Solving Sophronia (The Blue Orchid Society, #1) Page 6

  A clerk rushed past with a stack of newsprint, and another hurried in the opposite direction, papers flying out of his overloaded arms. The main office in front of the larger press room was a small space with high windows that gave far too little light. Men and women worked in a crowded maze of desks, dipping quills and scribbling quickly beneath a cloud of cigarette smoke. In a far corner the engraving artists sat, hunched over a table lit by desk lamps.

  Upon completion of her first story and illustration, Sophie had been fascinated at the process of wood engraving. She’d watched, mesmerized as her drawing was transferred to a boxwood surface by a series of intricate carvings, and considered the carvers much more talented than she was. When she’d said as much to the editor, Mr. Leonard, he’d discounted her observation with a shake of his head. “They merely copy, my lady,” he’d said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “The artists and reporters—they do the real work.”

  She didn’t think the engravers had been pleased by his commentary. One man in particular, a Mr. Potts, had appeared especially insulted. His scowl had made Sophie wince, and each time she’d come to the newspaper, she’d made a particular effort to notice and mention something praiseworthy about his carving.

  Sophie made her way through the room to the larger desk in the corner opposite the engravers, pausing to greet Mrs. Ingram, the editor’s research assistant. According to Mr. Leonard, Mrs. Ingram knew the newspaper archives better than anyone in London and could find any story, no matter how obscure. The notion of the woman managing a complicated cataloguing system surprised Sophie. Mrs. Ingram’s curls were always falling out of her pins, her clothing was wrinkled, and she seemed generally disheveled. Perhaps her organizational skills didn’t extend to her outward appearance.

  Mr. Leonard rose when he saw Sophie approach, cigarette hanging from his lips. Sophie had been shocked, on her first visit to the office, that he would smoke in front of her, a lady. Such a thing was unthinkably rude. But now she was used to seeing it and thought she would be startled to see him without the accessory.

  “Miss Propriety, there you are.” He smiled and bowed. “Lady Sophronia, I should have never doubted your story would arrive on time.”

  Mr. Leonard’s belly was round, the buttons straining to hold his waistcoat in place. He had a thick dark mustache and thin dark hair, his scalp shining between the greased rows combed across the top of his head. His eyes bulged slightly, and he smiled with yellow teeth between jowls that hung from his jaws. The man’s appearance gave an impression of a walrus.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Leonard.” Sophie would have taken a seat, but there was not an empty chair to be had. And she was pleased not to be coddled or fussed over. In the newspaper office she was treated like any other employee. She took her notebook from her bag and drew out the story she’d written about the Royal Academy’s Private View.

  Mr. Leonard took the paper. He sat back in his chair, making notes with a pen as he read. “Yes, yes. Very nice.” He crossed out a few words, then an entire paragraph, made another note, and put the article into a basket on his desk.

  Sophie had been offended the first time he’d marked up her story, especially since she’d spent hours composing it, but Mr. Leonard had explained that he was simply “tightening the prose.” The paper had a limited amount of space. Each word needed to be important, and some sentences were unnecessary. Once she’d gotten past the initial affront to her pride, Sophie had to admit the story was better for his improvements, and in the months since, she’d come to trust his judgment fully.

  “And your illustration?” he asked.

  Sophie opened her notebook, fishing through the pictures until she found the one she was looking for. The drawing was extremely detailed, showing a crush of people: men in top hats and tails, women in gowns with trains, and even children—admonished to be on their best behavior. The crowd was surrounded on all sides by the works of the masters in thick frames, brought in specifically for this year’s summer exhibition. The drawing did little justice to the beauty of the art on display, but Sophie had purposely paid tribute to works she thought readers would recognize and appreciate.

  She handed the paper across the desk, but Mr. Leonard’s gaze was upon her notebook.

  Sophie closed the notebook, not wanting to make the crime scene drawing available until she was certain she’d be allowed to write a story to go with it.

  Mr. Leonard took the illustration, studying it closely. “Very nice, my dear. You captured the showcase exquisitely.”

  Perhaps he’d not noticed the other picture.

  The editor gave back the drawing. “Thank you, my lady. Deliver the illustration to the engravers right away. Your story will run in tomorrow’s edition.” He turned back to his work.

  Sophie recognized the dismissal but remained where she stood. “Sir, I wonder if perhaps I might write a different type of story.”

  Mr. Leonard glanced up. He blinked as if not understanding what she’d said. “What’s that?”

  “I hoped to write a different type of article. To report on an actual news story.”

  He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together over his tight waistcoat. “Such as?”

  “The plight of orphans in the rookery or the expanding railroad’s threat to city tenement buildings. Or perhaps the growing tension between France and Prussia . . .” Her words trailed off as he shook his head.

  Mr. Leonard waved his hand, his brows pulling down as he frowned. “I see no need for that.”

  “Or suppose I was to report on a murder.” She spoke carefully, not wanting to give any indication that such a story was already in the works.

  Mr. Leonard chuckled, making his jowls wiggle. “My dear, Miss Propriety would never concern herself with something so unpleasant.” He leaned forward, picking up his pen. “Focus your energy on ball gown sleeve length and ladies’ face creams or something of the sort. Know your strengths. That’s a lesson every good journalist should remember.” He held up a finger. “Let the real reporters deal with the more complex stories.”

