by Cindy Anstey
“That is a rather odd choice, Sophia. For one, you are a young lady, and ladies do not work. And for another, there are no women investigators employed by the Runners, my dear,” her father said quite reasonably. “Your mother would have an apoplexy at the thought.” He chuckled.
“I will be the first,” Sophia said with more conviction than she felt.
“Well, indeed … yes, it’s good to have an ambition.” Sophia’s father patted her shoulder, kindly done but a touch patronizing. He straightened and then he glanced around. “Hmmm, I seem to have lost the drawing room.”
Sophia pointed toward the back of the manor.
“Yes, excellent,” he said as he began to walk away. “You have always had a head for direction. That might be of some use in sleuthing … and the like.”
Sophia shook her head as she watched her father disappear into the drawing room. She knew it was going to be a chore convincing her parents—not to mention the Runners themselves—to give her a chance, to try her hand at investigating. She would need to prove that she was capable, talented, in the ways of detecting … lawks, she had to prove it to herself, too. Rereading Investigating Murder and Mayhem was a must. Perhaps if she used words like “larceny,” “apprehend,” or “judicious,” she would be taken seriously.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Curtis asked some fifteen or so minutes later. She clicked her tongue in disgust. “That chair belongs in the dining room.”
“It’s just temporary, Mrs. Curtis.” Sophia addressed Miss Curtis as a married woman in the usual tradition for upper servants. She lifted her finger to her lips. “I’ll have it returned as soon as I’m done.”
“And what exactly are you doing?”
Sophia straightened in her chair. She had heard dribs and drabs of the conversation through the crack in the door; Uncle Edward had a loud voice. However, the occupants of the study had been silent for some moments, leading Sophia to believe that it was time to move away; the meeting was over.
“I’m thinking, Mrs. Curtis, as my uncle directed me to do … about ladies’ magazines … with dress patterns and hair suggestions.”
Sophia stood and smoothed her skirts, contemplating her next course of action. She wished to talk further with Mr. Fraser, of course. “But it is now time to commune with nature. Some fresh air.” And with that, Sophia walked across the entrance hall—just in time.
The brass handle rattled as it was turned and the study door opened.
* * *
Sophia stood on the threshold of the front door for some time, listening to Mr. Fraser as he made his goodbyes to Uncle Edward. It was a stiff dismissal on the part of both gentlemen and fairly lengthy, as Uncle seemed determined to advise Mr. Fraser on how to go about his business. Sophia could imagine how well that was appreciated.
Taking the opportunity to slip further down the drive, Sophia half walked, half ran to the other side of the flower bed. It would appear—or at least she hoped it would—as if she were taking a walk in the garden and just happened to bump into Mr. Fraser as he was leaving.
She knelt beside a dahlia, appreciating the plant’s symmetry. She was waiting, breathing deeply, trying to calm her pounding heart, and chastised herself for her overexcitement when she heard it.
It was the sound of stealth. Someone walking slowly and cautiously in her direction.
Sophia gulped and stood slowly, resisting the urge to whirl around. Footsteps were not unusual; this was an active manor with plenty of men and women in service inside and outside the big house. The sound of movement was nothing to cause fear. It was only the appearance—or rather the impression—of stealth that made her uncomfortable. Turning slowly, Sophia looked for the cause of her discomfort.
The soft early afternoon light was dappled under the oaks lining the drive; the lawns and garden beds were lush, well-manicured, and deserted. Nary a soul wandered down the drive. No one raked the lawns or clipped the hedges. There seemed to be no one about and yet … the shadows under the third oak looked somewhat misshapen.
As if someone were crouched behind the large trunk, trying to hide.
A sudden bang jerked Sophia’s gaze to the manor. A multitude of windows stared back, and she was suddenly aware of being clearly visible to anyone within those walls. A blurred shape passed in front of one of the open windows on the second floor, and Sophia squinted at it, trying to understand what—and likely who—it was.
