Echoes in Time, page 18
Munroe looked intrigued. “I’m acquainted with a man who might be able to help. Mr. Randolph Engel is a mining surveyor. He assisted William Smith when he worked on England’s canal system. He became interested in catastrophism and has made a remarkable study of geology.”
“Catastrophism?” Kendra frowned at the unfamiliar word.
The Duke said, “It’s an attempt to resolve the discrepancies between the biblical account of the Great Flood—basically, a sudden, cataclysmic event that created the earth’s geology—and the theory that the earth was formed by a more gradual process. I have read articles penned by Mr. William Buckland, who argued in favor of sedimentary deposits left by the Great Flood.”
“Mr. Engel takes an opposing viewpoint.” Munroe turned to Kendra. “He lives in Cambridge. Do you want me to contact him and ask if he’d examine the sediment?”
“How long will that take?” Kendra dreaded the answer.
Munroe smiled. “If he’s at home, maybe as early as tomorrow evening.”
“Can you find out if Clarice was being treated by someone at St. George’s?” she asked, and saw the flicker in the anatomist’s eyes.
“Yes, I can do that,” he said. “But if anyone at St. George’s would have treated her by bloodletting, there would have been talk. And I would have heard about it.”
“Would you have heard about any of your colleagues expressing an interest in curing syphilis?”
That brought a fleeting smile. “Everyone’s interested in curing syphilis—or any disease that plagues humanity. We discuss these things all the time in the Metamorphosis Club—” His breath caught in his throat, his eyes flashing to hers as he realized what he’d just said. He quickly shook his head. “No member would siphon off all the woman’s blood in an attempt to treat her, my lady.”
“What about to experiment on her?”
Munroe’s jaw tightened. Kendra thought it was telling that he didn’t immediately refute what she was suggesting.
“Someone first took her blood. Now her eyes and uterus,” Kendra said. Rebecca, who hadn’t been in the room when that was revealed, gasped, but Kendra remained focused on the doctor. “You said the removals were done in a professional manner. Someone with medical knowledge. Even more, someone with a surgeon’s skill. Could you get me a list of Metamorphosis Club members?”
“Are you planning on quizzing them all? We have nearly forty members.”
“If I have to, yes. I’d like the full list, but it would be helpful if you indicated the members who’ve been vocal about finding new treatments for syphilis.”
“Very well,” he agreed, but his reluctance was palpable.
“We can narrow the list down even further if you include everyone’s age. Whoever killed Lady Westford was strong enough to throw her over the railing, and young enough to chase Edwina down the street.”
Munroe’s eyes were shadowed as he met hers for a brief moment before he turned away. “I’ll get you your list, my lady.”
Chapter 24
“Well, that was miserable,” Rebecca said softly.
Kendra looked over at her friend as they walked ahead of the men, emerging from the anatomy school. “Are you all right?”
“If you are referring to my earlier . . . reaction, I apologize.” Rebecca’s tone was as crisp as a winter morning. “I didn’t . . . I wasn’t expecting what was done to her eyes.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not easy to view a dead body, especially in that state.”
“You mean it’s not easy for me, because I’m a lady.” Rebecca’s jaw tightened. “You share Mr. Muldoon’s belief that I’m a fainthearted, feebleminded lady, that I need to be coddled and shouldn’t view such ugliness? That I’m not like you, and ought not try to be.”
Kendra slid a cautious sidelong look at Rebecca, then glanced over her shoulder at Muldoon walking with Alec, the Duke, and Sam. Far enough behind to not be overheard.
“Is that what Mr. Muldoon said when he followed you out of the autopsy room?” she asked.
Rebecca let out a hiss. “Yes. He seems to think I am a chicken-hearted female prone to having vapors or hysterics. Just because I-I . . . I nearly cast up my accounts. But I didn’t. And even if I had, I am not some silly creature that needs to be cosseted and comforted. It’s insulting.”
Kendra had never had any close female friends before Rebecca, but she knew there was a code. You supported your friend, especially if they were fuming against a man.
“The bastard,” she finally said.
Rebecca made a noise between a gasp and a laugh. “Kendra!” She said nothing for a long moment, then went on, “He views me as part of the Ton, you know. And he thinks the females of the Ton are silly, timid creatures who spend their days shopping and their evenings attending balls.”
Kendra actually didn’t believe Muldoon viewed Rebecca in that way at all, but she wasn’t stupid enough to try to defend him.
“He thinks we live our lives wrapped in cotton-wool,” Rebecca muttered darkly.
