Echoes in Time, page 12
Privacy was a luxury the poor could not afford.
Kendra had spent six years as an FBI profiler, viewing the ghastliest of crime scenes. In that time, she’d become hardened to dealing with the dead. It was ironic, she mused, that her stomach now roiled as her gaze traveled over the living. If you can call this living…
Munroe looked at her. “It can be overwhelming. We can wait for Mr. Dandridge elsewhere.”
Kendra swallowed. “No, I’m fine. Which one is Mr. Dandridge?”
“Over there.” Munroe walked toward a man sitting on a three-legged wooden stool at the end of a cot. The patient, restrained by leather straps, screamed and thrashed. Even with the restraints, two men tried to control the man’s movements by pressing down on his shoulders and knees. Three young men were standing to the side, observing the procedure.
Kendra caught the flash of steel as Mr. Dandridge leaned over his patient. She gave him a brief look: mid-thirties; lean face, with black, curly hair; olive complexion. Fine lines fanned out from the outer corners of his eyes, likely the result of habitually narrowing them in concentration.
She turned her attention to the scalpel he held. His motion was quick, efficient. A slice, then he tossed something into a copper bowl held by a stern-looking nurse. It made a faint thunk. He repeated the slice, the toss. Plink. Kendra inched closer to see inside the bowl. It took her a moment to identify the three bloody lumps of flesh: toes.
Finished with the amputations, Mr. Dandridge set aside the scalpel and picked up a needle and thread from a small silver tray. “This young fellow is fortunate,” he said, addressing those who were observing.
Fortunate? Kendra thought. She glanced at the patient’s face, twisted in agony. His hair was matted with sweat. He’d quit screaming and was now emitting ragged moans each time the needle pierced his cut flesh as Mr. Dandridge skillfully sewed the skin together. The seam was tight, but blood oozed out, smearing the surgeon’s fingers.
“The injury had become gangrenous,” Mr. Dandridge continued, without looking up from the task at hand. The needle went in and out in a steady rhythm. “If he had waited longer to seek medical attention, the entire leg would have become infected and I—or another surgeon—would’ve been forced to remove it.”
Mr. Dandridge snipped off the thread with a small pair of scissors from the tray. He tied a knot, then dumped the scissors and needle. Rising, he wiped his bloody hands on his apron. His next patient would be treated with those same hands.
“William,” said Munroe, drawing the surgeon’s attention.
“Ethan.” Dandridge smiled, came over. “What brings you to St. George’s?”
“Business. May I introduce Lady Sutcliffe? My lady, this is Mr. Dandridge—our most skillful surgeon.”
“I saw your skill, Mr. Dandridge.” Still, she had to ask, “Was there nothing you could have given the patient to reduce his pain? Opium?”
“Gin is less expensive. And we gave him almost half a bottle. Unfortunately, he must have developed a tolerance for it, as it did not have the effect it ought to have had.”
Someone groaned and began retching into a bucket. Dandridge’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Shall we adjourn to a more pleasing environment? Ladies rarely tour our facilities, although when they do, they tend to confine themselves to the women’s wards.”
They fell into step with the surgeon as he walked toward the door. Dandridge gave Kendra a sidelong look. “Are you here because you are interested in becoming a patroness to the hospital, my lady?”
Apparently, Kendra mused, the only reason ladies toured hospitals and clinics was to become patronesses.
“I’m here because I’m looking into the murder of Lady Westford.”
Dandridge was reaching for the doorknob. Kendra noticed how those skillful fingers, so steady only moments ago as he sliced off three toes, spasmed. He stopped to stare at her. “Murder?”
Kendra studied him closely. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.” A troubled frown creased his brow. He pushed open the door. “I’d heard about Lady Westford’s death, of course. But I was told it was an accident.”