And then Sophia swallowed her nerves and chuckled in self-deprecation at her overly active sense of fear. The bang was undoubtedly the noise of the window being opened—certainly no cause to panic. Giving the window one last glance before walking away, Sophia was pleased to note that there was nothing to see.
She would have to keep her fears in check, if she were to make a career of investigating. Jumping at every little noise and shadow would not do her any good.
With a casual glance over her shoulder, Sophia stepped away from the manor and then stopped abruptly. Slowly, ever so slowly, she pivoted until she faced the manor once more. And there she stood motionless, except for a wildly beating heart, barely breathing.
A face—there was no doubt of its nature this time—stared down at her from the second story. It had a surreal quality, as it was all that stood out. Eyes, mouth, and nose, the rest was cloaked in shadow. It was far enough away that Sophia was not provided with a gender or an identity, but the face was clear enough that Sophia could see the downturn of the person’s mouth, the folded brow, and the piercing gaze.
In an attempt to hide her dismay, Sophia lifted her hand in greeting. The eyes continued to stare straight at her, projecting revulsion and disgust.
CHAPTER FIVE
Fear and Loathing
Jeremy frowned at the chair sitting next to the study door. It looked better suited to a dining room than the grand entry of a manor. Of more significance, it hadn’t been there when Jeremy had entered the room to talk to Mr. Waverley.
With a mental shrug, Jeremy returned his thoughts to the more important dilemma of Mr. Andrew Waverley’s untimely demise. Mr. Waverley had not been brimming with additional information; Jeremy knew little more now than what he had gleaned from Miss Thompson and Miss Waverley.
However, Mr. Waverley had bestowed upon him the possible weapon used by the murderer; Jeremy clutched it protectively, wrapped up in his handkerchief. If it indeed was the instrument of murder … Jeremy had been with the Runners long enough to take nothing for granted.
Nodding to Darren, the footman, Jeremy stepped outside the manor and took a deep breath of fresh air. Oh, how he missed the tranquility of the countryside. London was active and exciting, but also noisy and dirty. This was a welcome respite.
Shifting the knife to his left hand, Jeremy stared out across the front lawn; it was thriving and appeared lush in its summer finery. The central flower bed was resplendent in bright globes—flowers with red petals in a round shape, adding a cheerful splash of color.
And standing next to the bright red flowers was a lovely young lady. Jeremy smiled … until he remembered the seriousness of his visit. He could not—should not—be distracted by the entrancing character of one Miss Sophia Thompson. Still, he need not be rude and ignore her presence, either.
“Hullo!” he called quickly as Miss Thompson looked to be turning away; it would deprive him of the pleasure of her company.
She glanced toward him with a frown. It was not the friendly greeting that he had been expecting. Granted, he had only been out of her company for thirty minutes or so. But she looked more than unfriendly. She seemed … agitated. Could he have done something to cause this unexpected reaction?
“Is all well, Miss Thompson?” he asked as he stepped closer, concerned more than he should have been to be on the outs with the lovely young lady.
Still looking up at the manor, Miss Thompson nodded in an absentminded manner. “Hmm,” she said, confusing Jeremy entirely.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Oh! I
apologize.” Turning to face him once more, she blinked as if only just realizing where she was. “I had the strange sensation that I was being watched.”
“That would not be a surprise, Miss Thompson,” Jeremy said with confidence. “A pretty young lady wandering about is sure to attract attention. You are standing before countless windows.”
Miss Thompson looked at him for some moments, a frown growing increasingly deep on her forehead. “No,” she said eventually, with a shake of her head. “It will not do.”
“What will not do?”
A grin replaced her frown. “Flattery. It will not dissuade me. While I appreciate the compliment, it will not distract me. Though you are right about the windows—many face this direction and any number of persons might be looking out. But what about the drive?”
“The drive?”
“Yes. Moments ago, I had the sensation that I was being observed from the drive as well. You know … tingles on the back of your neck and a mysterious discomfort.” She pointed toward the third oak.
