Solving Sophronia (The Blue Orchid Society, #1) Page 5

  “. . . I am being courted by Lord Everleigh, and I cannot afford to look anything less than spectacular,” Prissy continued to her mother. “The gown I wore last night was so ordinary—Everleigh hardly noticed me at all. He spent most of the evening in private conversation with that dull German. I’ve half a mind to give the dress to my lady’s maid and be done with it.”

  Sophie stared at her sister, and her mind spun with what the younger woman said. She’d not considered that the dead woman’s gown might have been a gift from her mistress. Could its method of coming into her possession be so simple? A lady’s maid was often the recipient of the gowns the woman she served no longer wanted, and that would explain perfectly why it did not fit her.

  She considered what she knew of the three women whose names the modiste had given her. Which of them might be inclined to give away a costly gown after wearing it for only one Season? The answer was immediately clear. Charlotte Grey was one of the Darling Debs, and if Sophie had to choose a young lady who was nearly identical in temperament and behavior to Prissy, Miss Grey would be at the very top of the list.

  “Sophronia.” Lady Mather’s voice was sharp, cutting into her thoughts. “You will do me the courtesy of listening when I speak to you.”

  Sophie shook herself from her thoughts. “I apologize, Mother. My mind was wandering.”

  Her mother sighed, and her jaw tightened. “I was reminding you about Mrs. Jeffries’s garden reception this evening.”

  Sophie forced her shoulders to remain down instead of hunching. “I plan to attend, but I have quite a few obligations this afternoon that might interfere.”

  Her mother’s right brow ticked upward, and though it was a miniscule movement, Sophie winced. Lady Mather’s anger was never displayed in fits of yelling but with carefully worded attacks. And her sharpest weapon was guilt.

  “We made apologies for your absences last night and the night previous,” Lady Mather said.

  “Not to mention Mrs. Rothschild’s luncheon,” Prissy added helpfully.

  “The position this puts me in”—Lady Mather’s voice grew softer, which was far more frightening than if she’d screamed—“coming up with excuses day after . . .” She sighed. “Finding a husband for you has been difficult enough with your”—she motioned with a wave of her hand—“ordinariness. And after four Seasons—”

  “I have not asked you to apologize for me.” Sophie could sense Mimi preparing to interject. She knew better than to interrupt her mother, but she didn’t wish for the argument to grow or for her grandmother to have to defend her again. Sophie shifted, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. “I will do my best to attend, but I am very busy today.”

  “She’ll probably arrive with Dahlia Lancaster and her bluestocking cousin.” Prissy spoke her former friend’s name with a contemptible curl of the lip.

  Anger flashed through Sophie.

  “Priscilla.” Mimi’s voice held a reprimand. “That is unkind. You used to be dear friends with Dahlia.”

  “Well, of course, that was before Lord Ruben rejected her,” Priscilla said. Her expression did not show one bit of remorse. “It makes one wonder what is wrong with her if he’d not have her.”

  “Quite so,” Lady Mather agreed. “And it appears he was wise to escape when he did. I hear Miss Lancaster has since taken to the company of suffragettes and misfits.”

  “Such an embarrassment. He is very lucky to be rid of her.” Prissy shook her head.

  Sophie could typically ignore her family’s insults, but today she was tired, and the affronts to herself and her friends were more than she could overlook. She set her napkin on the table and stood. “I’m afraid I am in complete disagreement with both of you.” She lifted her bag over her shoulder. “If anyone is to be congratulated, it is Dahlia Lancaster for escaping not only an unfaithful man but spiteful friends as well.”

  “Well, I never,” Prissy sputtered. “Mother, did you hear?”

  “Sophronia, that was quite uncalled for,” Lady Mather began.

  Sophie ignored the outburst from the other side of the table. “Have a lovely day, Mimi.” She kissed her grandmother’s cheek, received a private wink and a smile in return, then left the room without a backward glance.

