Page 71 of Solving Sophronia

Merryweather tried to open his eyes again. “Something about a necktie. One of the men wore a large pin—a ruby, I think.” He grimaced.

Jonathan could see it was painful for the man to speak, but this could be their only chance to learn anything new for hours. “Anything else?”

Merryweather grimaced again. “No. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Lie back, Constable,” Jonathan said. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed that the clue they’d hoped for had turned out to be worthless. He rubbed his eyes, discouragement making him tired.

“Sir,” Sergeant Lester said. His eyes were bright, and he leaned forward, looking excited. “The killer is a Casanova.”

Jonathan stared at the constable, having no idea what his words meant. “What did you say?”

“The West End Casanovas.” Sergeant Lester snapped his fingers. “Miss Propriety writes about them in her society column. The Casanovas always wear a ruby tiepin. It’s a sort of status symbol.” He touched his own necktie and gave a wise nod. “They are a very exclusive group, sir.”

“How many are there? And who are they?” Jonathan asked. A small flame of hope lit. If the suspect list could be narrowed further...

“There are only five: Lord Ruben, Lord Meredith, Lord Everleigh, Lord Chatsworth, and Lord Benedict.”

Jonathan raised a brow. All were peers—one an heir to a dukedom. Something tickled at the back of his mind, a thought he couldn’t quite grasp. One of the names reminded him of something—but what? “And they are the only men in this entire city who wear a ruby tiepin?”

“I rather think so, sir. The accoutrement is quite well-known, and custom made. If another were to imitate it, they would seem to be pretenders, if you get my meaning.”

Jonathan would never understand the thinking of the upper class. To claim ownership of a particular adornment seemed beyond conceited. But if it identified a suspect, he was all for it.

He rubbed the pocket watch fob between his fingers as he considered. If what the sergeant said was true—and Jonathan had no reason to believe otherwise—the murderer was one, or perhaps two, of five men. Five of the most powerful men in the country. Over the course of the ball, he’d been introduced to each of them, but what had he learned? Unfortunately, not much. Though they’d spoken, their conversation had been mainly about hunting, women, or the drudgery of balls in general. A few had discussed business ventures. Had any of them given a clue that could identify him as a killer?

Dr. Peabody came to check on Merryweather, and the men gathered their things to leave him to his patient.

Jonathan picked up the notebook and the folders, considering their next course of action as they left the hospital. He couldn’t very well arrest the five men without cause. And a dead stable hand’s testimony about a necktie bauble was hardly evidence.

The pair sat on a bench outside the hospital. He handed Sophie’s notebook to the sergeant. “See what you can find in here,” he said.

An idea occurred to him, and he flipped open the file from Sergeant Abner. He’d gone through the file a few hours ago, finding nothing of interest aside from city records and proposals for the building site.

Jonathan turned a page and found what he’d been looking for.I knew I’d seen one of the names recently.He poked the sergeant with his elbow. “See here. The Brookline Group made a proposal to Parliament two months ago, requesting a permit to build a railroad line through Spitalfields”—he studied the drawing, following the line—“and down to Wapping. They plan to reopen the Marylebone Tunnel beneath the Thames.”

“A train beneath the river?” Sergeant Lester scoffed. “Impossible.”

Jonathan stared at the map, running his finger along the rail line. “The proposed line would go through the workhouse building site and the Porky Pie.” He looked up as a thought occurred to him. “What if the sites where the bodies were discovered weren’t random? If a neighborhood or a worksite is deemed too dangerous...”

“The government is more likely to agree to tearing it down,” Sergeant Lester finished.

Jonathan flipped through the pages more quickly this time. He pulled out the document he was looking for, turning it for the sergeant to read. “The Brookline Group is a partnership with two owners: Hans Hofman and Lord Everleigh.”

***

Jonathan tapped his foot against the floor of the police cab as he and Sergeant Lester rode toward Grosvenor Square. He felt the familiar weight of the badge on his chest and the warrant card in his pocket. Sir Dennington had been skeptical about the tiepin as evidence, but when he was presented with the timeline and the city records, he’d agreed there were just too many coincidences to overlook and that the suspects should at least be brought to the station to answer some questions.

The sergeant was going through Sophie’s notebook. “Not one mention of Lord Everleigh at the lecture,” he muttered, turning a page. He closed the book and twisted toward Jonathan, drumming his fingers on the cover. “Sir, do you think Lady Sophronia might have been telling the truth?” He grimaced.

Jonathan took the book, more for something to keep him from having to meet the sergeant’s gaze than to do any actual reading. He opened it, recognizing Sophie’s handwriting. She’d written each name neatly in a list down one side of the page, leaving room for notes in between.

“Maybe shedidn’tgive permission for the article to be published,” the sergeant continued.

Jonathan shrugged as if he’d not given Sophie’s claim much thought—which could not be any further from the truth. At least his anger had dissipated, but the ache that had taken its place was so much worse. “That article nearly cost our jobs, Constable. It gave crucial police information to a murderer.”

“Yes, but if she didn’t mean to... shouldn’t we at least give her the chance to explain?”

Jonathan offered the sergeant a peppermint and popped one into his own mouth. Of course the sergeant was right. But going back, apologizing, opening himself up to be hurt again... It was easier to be angry. He had to protect his heart.

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