Page 36 of Solving Sophronia

Chapter 10

Sophie felt immensely better aftereating the pie. She settled back in the seat of the police carriage and opened her notebook. Seeing the sketch of the parlor closet, the sight and smell of the blood returned. But this time the nausea didn’t accompany the memories. Detective Graham had been right about her just needing food, and once she’d gotten the knack of eating a greasy pastry with her fingers, she’d thought a vendor’s pie on a riverside bench to be one of the most pleasant meals she could remember. Perhaps a large part of her enjoyment could be attributed to the absence of her mother criticizing each bite that passed her lips, but that didn’t account for all.

She added some details to the sketch, remembering the upholstery pattern on the chairs in the closet and the design of the window drapes.

In the fading light coming through the carriage window, Detective Graham studied the drawing of the alley. His brows were pulled tightly together, and he rubbed his forehead as he contemplated.

Sophie’s mood was unexpectedly amiable. She was tired. The carriage was sturdy but hardly comfortable, and next to her was a man who’d had given her a tongue-lashing and sent her away only two days earlier. None of that explained her contentment. As she considered, she came to the conclusion that her weariness was caused by hard work, and that, along with the quest for justice, brought a fulfillment that was very satisfying.

Detective Graham leaned back his head against the seat and closed his eyes.

Sophie wondered if he was sleeping or thinking. She suspected the latter. The detective didn’t seem to be a man to rest when there was work to be done. An admirable trait. And it brought to mind other aspects of Detective Graham’s character.

He was blunt but refreshingly so. One didn’t have to wonder what he was thinking or whether he had an ulterior motive.

The intrigues and games of high Society surrounded Sophie, spreading into nearly every aspect of her life, but she had little patience for the artifice. It felt very comfortable to be with a person whose intentions she didn’t have to question. Detective Graham was strict, demanding of the constables who worked beneath him, but he was generous with compliments as well. The wiggle returned to her tummy when she remembered the compliment he’d paid her. Did he truly think her beautiful? Of course, he was likely just being polite, but the sensation remained. And Sophie didn’t push it away.

The detective leaned forward and looked through the window. He glanced at Sophie, gave a nod, then went back to studying the drawings.

His eyes seemed always to be alert. And Sophie sensed that the awareness of his surroundings that served him so well as a police officer had been honed by a need for survival. From things he’d said, she’d deduced his childhood had been difficult. Though he spoke politely, beneath his words was a roughness that intrigued her. What had he overcome? He certainly wasn’t refined, nor was he educated, but in Sophie’s opinion, his intelligence and intuition more than compensated in that regard. He was fair, she thought, and not one to hold a grudge—evidenced by his treatment of her today compared to that of the day they’d met at the crime scene.

Sophie smiled, feeling a fondness for her friend. The thought brought her up short. She was being silly, allowing the man’s praise and attentions to go to her head. Though she and the detective were friendly, she could hardly call him a friend. They’d been acquainted for only a few days. And fondness? That was hardly warranted. She felt admiration for him on a professional level. Nothing more.

The carriage stopped in front of the Porky Pie just as raindrops began to tap on the roof. Sophie and the detective exited onto the street and hurried past the mouth of the alley to the building across from the pub, standing beneath the shelter of a small overhang above the door. Perhaps it was because the crowds and police were absent or because a murder had been discovered here the day before, but Sophie’s nerves were on edge. The street was dark, with the nearest lamp half a block away, and she could feel rather than see people watching from the shadows.

She moved closer to the detective, nearly falling back when he pulled open the door.

“After you, miss.”

Sophie glanced back over her shoulder, then entered the dimly lit building. She knew from the outside that the building was two stories high, but she had not expected so many doors lining the narrow hallway. In the rooms beyond and above she could hear bumps and scrapes as people moved about, along with voices, dishes clinking, a dog barking, and a baby crying. The building was filled with the smells of supper, but instead of feeling warm and cozy, the smells blended with mildew and the odor of wet animals and unwashed bodies, turning her stomach.

Detective Graham touched the small of her back, urging her forward toward a darkened staircase.

Sophie took a few steps, then moved to the side of the hallway. “I’ll follow you, Detective.”

He went ahead.

The stairs creaked beneath them. Halfway up they came to a landing and turned to follow the staircase in the other direction. The sounds of something skittering on the wood made Sophie pull her skirts tightly against her legs, worried a rat would crawl up them. Detective Graham walked ahead steadily, and she followed as closely as she could without actually grabbing on to the detective’s arm.

The door at the far end of the dark hallway corresponded with the window outside where she’d seen the shadow.

When they reached it, Detective Graham knocked.

A noise sounded in the room beyond.

“London Constabulary,” he called. “Open the door.”

The door opened a crack.

“Is that you, Constable Merryweather?” A woman’s voice spoke through the gap.

“Detective Jonathan Graham.” He pressed a hand against the door to keep it from closing. “And my associate, Miss Sophronia Bremerton. We have a few questions, if you please.”

The woman pulled open the door, hinges creaking. She stepped back to allow them to enter, then looked into the hall quickly before closing the door behind them.

The room was hardly more than a closet. The only heat came from a coal stove in the corner. A small table with two chairs was pushed against the wall beneath the window and a bed against the opposite. Clothes hung on lines across the room, and a large washtub stood in the corner between a narrow wardrobe and a wooden-backed bench piled with laundry. There was barely space to walk, and two extra adults in the room made it impossibly crowded.

A boy jumped up from his seat at the table. He was young, no older than eight, Sophie thought, and very skinny. “Good evening, Detective.”

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