“Behind that tree?” Jeremy started forward as soon as Miss Thompson nodded. He marched to the tree with every intention of giving the person responsible for Miss Thompson’s discomfort a good dressing down. He was most displeased that someone, anyone, would make Miss Thompson uneasy.
However, upon reaching the tree, he found that there was no one behind it. The grass was slightly trampled but there was no telling when that occurred. “Not to worry, there is no one—”
Off to the side, the bushes shook, and out slunk a large gray cat. Jeremy heard a distinct giggle from behind him.
“Oh dear.” Miss Thompson laughed. “And here I was certain that I was being watched.”
“You were … by a cat.”
“Rufus.”
“I beg your pardon. You were being watched by a Rufus.” He returned to Miss Thompson’s side.
“Would you care to take a turn about the garden?” she asked. “Not at all appropriate to be seen chatting on the front lawn.”
She gestured to the side of the house and Jeremy fell into step. “Was there something you wished to discuss?” he asked, seeing her attempt to begin their conversation several times.
Miss Thompson grinned in a charmingly mischievous manner. “Well, yes. I was hoping you could explain a few things to help me understand. If you don’t mind.”
“If I can, I would be pleased to do so.”
The path they had chosen widened out and wound past a bed of roses. He offered his arm so that they could stroll and converse comfortably.
“Excellent. Then perhaps we will start with explaining the object in your hand,” she said. “What it is and why it is swathed in a handkerchief.”
“Ah.” Jeremy held up the knife, though he would admit that it looked nothing like a knife, wrapped up as it was. He kicked at a rock, sending it skittering across the path. “Why do you wish to know, Miss Thompson? It is not a pleasant object. Are you prepared for that?”
“I am indeed prepared, Mr. Fraser. I wish to be party to the investigation. Two heads are better than one, don’t you think?”
Jeremy tripped, jerking them both forward. With an apology, he stopped to pick up an unremarkable stone and dropped it at the edge of the path as if had been the culprit of his trip. Taking Miss Thompson’s elbow again he led them forward. “Why do you wish to be involved in the investigation?”
“I feel an obligation to Daphne and my aunt and uncle to help if I can. I know West Ravenwood and its people; my insight could be of great use.”
Jeremy paused. “Is that all?” he asked, certain there was more—something was hanging in the air, unaddressed.
Flushing prettily, Miss Thompson dropped her gaze to the stones beneath their feet. “I thought it might be good training.”
“Training?”
“I would like to become a Bow Street Officer,” she said quickly. “A Runner.”
Had they been walking still, Jeremy would have tripped again. Her answer was completely unexpected. “It is an … unlikely outcome, Miss Thompson. There are no female Runners and, most would argue, for a good many reasons.” Emotions were on edge, criminals were often violent, and Runners saw a very seedy side of life—all of it not suitable for a gently brought up girl.
But even as his mind rejected the idea, he met her piercing gaze and noted her emotionless expression; there were some at Bow Street who had not mastered as much. And while he knew the majority of Runners would not welcome the assistance of a woman—a young woman at that—Jeremy knew the value of a different opinion.
“It’s not a safe or comfortable career, Miss Thompson. I would hope to change your mind.”
“You can’t,” she said in a clipped voice. “So, what is it in your hand?”
Jeremy looked skyward for a moment, thinking. “Yes, of course … This is…” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Waverley gave me a knife—one that he believes was used in the murder of your cousin. He has been searching Glendor Wood for several months. I would have thought clues to be few and far between at this late stage, but apparently while his search of the lower path—leading to West Ravenwood—was of no value, he did discover this knife under a bush on the upper path. The one that apparently leads to Savor Road and eventually Allenton Park.” He looked at the object in his hand and then dropped his arm, effectively hiding the knife from her sight. “It’s not a common knife. The carving on the handle is of Middle Eastern or Asian design.”
