Page 34 of Solving Sophronia

They arrived at the waiting police carriage, and Jonathan reached for the door handle.

“Where to now, Detective?” Miss Bremerton asked.

Her voice sounded tired. Jonathan glanced at her, then looked closer. Miss Bremerton’s face was void of color. He released the carriage door. He had noticed her go pale when they’d discovered blood in the closet, and again when they’d discussed how the bodies might have been removed, but he hadn’t mentioned it in front of the other constables, thinking the observation might embarrass her. He had assumed the shock would pass quickly, but apparently there was more to her reaction than mere aversion to the crime’s details. “Miss, when did you eat last?”

She rubbed her forehead. “This morning. Breakfast. And peppermints.”

“And you had only a small cup of tea before we left your house.” That had been more than six hours earlier, Jonathan realized. He’d been so intent on solving the case that he hadn’t paid attention to basic necessities—not uncommon when it concerned only himself, but he felt a responsibility for her. “You must be famished.”

“I am a bit hungry,” she admitted.

“Come along.” He motioned for the carriage driver to wait and led her to a bench on the river promenade, helping her to sit. “I’ll be back in just a moment.” He left the bundle of evidence beside her and hurried back up the street, pausing to instruct the driver. It wouldn’t do to leave the young woman alone, but he spoke quietly, thinking Miss Bremerton would not appreciate Jonathan assigning someone to keep watch over her.

As he left the man and crossed the road behind the carriage, he pondered the very complicated Miss Sophronia Bremerton. She was confusing but somehow not frustrating. More like a puzzle he was intent on solving. He took satisfaction in their easy conversation and how well they worked together. It was strange, but he reasoned he’d not had many friendships outside of the constabulary, and aside from his acquaintance with his landlady, none involved a female.

Jonathan had only to walk half a block to a street vendor selling meat pies. While he waited for the man to wrap the pies in paper, he glanced back toward the woman on the bench by the river. She faced away from him, looking down, perhaps writing in her notebook. As a breeze blew the feathers of her hat, Jonathan wondered what she was thinking.

He thanked the vendor and started back, remembering Miss Bremerton’s earlier proposal that he accompany her to the ball. Guilt soured his mouth. His rejection of the idea—or rather, his lack of response altogether—had clearly hurt her feelings, but he’d had no choice. How could he attend such an event? Besides, it wasn’t a rejection of her... but she’d understood it as such, and in his incompetence, he hadn’t corrected her.

He tipped his hat to a group of women walking past, then crossed the street. The sporadic dance instruction he’d received at the orphan school would in no way disguise his ineptitude in that regard. And one sentence out of his uneducated mouth would give him away to thehaute tonas an imposter. The bitterness grew stronger, and he swallowed, not wishing to admit that his own pride was getting in the way of what was, in actuality, a very clever plan—all of the potential witnesses together in one place and a noblewoman as a partner... But he would be foolish to think a formal coat and hat would convince anyone he belonged among high Society.

He sat on the bench, offering Miss Bremerton a meat pie. “I know it’s not as fine a meal as you’re accustomed to, but police rarely have the luxury of a fancy dinner while working a case.”

“It smells wonderful. Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

She turned over the wrapped parcel, her brow creasing as she pulled at the grease-stained paper. “How do I... ?”

Jonathan felt foolish. Lady Sophronia had certainly never been served anything as common as a street vendor’s pie. “You’ll want to remove your gloves,” he said, holding the pie as she did so. He handed it back once her hands were bare. “Now, tear back the paper a bit at a time as you eat.” He spread his handkerchief over her lap. “It can get rather messy.”

She peeled back a corner of the paper and took a tentative bite. “It’s very good.”

“I’m sure it’s not of the quality you’re used to, but—”

“Detective,” she interrupted with a gentle smile. “Stop apologizing. It’s perfect.”

He smiled, relieved.

They ate quietly for a moment, enjoying the cool evening breeze and watching the construction on the magnificent Albert Bridge. Jonathan wondered for a moment whether the increase in traffic across this part of the river would also increase crime.

“You don’t really believe George Lewis’s body was pushed through the window, do you?” she asked, taking him from his wandering thoughts.

He wiped gravy from his lip. “Perhaps both bodies.”

“You think Jane Duffin was killed in the parlor closet as well?”

“We have no evidence to support it, but it stands to reason since the two were likely together.”

“I don’t see how it’s possible.” Miss Bremerton tore away more of the greasy wrapping and blew on the pastry and the gravy inside to cool it. “If Nick Sloan killed one, the other would have yelled or fought back. He could not have overpowered both at the same time. Surely someone would have heard.”

He nodded. “It does add credence to the idea of a second person’s involvement.” He crumpled his empty paper into a ball and brushed crumbs from his trousers. “Not only to assist in the commission of the murders but in the disposal of the bodies as well.”

“But who would do such a thing?” She swept a finger over her lip but missed a small crumb at the very corner of her mouth. “Who would be imposed upon to assist with something so horrible? Someone who owes Mr. Sloan money?”

He touched the corner of his own mouth in a demonstration of wiping away an imaginary crumb.

“Oh.” She wiped her lip but on the wrong side.

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