Page 70 of Solving Sophronia

Terror spiked through Sophie. She darted a look at the carriage door, then along the road for someone to call out to.

He cleared his throat and pulled back his jacket just the slightest bit so only she could see the pistol holstered beneath his arm. He looked pointedly at her sister and grandmother, then leaned back casually in his seat, his smile growing.

The driver pulled at the reins, veering the carriage off onto a side lane.

Chapter 21

Jonathan ceased his pacing aroundthe hospital and returned to the ward where Constable Merryweather lay.

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.”

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