

  “Yes, but if she didn’t mean to . . . shouldn’t we at least give her the chance to explain?”

  Jonathan offered the sergeant a peppermint and popped one into his own mouth. Of course the sergeant was right. But going back, apologizing, opening himself up to be hurt again . . . It was easier to be angry. He had to protect his heart.

  The butler at Lord Everleigh’s house told them his master was out paying calls for the afternoon. When pressed, he admitted he’d heard the gentleman directing the carriage driver to take him to Lady Priscilla’s.

  “I don’t like that,” Sergeant Lester said as they rode to Park Lane. “Don’t want that man with Lady Sophronia.”

  Jonathan agreed fully, urging the driver to hurry. With Sophie’s name on the article, he didn’t trust any of the Casanovas with her.

  When they arrived at Sophie’s house and inquired after Lord Everleigh, Holloway gave an angry huff.

  The reaction was more emotion than Jonathan had ever seen in the proper servant.

  “Lord Everleigh took the ladies away two hours ago, Detective.” His eyes tightened. “Said they were just going for a drive through the park.” He shook his head. “Very rude to keep the dowager Lady Mather out so long in all this heat, if you ask me.”

  Lord Everleigh had taken Sophie’s sister and grandmother in his carriage? In spite of his feelings of hurt, Jonathan could not leave without warning Sophie.

  “Is Lady Sophronia at home, Holloway?”

  The butler blinked and folded his hands together. “I beg your pardon, Detective. I was not entirely clear. Lady Sophronia is with Lord Everleigh as well.”

  A stone dropped in Jonathan’s gut as cold spread through him. “You say they’ve been gone for two hours?”

  “If you can believe it. A ride in the park indeed.” Holloway frowned. “They should have returned an hour ago.”

  “She knows,” Sergeant Lester said, his voice low and frightened.

  Jonathan’s heartbeat banged in his ears. He rubbed his eyes. “And he knows that she knows.” Sophie must have figured it out. Of course she did. Why must that young woman be so blasted curious?

  Sophie must have asked the wrong question, angered Lord Everleigh—angered the murderer—and now he had her. And based on his record, he wasn’t likely to send her home with a stern talking-to. Everleigh had no reason to keep her alive and every reason to want her dead.

  Jonathan clutched Sergeant Lester’s arm as panic stole his thoughts. “Sergeant, where is she?” A murderer had Sophie—his Sophie—and he was helpless to save her.

  Sergeant Lester winced. “We’ll find her, sir.”

  “What’s this?” Holloway asked. “What’s happened to Lady Sophronia?”

  “We can’t search the whole city,” Jonathan said, ignoring the butler. She’d already been gone for hours. Scenarios flashed through his mind, each more terrible than the one before. He darted a look at the door as if the answer would present itself. “Where would he take her?”

  “Somewhere he wouldn’t be seen,” the sergeant said.

  The men looked at one another, realizing at once where Sophie was.

  “Quick, man!” Jonathan rushed for the door.

  When they reached the police carriage, Sergeant Lester directed the driver to the station house.

  “We haven’t the time,” Jonathan protested. The helpless feeling seizing his insides made him want to grab the reins himself and push the horses at a gallop. “Every moment she is with him—”

  “Aye, sir.” Sergeant Lester pulled open the carriage door, standing aside. “But if you’ve taught me anything, it’s to follow procedure. We can’t barge in there without support—not with Lady Sophronia’s life on the line.”

  Jonathan scrambled into the carriage, his jaw so tight it ached. “Sergeant—” His voice cracked, and he pushed away his panicked thoughts, knowing he needed a clear mind if he was to help Sophie, and knowing they could already be too late.

  Chapter 22

  Sophie looked around the burned-out room in the old workhouse. Long tables had once stretched across the space, but now most were broken or burned. Some were overturned, and others were stacked haphazardly against the wall, leaving a wide aisle down the center of the room between the two doors. A few chairs were spread around as well, but Mimi sat in the only one that was still functional. She held Dorrit on her lap, stroking the dog’s fur to soothe the animal.

  Light came from the gaping hole in the collapsed roof, filtering through dust particles and East London soot. The room was cast in an eerie gloom. Sophie had no way of judging the time, but she figured they had been at the worksite for over an hour.

  Prissy stood in the center of the room, holding her skirts away from the burned furniture and walls and keeping her shoes away from the dirty puddles. She screeched whenever a rodent scampered past.

  Lord Everleigh paced back and forth across one end of the room.

  “Everleigh, how much longer must we stay here?” Prissy’s voice was a whine. “It is so damp, and ash is on my skirts. I don’t like it here at all.”

  “Just a bit longer.” Lord Everleigh didn’t look at her when he spoke. He glanced through the door, looking both ways, and went back to pacing.

  Sophie focused on the exits, one at either end of the room, weighing their chances of escape. She believed she could make it alone, but she’d
not leave her grandmother and sister behind with this madman. And that was something he obviously counted on. He was hardly bothering to watch them.

  She considered calling out for help but would not while her sister and grandmother were within range of the man’s gun. And besides, she thought that was exactly why Lord Everleigh had chosen this place. If she were to scream, her cries would likely go unheard. She leaned back against a dirty table, not caring about her dress, and considered another plan.

  If the three rushed to the exit all at once, there was a likelihood that at least one would make it outside safely. She was certain one of them would be shot. And once the others were out, what would they do? They were directly in the center of the most dangerous area of the city. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  “But I want to go home.” Prissy continued to whine. She crossed her arms and pouted. “Charlotte is hosting a card party this evening, and I must attend. And why are we in this horrible place anyway? You said we would stop for only a moment, and we’ve been here for—”

  “Enough,” Lord Everleigh snapped.

  Prissy closed her mouth, her eyes wide in surprise at the typically composed man’s show of temper.

  “Do we wait for Hans Hofman?” Sophie asked, taking the attention away from her sister. She’d heard the carriage leave and suspected Everleigh must have a plan. Her fear had left her numb, and the calmness of her voice felt at odds with the shaking in her legs. She held tightly to the lip of the table on either side of her hips to keep her hands from trembling.

  Lord Everleigh turned toward her, giving a sneer. “You’re too clever for your own good, my lady.”

  “And what then?” Sophie decided to keep the man talking. Perhaps he would reveal something or let down his guard. “You plan to kill us? Leave our bodies around Spitalfields so nobody suspects a nobleman to be the culprit?”

  Lord Everleigh took a few steps toward her, his mouth widening into a taunting smile. “Perhaps.” He shrugged, fingering the pistol beneath his coat. “Or perhaps the discovery of three fine ladies, murdered in the streets of this blasted rookery, will be just the push parliament needs to grant permission for a railroad through this vile pit of filth.”