  Chapter 3

  Jonathan rubbed his eyes as he and Sergeant Lester walked toward H Division station house after another long day. The two had been called back to Spitalfields in the early hours of the morning with the discovery of another victim—a young man this time. By the time they’d investigated the scene and Dr. Peabody had taken away the body, daylight had come, and they’d spent hours interviewing potential witnesses and following weak leads, with no luck. Two unidentified victims in fewer than ten hours.

  Jonathan sucked on a peppermint and scowled at the frustration of an entire day of dead ends. How was it possible that not one single person saw anything in either case? He shook his head. Of course that wasn’t true. The rookery was overpopulated to the extreme. People lived thirty to a room in the crumbling tenements. There were eyes on every inch of Spitalfields. The reality was people were afraid. And Jonathan knew that fear firsthand. Though they were no guarantee of survival in the dangerous city, remaining silent, minding one’s own business, increased the odds.

  Sergeant Lester stopped in his tracks. He crouched down, leaning close to study something in the gutter. “Will you look at that?” he muttered. “The poor dear.” He shook out the folds from his handkerchief, then used it to gently lift a dead bird. He brought the carcass close to his face to examine it. “And her feathers are pristine.”

  “Delightful,” Jonathan said. He’d been hopeful for a moment that the sergeant had discovered a clue that pertained to the case, or at least something of interest. He opened his pocket watch, glancing at the time. The hour was nearly five thirty—much later than he’d thought. He closed the timepiece, slipping it back into his waistcoat, and watched with growing impatience as Sergeant Lester extended the bird’s wings one at a time. The sergeant’s obsession with small-animal taxidermy was something he’d never understand. But Jonathan knew better than to rush him.

  “Know just the place for this one.” The sergeant wrapped the bird carefully and slipped it into his coat pocket. “I’ve an avian choir in need of a soprano.” He stood, wiping his hands on his trousers.

  The two had walked only another block when the smell of jellied eel reached Jonathan, and he realized he’d not eaten anything but sweets since the evening before. “Hungry?”

  “Famished,” Sergeant Lester answered, looking toward the eel cart.

  The men turned their steps in that direction, paid the street vendor, and waited as the man dipped cups into his bucket, scooping out servings of the gelatinous mixture.

  Jonathan splashed a bit of vinegar into his cup, then slurped up a bite of cold meat. The sour taste made his tongue recoil for a sharp instant.

  “The only lead we’ve not followed is the gown,” Sergeant Lester said, pouring in his own splash of vinegar.

  Jonathan grunted and chewed on the rubbery eel.

  “What was her name again?” Sergeant Lester wiped jelly from his mustache with a swipe of his thumb. “The lady in the fancy clothes? Miss Bremerton, wasn’t it? If she could help us discover where the dress was purchased . . .”

  Jonathan grunted again. He shook his cup to loosen another chunk of eel. The thought of asking that woman for help rankled him. “We’ll call on the dressmakers tomorrow.”

  “Call on the dressmakers?” Sergeant Lester stared, disbelief pushing up his brows and creasing his forehead. “Have you any idea how many dressmakers there are in London? And what would we ask? ‘Pardon me, madam, do you happen to know who purchased a blue gown with frilly bits here and here and a backside that only fits with the correct bum contraption?’”

  Jonathan gave him a flat stare. “We’ll think of something.”<
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  “Why not just ask Miss Bremerton?” The sergeant tipped back his head, shaking the rest of the jelly into his mouth.

  “Because this doesn’t concern her.”

  “She would know which dressmakers to speak to. If we—”

  Jonathan held up a hand, cutting him off. “Involving a civilian in a criminal case is a bad idea.” Especially that civilian. “I’ll not consider it.” He ran a finger around the inside of his cup to scrape up the last bits of jelly, then handed the cup back to the seller. His pride was the motivating factor in the decision, but asking that woman for help—though she’d probably be thrilled at the chance of further adventure—felt like a failure. And he didn’t care to give her the satisfaction of knowing the Whitechapel Police Force could not solve the case without her.