“Can I see it?” Sophia slowly held out her hand, looking reluctant to touch the knife despite her request. Once it was in her hand, though, she unwrapped it and stared at the carving with intensity. “Curious. It has a strange primitive style, predominantly black with bright splashes of color,” she said. “And I wonder what this is supposed it be? Are the figures sitting in a boat, perhaps? An indication that the artist is from an island of some sort? I know none of this affects the investigation, but it might be an indication of the type of person we are looking for. Yes, quite unusual and appealing … in a dangerous, murderous way.”
She slowly turned it over, assessing the underside. “There seems to be an artist’s mark on the blade.” Straightening, she handed the lethal object back. “It should not be hard to find the owner. The knife is unique.”
“I quite agree,” he remarked with a nod of approval. He was impressed with her observations. “I will start my investigations with the knife merchant in town. The people at the inn will be able to direct me to his shop.”
“Excellent idea, but the merchant is unlikely to know anything about it.”
“Really?” Jeremy lifted the corner of his mouth in a half smile. “You think it might have come from elsewhere? Perhaps it was bought while the owner was on a tour abroad, or some such?”
“Yes, there is that. You would have to talk to the surgeon about the size of the wound in Andrew’s chest—to establish that this might be the knife—otherwise it is just a knife hidden in the woods. But I was thinking more in regard to Mr. Tilter, the knife merchant. He is a quiet, withdrawn sort of person and easily annoyed. Repeated questions are bound to cause him a great deal of irritation. He will deflect and show you the door.”
“Why would he be dealing with repetitive questions? I imagine Constable Marley spoke to him months ago. Surely that would not set him off.”
“Not Constable Marley, me. I intend to speak to Mr. Tilter as well. I cannot investigate without asking questions.”
“But you will not have the knife to show him.”
“No, but I can describe it fairly accurately. And I already know where his shop is located, so I will reach him before you.”
Jeremy frowned and huffed in frustration—disappointed somehow that Miss Thompson intended to thwart him. His appreciation of her person dipped slightly. “So, you intend to interfere.”
“Not at all, Mr. Fraser. I intend to investigate.”
Her expression brightened, and Jeremy’s appreciation bounced back up again.
&nb
sp; “I suggest that we work together. There is no need to plague the townspeople—or each other—more than necessary.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice. “I’ll bring Betty.”
“Betty?” He started to stroll again, pulling Miss Thompson forward with him. “Who might she be?”
She smiled. “Betty is my maid. You and I cannot wander about without a chaperone, after all. It would cause a great fuss—concern about my reputation, and such. So, that then is settled. We will work together.” She went on quickly when Jeremy opened his mouth to disagree. “We’ll need to learn where Andrew was found—the exact place. Was the ground trampled? Did it look like more than one person was in the area? Did said person lie in wait? Was anything usual found at the scene? I’m thinking of something besides the knife … poacher’s traps, a mysterious glove or an incriminating button.”
“Incriminating button?” Jeremy repeated dubiously. “Incriminating? Where did you hear that word?”
“I may have read Investigating Murder and Mayhem,” Miss Thompson said airily, raising her chin. “And, Mr. Fraser—” Her brow furrowed. “Why did it take Bow Street so long to react? My uncle has been asking for help for months—quite willing to pay the Bow Street fees.”
Jeremy dragged in a deep breath, as if he had been the one talking. “Great heavens. So many questions.” It was clear that Miss Thompson had been doing a lot of thinking about the case.
She said nothing and continued to stare at him with a raised brow, likely waiting for Jeremy to explain why the Bow Street Runners had been negligent. As Jeremy had no idea why they had taken so long to respond, he thought avoiding the topic altogether was preferable to admitting ignorance. He tried to focus on the topic at hand and ignore the fact that Miss Thompson was staring at him and standing quite close. There was something rather appealing about the young lady—in an intellectual way, of course—and it was difficult to concentrate on murder and knives when her perfume wafted in his direction.