They walked down the hall, passing a few doctors, more nurses. Dandridge opened a door, then stepped back to allow them to enter. He’d brought them to what appeared to be a doctors’ lounge. Bookshelves lined two walls, crowded with heavy tomes and medical instruments. A long buffet, located in front of a large window, gleamed with silver coffee- and teapots, a porcelain pitcher of ale, and crystal decanters. A fireplace took up another wall. Seven tables were scattered around the room. Three young gentlemen, still wearing their stained aprons, crowded around one table, whispering as they passed around an object. An old man with thick spectacles perched on a bulbous nose was reading a newspaper at the next table.
“Mr. Dandridge!” said one of the young men, as he glanced up and saw the surgeon. “We’ve been examining your Le Cylindre. Marvelous bit of engineering—simple, yet effective. My uncle is a physician in Manchester and would be interested in this for his practice. It ought not be too difficult to manufacture the device himself.”
Kendra eyed the object with some interest. No one in the modern era would have looked at this simple wooden cylinder, about six inches in length and an inch and a half in diameter, and identified it as a stethoscope.
The old man at the other table snorted. “I’ve been using the ears that God gave me to listen to my patients’ heartbeats for sixty years. I don’t need anything designed by a Frenchie to practice medicine.”
“Probably wants his ear against a lady’s chest,” whispered a pimply-faced youth, and the table erupted in laughter.
“Eh? What did you say, young Paulson?” The old man squinted at him.
“Maybe Mr. Dandridge would allow you to borrow Le Cylindre as a hearing aid, if you wish to eavesdrop on our conversation, Dr. Carter.” Laughing, Paulson set the stethoscope on the table and jumped to his feet. His friends followed, and the trio rushed out of the room.
“Bloody young pups,” muttered the old doctor, his wiry eyebrows twitching irritably as he rattled his newspaper and returned to his reading.
“Would you care for a drink?” Dandridge asked, crossing the room to the buffet.
“Thank you. Coffee,” Kendra said.
He lifted the pot, poured her a cup. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Two sugars, no milk.”
“I shall pour myself a cup,” Munroe said.
They carried their drinks to the table that the young men had vacated. Kendra picked up the primitive stethoscope, inspecting it more closely.
Dandridge said, “I was intrigued when Monsieur Laënnec wrote about his invention. I am fortunate to have a cousin living in France, who managed to get his hands on one and send it to me. ’Tis a modest design, but I envision that it can be improved in the future.”
“I can envision that too,” Kendra said with a slight smile, setting down the old-fashioned instrument.
“Now, what’s this about Lady Westford?” Dandridge prompted. “I heard she fell off a balcony in a Covent Garden theater. A tragedy, but an accident nevertheless.”
“How well did you know Lady Westford?” she asked, picking up her cup. She tried not to make a face when she took a sip of the weak brew.
“She was a patroness at St. George’s, and is one of the ladies I spoke of visiting on occasion. She also attended lectures at the Royal Society, where we had many interesting conversations. I was shocked and saddened when I heard of her accident.”
“Except it wasn’t an accident.”
“So you say.” He fixed his gaze on her. “Who told you that it was murder?”
“The evidence.”
His eyes narrowed. “What evidence?”
“Let’s just say it would require considerable effort for Lady Westford to accidentally fall over the railing.”
Kendra recognized the flash of uneasiness in Dandridge’s eyes, and knew what he was thinking.
“She didn’t commit suicide either,” she added quietly.
He sucked in a breath. “You are very blunt, my lady.”
“When it comes to murder, I find it’s best to be blunt.” Kendra’s gaze strayed to the elderly gentleman at the next table. He was pretending to be absorbed in reading his newspaper.
Dandridge shook his head. “No. I cannot believe that. Who would wish to harm her?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” The comment prompted the elderly doctor to glance at her once quickly.
The lounge door opened and two gentlemen walked in, talking in low voices. One was small and wizened, with wispy gray strands combed over his bald pate and silver spectacles that matched the curved silver handle of his cane. The other man was tall and barrel-chested with a shock of white hair framing a broad, ruddy face. Kendra clocked the old man to be eighty—or nearly so—while his colleague could’ve been anywhere from his early forties to early sixties. He’d moderated his stride to match the old man’s, but Kendra sensed a leashed energy in him.