  As they drew near the station house, the streets became more crowded with workers headed toward their homes at the end of the day. The feeling of exhaustion as well as relief at the few hours of respite gave the journey a more satisfactory feel, rather than the resigned feeling that came with the morning travel.

  Jonathan kept an eye on the crowds, watching for any disturbance or thievery. Pickpockets didn’t only prey on the wealthy.

  Upon reaching the station house, Sergeant Lester opened the door.

  But as Jonathan entered, he heard his name called from behind. When he turned, he found a group of three children on the street and smiled, knowing exactly what they were after. The urchins of Whitechapel often sought him out, and he recognized two of the boys he’d met before. He nodded a farewell to the sergeant and stepped closer to the children. “How can I help you lads this evening?”

  “Have you a sweet for us, Detective Graham?” the oldest of the boys asked.

  The other children watched with hopeful faces.

  Jonathan put his hands in his pockets and pulled together his brows thoughtfully. “You’re after a sweet, are you? Well, that depends, of course. Have you done a good deed today?”

  “I helped my da sharpen knives at his cart,” the boy said.

  “Well done.” Jonathan nodded. He reached into the sack in his pocket and drew out a piece of peppermint, tossing it to the boy.

  The boy caught it with a grin. “Thank you, Detective.”

  “I tended to my sister while my ma fetched the mending,” another of the boys said. “And I only got cross with her once.”

  “Very commendable.” Jonathan held back a smile as he gave the boy a sweet.

  He turned to the last boy, a small lad he’d not seen before. The child was almost sickly thin, and the way he hung back behind the others gave the impression of a boy who constantly expected to be either abused or ignored. Jonathan felt a pang of sympathy. Life in the rookery was difficult enough for those with strong constitutions.

  “And what’s your name, young man?” He spoke in a softer voice, not wishing to frighten the child.

  “Archie.” He glanced up, then cringed back. The boy’s eyes were enormous and appeared even more so in his gaunt face.

  “Hello, Archie.”

  “I’ve not done anything good today,” Archie said in a voice nearly too quiet to hear.

  Jonathan crouched down to the boy’s height, resting on his haunches. “Nothing at all? That’s hard to believe. Did you help your mother?”

  Archie shook his head, and Jonathan wondered if the boy was an orphan. It would not surprise him.

  “Perhaps you offered someone a kind word?”

  Archie shook his head again but paused and glanced up. He pursed his lips as if considering. “I helped a kitten out of a gutter drain,” he whispered after a moment.

  “That was very kind, Archie. I could tell right away that you are a good lad.” Jonathan gave the boy a piece of peppermint.

  Archie snatched it from his hand and stuck it into his mouth. Jonathan recognized the action. The boy was used to eating quickly before his food was taken. Very likely a skill developed in an orphanage. He wondered why the boy had left the institution. Had he been abused? Neglected?

  Jonathan rose, knowing he needed to earn the boy’s trust further before inquiring about his situation. Doing so now would only cause the boy to be wary. “You may come to the station anytime, Archie.” He looked at the other boys. “And all of you. The police are your friends. Our duty is to protect you.”

  The children thanked him and hurried away.

  Jonathan watched them go with a mixture of affection and extreme sadness. He couldn’t save every poor, hungry, or neglected child. There were simply too many. But he’d decided when he became a constable that the one thing he could do was make them feel safe around the police. Let them know that he would help them when needed. Whether or not it made a difference, he didn’t know. But it gave him hope. The course of his own life had been changed by a police officer who had genuinely cared about a penniless orphan.

  When Jonathan entered the station house, he greeted the desk sergeant with a wave. Constables at the end of their shifts sat in any unoccupied chair and wrote hasty reports, anxious to go home. Most of the detectives were finishing their work for the day. Some had already left. The door to Sir Peter Dennington’s office was closed, and no light shone beneath. The chief inspector did not work extended hours but expected his subordinates to do so. Though many of the detectives and constables complained, Jonathan didn’t begrudge the man wishing to spend time with his family.