  Real reporters. His words stung, though she knew he didn’t intend them to. Was he right? Was she being silly, hoping to venture beyond her world? Discouragement settled heavily on Sophie’s shoulders as she bid Mr. Leonard farewell and crossed the room to the engravers.

  Not wishing to startle Mr. Potts and cause him to make an error in his carving, she stood next to his table and cleared her throat quietly. “What a beautiful landscape, sir. You’ve captured the clouds quite perfectly.”

  “You’ve another drawing for me, my lady?” the carver muttered without looking up.

  She set it on the table next to the block of wood he was carving.

  He glanced at it and grunted. “More lace. Told you to simplify those details.”

  “I did.”

  He poked a finger at the image of a woman’s gown. “This will take extra time.”

  “I apologize.” Sophie winced at his sharp tone. “I didn’t intend—”

  “Lady Sophronia,” Mr. Leonard called to her.

  She was glad for the interruption. She left the overly detailed picture with Mr. Potts and returned to the editor’s desk.

  “The Hyde Park balloon launch tomorrow—you’ll be there?”

  “I planned on it.”

  “Good.” Looking pleased, he nodded. “There’s a real story for you, my lady.”

  As she left the office, the bit of self-doubt dissipated and was replaced by resolution. She was capable of so much more than sharing gossip about beauty regimens, fashion, and social blunders, and she’d prove it.

  Instead of returning directly home, Sophie opened her notebook and gave the driver the list of names from the modiste, directing him to take her to the ladies’ houses. She had a murder to investigate.

  Za

  Two hours later Sop
hie returned home, surprised to see a functional-looking carriage in front of her house—surely it must be for a delivery, but it was strange that the unsightly conveyance was not parked more discreetly in the lane near the servant’s entrance.

  She removed her gloves and hat, feeling extremely satisfied by her outing. Fortunately she’d not had to speak with Charlotte Grey at all. Apparently the young woman’s lady’s maid had gone missing, and Charlotte was not receiving guests until she could find someone to arrange her hair before the picnic in Hyde Park.

  The Grey’s housekeeper had identified the young woman in Sophie’s drawing as Jane Duffin, the missing lady’s maid, but could give no further information about the young woman’s whereabouts two evenings before.

  Sophie considered which avenue to pursue next. She might call on Dr. Peabody to see whether examination of the body had provided any new clues. Or perhaps she would return to the neighborhood around the Porky Pie and question potential witnesses, but either way, she ought to change her clothing. The dress she’d worn before had stood out far too blatantly in the rookery. And, of course, she could use a cup of tea and perhaps a croissant.

  The butler, Holloway, met her in the front hall. “Lady Sophronia, you have visitors.”

  Sophie smiled at the idea of her friends paying her a call. It was new to have women as friends. She’d been taught by her mother to consider other ladies as competitors or rivals. But Elizabeth, Hazel, Vivian, and Dahlia’s support and friendship felt like an unexpected gift. Over the past weeks she’d grown surprisingly close to the four Orchids, as they called themselves. They were more like sisters to her than Prissy had ever been.

  Sophie touched the brooch on her lapel. Dahlia had presented one to each of the young ladies a few weeks earlier as they’d congregated in yet another library. “If the Casanovas can have their silly tiepins, then the Blue Orchid Society shall have our own emblem,” she’d declared.

  It was no surprise that an article of jewelry chosen by Dahlia Lancaster would be exquisite. Surrounded by filigreed silver and hand-painted on a mother-of-pearl background, the deep-blue flower was stunning.

  A clearing throat pulled her from her train of thought, and she realized the butler was still awaiting an answer. “Thank you, Holloway. Who are the visitors?”

  “A Detective Graham and Sergeant Lester, my lady. They are with your grandmother in the drawing room.”

  She blinked, and a wiggle of apprehension moved through her middle as Sophie remembered Detective Graham’s dismissive attitude at the murder scene. What could the man want? Had he learned she’d continued her investigation and had arrived to reprimand her? The thought of the man’s disapproving frown made her hesitate.

  But Sophie intended to be a news reporter, and of course, such a profession required perseverance. Detective Graham was not the first person to resent her investigating—nor, she feared, would he be the last. Besides, Mimi would be there, and Sergeant Lester was friendly enough.

  As she climbed the stairs, Sophie lifted her chin and took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, and adopted an expression of calm confidence.

  When she entered the drawing room, the men rose from their seats on the sofa, and Dorrit lifted her head from her napping-pillow in the sun and barked.

  Mimi smiled widely as if it were the most natural thing in the world to entertain two policemen. “There she is now. Come and join us, my dear. I’ve already sent for tea.”

  Detective Graham inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Lady Sophronia.” He spoke her name with a hint of exasperation, and she wondered if he was bothered she’d not told him her title before.

  Well, that was entirely her prerogative. She’d decided even before meeting the men that her investigative work would go much smoother without the extra attention her title garnered. “Detective. Sergeant.” She nodded at the men and sat on a chair beside her grandmother.