They broke off their conversation when they spotted the trio at the table. The old man tapped his way to their table as the other man made a beeline for the sideboard. Kendra noticed how the younger man’s ice-blue eyes scanned the room, taking in everything. Bypassing the coffee and teapots, he reached for one of the decanters, splashing whisky into a glass.
The nineteenth-century’s mantra: it’s always five o’clock somewhere.
“Ethan,” the old man said, smiling, and his eyes, the color of washed-out denim, pinned Kendra with an inquiring look. “You brought us a guest.”
“Sir Preston, may I introduce Lady Sutcliffe,” Munroe said. “My lady, this is Sir Preston. He is a chairman at St. George’s and one of the founders of the Metamorphosis Club.”
The old man gave a little bow. “’Tis a pleasure, my lady.”
“And this is Mr. Burnell, one of our St. George’s surgeons,” Munroe continued when the other man walked over.
“Munroe is giving you a tour of St. George’s, I see,” Burnell said. “If you’re considering donating to the hospital, I would be remiss not to urge you to save your money for a new hospital, rather than trying to save an old one.”
Sir Preston frowned. “Let’s not be so hasty in tearing down what could be repaired.”
“Lady Sutcliffe is not here for the hospital. She’s here because she believes Lady Westford was murdered,” Dandridge told them, tossing Kendra an inscrutable look.
Both men looked startled by the blunt statement. But Burnell’s surprise faded quickly into amusement. “Indeed? And what gossipmonger has spread this tale? No doubt old biddies who relieve their boredom by inventing far-fetched fantasies.”
His lip curled with contempt, and Kendra’s fingers tightened on her coffee mug. Oh, I know that look. For the first fourteen years of her life, she’d seen that look on her parents’ faces. They were brilliant scientists, but they each had the emotional IQ of a crocodile.
“This isn’t about gossip, Mr. Burnell,” she said. Maybe she didn’t have Alec and the Duke’s cutting upper-class accent, but her tone was frosty. “It’s about the evidence. Lady Westford didn’t accidentally fall—or kill herself.”
The smile remained cemented on his face. “And how, pray tell, did you come across this so-called evidence, madam?”
Munroe spoke up. “I examined the body myself. I concur with Lady Sutcliffe. This was no accident or suicide.”
The smile vanished. “I thought Thornton ruled it an accident?”
“He was wrong,” Kendra stated. “How well did you know Lady Westford?” She let her gaze drift between the men.
“This is extraordinary,” Sir Preston murmured, frowning. “Are you absolutely certain, Ethan?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness,” Sir Preston muttered. “My wife and I were well-acquainted with Lady Westford. The countess was interested in our work here at St. George’s, and we attended many of the same social events. We were distressed to learn of her death. And now this . . .”
“I knew her well enough,” Mr. Burnell replied, studying the amber liquid in his glass. “We had many conversations about raising funds for a new hospital. This building has been here for almost a hundred years. Personally, I doubt that we’ll get another twenty out of it.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Kendra asked all three men.
Dandridge answered first. “A few weeks ago, at the Royal Society. They had a fascinating discussion on using electricity to reanimate dead tissue.” His voice warmed with excitement. “It brings up a host of possibilities. I just amputated three toes of a local wherryman. But what if we could harness the forces of electricity to stimulate dying flesh, bringing it back to life? What if we could offer treatment rather than amputation?”
“Balderdash!” The old man at the next table gave up all pretense of reading his newspaper. “What you say is sacrilege, Mr. Dandridge. Only God can bring back the dead!”
“We are men of science, Dr. Carter—not clergymen.” Burnell matched the physician’s glower. “You may waste your time praying for cures to society’s ills, but the future will be shaped by natural philosophy and medicine. We must challenge ourselves and push past absurd barriers that are little more than superstition.”
