Page 63 of Solving Sophronia

“There you are!” Prissy’s glare was so filled with vitriol that Sophie stopped mid-step. “I do hope you’re happy, Miss Propriety.” She spat the name as if it were a curse word.

“You haveruinedus, Sophronia.” Lady Mather dabbed a handkerchief to her red eyes. She held smelling salts in her other hand. “This is what comes from allowing you such freedoms. I told your grandmother no good would come from you writing for the paper, and now our reputations are utterly ruined.” She waved around the handkerchief.

“We are not ruined, Mother.” Sophie kept her voice calm. Her mother was prone to exaggeration, and Sophie’s work at the newspaper was one of the many upsetting topics that usually sent her on one of her tirades.

“Oh no?” Lady Mather tapped her finger on a stack of letters on the table. “Three—threecancellations for our dinner party next week. And I am sure more are to come.”

“And what of Everleigh? He will never have me now!” Prissy wailed, taking out her own handkerchief.

“How dare you bring such shame on our household.” Her mother pointed her finger at Sophie. “You and that... detective, deceiving high Society—our friends—with your little charade and destroying the future Marquess of Molyneaux’s engagement ball. This disgrace will be remembered in our circles forever. It is beyond the pale.”

“Mother.” Sophie slipped into her chair, feeling badly for the footman who was holding it ready. The poor man was doing his best to pretend not to notice the hysterics happening around him. “I did not destroy anything. A man was murdered. Another shot. Thekillerruined the party, not I. And certainly not Detective Graham.”

“It was the most important ball of the Season.” Prissy’s anger had turned her face splotchy. “And Everleigh did not even see me home last night.”

Lady Mather patted her younger daughter’s arm in an attempt to console her. She turned back to frown at Sophie. “To be...interrogated... like a common criminal. And all because my daughter thinks she is above the rules of decorum. Well, I will have no more of it. You are never to write another word for any newspaper. Never! Do you understand? You may not step one toe inside a newspaper office for as long as you live, and do not dare to reach for that pastry, Sophronia.”

Sophie pulled back her hand. She spooned fruit onto her plate instead and poured a cup of tea. She wanted to calm her voice before speaking. Letting out her own anger would only intensify the situation. “Mother.” She spoke in a quiet voice. “People were murdered. It was a murder investigation. Surely you can see that is more important than a ball.”

“Servantswere murdered, Sophronia.” Her mother shook her head as if she were dealing with an imbecile. She rubbed her temples. “A lady’s maid—”

“And Charlotte said she wasn’t even a very good lady’s maid,” Prissy interjected.

Her mother nodded her agreement with Prissy. “You have no idea how this has... how it will continue to affect our family, Sophronia. You care only for—”

“Sophronia! Come here at once.”

All three ladies jumped as Sophie’s father’s voice boomed through the entry hall.

In spite of their disagreement, the women looked at one another with confused expressions. Her father rarely took an interest in his daughters’ affairs. In her entire life Sophie had only been summoned into his office a very few times—and never with an angry bellow.

Sophie ignored Prissy’s smug smirk as she left the dining room and crossed the entry hall to her father’s office. The door was ajar, and she pushed it open, stepping inside.

None of the ladies in the household were permitted in Lord Mather’s office, except on very rare occasions—and only if invited. Sophie glanced around, taking in the heavy dark furniture and the rows of bookshelves as she walked deeper into the room.

Her father sat at his desk, reading a newspaper behind a green-shaded lamp.

“Good mor—” Sophie began.

“Do you know what this is, Sophronia?” He cut off her words. He held up a parchment-colored envelope between two fingers. “A letter from the hunting club,” he said before she could answer. “How do you explain this?” He flicked his wrist, flinging the letter onto the desk.

Sophie wasn’t certain how to answer. “I don’t know what the letter—”

“One of our members, suspected of murder?” He cut her off again, his voice becoming louder and his face turning redder. “This club has a glorious tradition, Sophronia. It is a pillar of Society.” He gripped the arms of his chair. “Your father, grandfather, great-grandfather—eight generations.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “For nearly four hundred years, knights and nobility have graced the Kingsclere’s noble halls, and today—” His cheeks puffed out, and he waved around his hands as if it were simply too much effort to put together a sentence in this situation. “My own daughter. You would slander its glorious name for a story?” He folded his arms, waiting for a response.

An uneasy feeling joined Sophie’s frustration and bewilderment at her family’s reactions. How had her mother known Jane Duffin was a victim in this case? And who told her father the Kingsclere Club members were part of the suspect pool? Had the police given out the information when they’d questioned the ball guests? She didn’t believe they would. “What story, Father?”

Lord Mather slammed the newspaper down on the desk in front of her, and Sophie’s heart stopped. She was too shocked to even draw enough breath for a gasp. There, beneath the headline “Kingsclere Rookery Murders,” her drawing of the crime scene in the alley behind the Porky Pie covered half a page.

“No, no, no. It can’t be.” Sophie pulled away the paper from beneath his hand, reading the story. Her stomach twisted with every word. It was all there. The victim’s names, the manner of their deaths, the smear on the windowsill, the investigators’ theories.

“The hunting club is convening a special session today. Very likely, they’ll ask for my resignation,” Lord Mather said.

Sophie could hardly hear him as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. She turned the page, and her heart stopped again when she recognized her drawing of the assembly hall parlor. Jonathan was crouched down in the closet, examining the floorboards. Sophie put a hand over her mouth, glad she’d not eaten that pastry, or she’d likely not be able to keep it in her stomach.

“How...?” She looked up at her father, blinking as she tried to process how this could have happened. “I didn’t write—”

A memory popped into her mind. That day at the news office, she’d dropped her notebook and Mr. Leonard had asked about the drawings. But she’d taken the notebook away.No. That’s not what happened.She’d noticed it missing when she’d gone to put Tom Stackhouse’s folder into her bag, and she’d found she’d left the notebook on the editor’s desk.

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