  “Pleasure to see you again, miss . . . I mean, my lady,” Sergeant Lester said.

  She smiled at the man, noticing in the light of day that he had a thick scar on his cheek, cutting through his reddish side-whiskers. “And you as well, Sergeant.”

  Mimi clasped her hands. “And what a merry coincidence, don’t you know. The detective here is the very same constable who arrested me at the suffragette demonstration in front of Westminster Palace all those years ago.” She smiled at the detective. “How long has it been, Detective? Eight, nine years at least, I believe.”

  Detective Graham cleared his throat, looking decidedly uncomfortable at the revelation. “Yes, your ladyship. And as I said earlier, I apologize for the wrist shackles, but it is a policy of the constabulary.”

  “Oh, I bear you no ill will,” Mimi said, waving it off. “None at all. I understand you were only doing your job. And it is not every day a woman is taken into custody by such a handsome man.”

  Sergeant Lester cleared his throat, his hand covering a grin as his gaze met Sophie’s.

  She let a smirk pull at her lips but didn’t permit the detective or her grandmother to see.

  Mrs. Fredrickson entered with a tea tray, and Sophie could sense the detective’s relief at the distraction.

  Mimi thanked the housekeeper and motioned toward the table. “Sophronia, will you pour out?”

  As she served the tea, Sophie took the opportunity to study the detective through glances. Her grandmother’s assessment was not wrong. Detective Graham’s hair was dark and his jaw strong, and if Sophie was a romantic person, she’d say his eyes were the deep blue of a clear sky on a late summer evening. But she was definitely not a romantic person, and the color of a man’s eyes did not compensate for his patronizing manner. And she’d had enough of that for one day.

  Once they all had their tea, Sophie stirred milk and sugar into her cup, then sat back in her chair and took a sip. “Now, gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  Detective Graham set his cup on his saucer. “My lady, we’ve come for your help.” He frowned, looking as if he didn’t like what he was saying. “Your observations about the dead woman’s gown Monday evening were very astute, and of course, you would know better than we where to inquire about its origins. If . . .” The detective cleared his throat and glanced at Sergeant Lester.

  The sergeant nodded.

  Detective Graham pursed his lips. “As you suggested, my lady”—he scowled, looking as if the words tasted sour in his mouth—“we might discover where the gown was purchased, perhaps we can learn the identity of the victim.”

  A very self-satisfied feeling came over Sophie, and she took another sip of tea to keep smugness from showing in her expression. “I see.” She set the teacup on the saucer and placed it on the table in front of her. “Yes, I can certainly help with that.” Reaching down, she opened her bag and took out the drawings and notebook, holding them in her lap. She glanced at her grandmother and saw Mimi’s encouraging nod. “Or, to save time, I could just tell you the murdered woman’s name.”

  Chapter 5

  Jonathan stared, dumbfounded at Lady Sophronia as his mind processed her statement. He turned to the sergeant, who looked every bit as confused, and then back to the young woman. “I’m sorry, my lady; did you say you know the victim’s identity?”

  “I do.” Lady Sophronia glanced between the men, looking very pleased with herself.

  Her demeanor chafed at Jonathan, as did her claim. That she, a snooping noblewoman, should, on a whim, make headway in the investigation when seasoned police officers had come up short was frustrating, to say the least.

  “Well done, my lady.” Sergeant Lester leaned forward, clasping his hands together and apparently feeling none of the irritation that made Jonathan’s jaw tight. “How did you work it out? Was it the dress?”

  Lady Sophronia nodded. She fingered through the papers and pulled one out, glanced at it, and then extended it across the low
table to Jonathan.

  He took it and studied the illustration, recognizing it immediately as a drawing of the dead woman’s gown. The depiction was remarkably detailed, with layers of ruffles and lace. It was even colored with a light-blue chalk.

  Sergeant Lester moved closer to examine the picture. “My lady, this is very impressive.”

  “Of course it is.” The dowager countess leaned forward to see the paper as well, then sat back in her carved chair and shrugged. “Did you expect anything less?” She whistled, and the pug jumped up and ran to her, allowing the woman to settle the dog onto her lap.

  “Thank you,” Lady Sophronia said. She lifted her chin toward the paper. “I showed this picture to the dressmakers I considered likely to have sewn the gown, and Madame Delacourt—a modiste on Bond Street—recognized it. She gave me the names of women who’d purchased gowns in this style and color, and after more inquiries, I discovered to which young lady it belonged.” She stopped herself, apparently before giving away the lady’s name. “The victim worked as her lady’s maid.”

  “That’s why the gown didn’t fit.” Sergeant Lester snapped his fingers. “Brilliant, my lady.”

  The dowager countess scratched behind her dog’s ears and nodded at her granddaughter, pride evident in her smile.

  “A good bit of detective work,” Jonathan admitted, trying to keep the grudging tone out of his voice.

  “Thank you.” The smallest smile pulled at Sophronia’s mouth, and her cheeks went pink.

  The effect was charming, and one Jonathan supposed had enchanted quite a few gentlemen of the ton. The thought further irritated him, and he shook it away, leaning back into the plush sofa. “So who is she?”