“By tampering with nature? By playing God?” Dr. Carter threw aside the newspaper in disgust and hoisted himself to his feet, practically vibrating with outrage.
Dandridge shook his head. “We play God every time we save a patient’s life, Dr. Carter. If I hadn’t operated on the wherryman, gangrene would have spread and eventually killed him.”
“Mr. Dandridge makes a strong point,” Sir Preston interjected, earning a furious look from Dr. Carter.
“Bah! I am aware of that club that you formed, sir! Mark my words, you shall regret toying with matters of which you know nothing. And you”—he scowled at Munroe—“with your dissections and experimentation. ’Tis blasphemy, and I will not listen to any more of this drivel.” He stomped to the door and slammed it after him.
Burnell’s lip curled. “That old relic still believes that disease is caused by an imbalance of bodily humors.”
“Some individuals have a difficult time letting go of their former views,” Munroe said quietly.
“You’ve always been too sentimental, Ethan. The man is archaic and should be drummed out of the medical profession.” Burnell blew out a breath, glancing at Kendra. “I was also at that lecture, my lady. Like my colleague here, I believe electricity will prove useful in medicine, although I sincerely doubt that it will bring the dead back to life.”
“My point is that we don’t know what it may do until we try,” Dandridge said stiffly.
No wonder Mary Shelly had been inspired to write Frankenstein. In fact, at this very moment, Kendra realized, the author was writing a masterpiece that would launch a new genre of fiction—and a million Halloween masks.
Kendra pushed away the distracting thought to ask, “Did you speak to Lady Westford at the lecture?”
“We tend to gather afterward to discuss what was presented,” Burnell said. “And, yes, Lady Westford was in that group.”
“How was her mood? Did she seem to be worried about anything or anyone?”
Burnell pursed his lips, frowning into his glass. “I don’t recall anything unusual. We spoke about the lecture, of course, and certain advancements that have been reported in the medical journals. She didn’t appear melancholy or fretful.”
“That was the last time you saw her?”
“No, she came to St. George’s last week. I saw her, but I didn’t speak to her.”
Kendra glanced at Dandridge. “Did you see her? Speak to her?”
“No. I mean, yes, I saw her, as well, but I didn’t speak to her. She was with Mr. Goldsten.”
So, not two weeks ago. Kendra wasn’t surprised that Goldsten had lied. She was surprised that he’d lied about something so easily checked.
“What was she doing with Mr. Goldsten?” she asked innocently.
Dandridge started to speak, but Sir Preston cut in: “Lady Westford visits periodically. She invested time and money in the hospital, and she felt it was her duty to keep an eye on things. She had expressed concern over the mortality rate of mothers and their babes.”
“Lady Westford and Mr. Goldsten were having an intense conversation when I saw them,” Burnell said.
“Intense?”
“A bit of a row, if you must know. It’s why I didn’t approach. One doesn’t want to become embroiled in someone else’s quarrel.”
“Did you hear what the quarrel was about?”
Burnell shook his head.
“Were you working at St. George’s on Sunday morning?” Kendra asked the group.
Dandridge frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Dandridge?” Burnell said, his eyes on Kendra. “That’s when Lady Westford died—or was killed, supposedly.”
“Good heavens!” Sir Preston exclaimed. “Young lady, surely you cannot believe we—anyone here—would have harmed Lady Westford?”
Kendra glanced at the old man and thought, Not you. Physically, Sir Preston would never have been able to throw Lady Westford off the balcony, much less chase her up the stairs or Edwina down the street.
“It’s a simple question.” Kendra turned back to Burnell. “Why not answer?”
He smiled. “I have a suspicion that there are no simple questions with you, my lady. However, I shall answer. I didn’t work on Sunday. And since the direction of your inquiry is rather obvious, I shall state now that I did not murder Lady Westford. She was a patroness here, and I was quite optimistic that she would be spearheading the campaign to fund a new hospital.”