  Jonathan removed his coat, hanging it and his hat on a coatrack, and settled in at his desk, eyeing the stacks of papers and folders—many of which hadn’t been there when he’d left the evening before. He pushed a pile to the side, clearing a space, and opened a fresh folder to document the murder discovered this morning. He’d have the coroner’s report and the photographs when they were ready, but aside from a few paragraphs documenting his own observations at the scene, the file was nearly empty. He closed it and set it atop a stack, hoping as he always did, that it would grow, filling up with evidence, and the case would be solved. But he feared it would end up in a dusty cabinet somewhere, and the victim would be yet another unidentified body in a pauper’s grave.

  He sighed and opened another folder, popped a piece of peppermint into his mouth, and set to work.

  Four hours later he was barely able to keep his eyes open. His stomach rumbled, the noise loud in the nearly empty station house. Mrs. Simpson, his landlady, would have served supper hours ago. He put on his coat and hat and turned off the desk lamp but stopped in the doorway. He returned for the file on the woman from the alley outside the Porky Pie and then started for home.

  When at last he arrived, he stepped quietly up the narrow steps until he reached the second floor and then unlocked the door to the small room that made up his lodgings. A tray with a covered bowl and a hunk of bread sat on the round table beside his one chair. Tossing his coat and hat onto the bed, he peeked beneath the cloth. Beef stew. Bless you, Mrs. Simpson.

  He settled back and enjoyed the stew, not caring that it was cold and the bread stale. As he ate, he looked through the file. Over the course of the night he’d come back to this case time and again. Who was the poor woman? And what events had led to her body being discovered in a Spitalfields alley? There must be some clue they’d missed. But even Doctor Peabody’s report had given no new information.

  Jonathan had originally thought his interest in this particular case stemmed from the victim’s singularity. She was most obviously out of place, a genteel woman in a dirty slum’s alley, but as the night drew on and Jonathan became more tired and less guarded, memories intruded into his thoughts.

  He had lived the majority of his life without knowledge of what had become of his parents. He had never known his father, and aside from their shared name, he knew nothing about the man. He remembered his mother only through impressions. Her hair had been blonde, he was certain, and she’d been beautiful. In his mind, she
wore a shawl and a necklace with a cross. But as hard as he tried to focus on the memories, they were slippery and wouldn’t form into a complete image. Sometimes he caught a fragrance or heard a voice that reminded him of her, but only as a vague feeling. He knew her name was Maggie, and as a child, he had whispered it again and again, loving the sound of it and fearing he’d forget the word if he didn’t say it.

  His mother had disappeared when he was four. One night, she’d simply never returned home, and despite searching every police record he could get his hands on, he’d never discovered what had happened to her. Had she been buried in a common grave in Highgate or Abney Park? Had she ended up a victim with nobody to identify her? She’d never have deserted him; of that, Jonathan was certain.

  He set aside the file and undressed for bed, setting his hat carefully over the preserved toad with tiny spectacles that sat in a miniature easy chair with one webbed foot resting on his knee and holding a copy of the Times. The taxidermic amphibian had been a Christmas gift from Sergeant Lester, and though it made Jonathan’s skin crawl, he kept it, partly because it had undoubtedly taken the sergeant hours to create and partly because Christmas gifts had been a rare thing in his life.

  As he laid his head on the pillow, his thoughts returned to the mystery woman in the alley. Who was she? She must be missed by someone, somewhere. And as his thoughts slid into dreams, they became images from a little child’s memories, of having a hungry belly and shivering beneath a threadbare blanket in a crowded Wapping tenement room waiting for the woman to come home.

  Chapter 4

  When Sophie opened the door of the Illustrated London News office, she was met with the smell of printers’ ink and machine oil, the hum of news presses, and the general chaotic energy of deadlines and headlines. She felt a rush of excitement at the activity. Journalism felt like a living thing, something changing and vital, pulsing with life. Newspapers were important, and she longed to be a more important component, to provide meaningful information rather than merely trivial gossip.