“Jeez. He’s never been to Almack’s,” Kendra said lightly. Almack’s was the most exclusive social club of the day, where young debutantes put themselves on display as potential brides, to be scrutinized by society’s most august ladies. Talk about nerve-wracking.
Rebecca laughed. Her amusement faded, though, as they continued to walk. “Are you really going to interview everyone on the list Dr. Munroe gave you?” she asked Kendra.
“Eventually. But right now, I want to interview Lord Westford.”
“I thought you were of the mind that Lady Westford’s murderer is on the list.”
“Yes, but Lord Westford might know more about his wife’s activities. We need to find out how Lady Westford’s path crossed with Clarice’s.”
And, she added silently, how both of their paths crossed with a killer’s.
***
Alec directed Coachman John to Lord Westford’s black-crepe-embellished townhouse. Kendra wasn’t entirely surprised to learn that the earl was not at home—and really not home, as opposed to being at home but refusing to see them. When she asked the butler where they could find Lord Westford, he gave her a thousand-yard stare and told her that he couldn’t presume to know.
Alec suggested that she return to the carriage while he had a word with the butler.
“Let me guess—Lord Westford is at his villa in St. John’s Wood,” Kendra said when Alec climbed back into the carriage. “What did he think I’d do? Faint at the mention of a mistress?”
“He was being considerate of your ladylike sensibilities.”
Kendra drummed her fingers on her knee. “I’m starting to understand why Rebecca was ticked off at Muldoon.”
“Ah.” Alec’s green eyes gleamed. “Mr. Muldoon told me that he’d only tried to assure Becca that her reaction to the grisly business in the morgue was perfectly natural.”
“Perfectly natural for someone like Rebecca, you mean. A lady. A fragile creature that needs to be shielded from life’s unpleasantness.”
“Well, she did almost cast up her accounts in the morgue,” Alec pointed out mildly.
“I’ve seen men throw up at crime scenes too.”
“He was trying to . . . never mind.” He regarded her somewhat quizzically. “Are we really going to quarrel about this?”
“You think I’m being unreasonable?”
“I think . . .” He leaned back against the seat. “My wife is extremely reasonable. And I’d be foolish to say otherwise.”
Kendra’s lips twitched, her irritation ebbing. “You’re not foolish.”
***
Given that the future King of England had at one time stashed his mistress in a villa at St. John’s Wood, Kendra had expected the neighborhood to be pretty upscale. She was not disappointed. Located a couple miles northwest of Charing Cross and a stone’s throw from Regent Park, the area was a network of wide, tree-lined boulevards with neo-Palladian mansions set behind brick walls and wrought-iron gates.
It was before noon; too early for most of the Ton to be out. A milk wagon ambled down the street at a leisurely pace, along with a handful of horseback riders and one private carriage leaving a gated residence. Kendra couldn’t help but wonder if the occupant of the carriage was a husband leaving his mistress to return to his legal family.
They approached an elegant limestone villa. Alec used the silver lion’s-head knocker, and the door opened. A white-haired butler contemplated them with the same regal bearing and haughty expression of every butler Kendra had met in this era. For just a moment, she had the fanciful image of a factory pumping out butlers in the same mold.
The majordomo’s eyes lit with recognition when his eyes fell on Alec, who had been there only the day before. “My lord, how may I help you?”
“Kirby, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“My wife and I would like to speak with Lord Westford.”
“Ah . . .” The butler glanced at Kendra. “I shall inquire whether he is at home—”
“Let me be clear, Kirby. My wife and I are not leaving until we speak to his lordship. We shall wait in the drawing room.”
If Kirby planned to argue, one look at Alec’s set face had him nodding and hastily stepping aside so they could enter. “Yes, certainly, sir. If you would please follow me.”
Kendra’s gaze traveled the grand entrance hall with its potted plants and pink-hued marble columns. A footman, decked out in full livery, was positioned outside a closed door at the far end of the hall, beyond the grand staircase. There wasn’t a piece of black crepe to be seen.
As the butler opened the doors to the drawing room, Kendra heard the sound of distant, childish laughter.
“I shall inform his lordship that you are here,” Kirby stated, stepping back and closing the doors.
Kendra turned to survey the elegant room, done in butter-soft hues. Chinese vases were positioned around the room, exploding with colorful flowers. “Don’t you find this odd?” she asked. “The man’s wife was murdered four days ago, and it’s like she never existed.”
“I doubt she ever existed here. This is a world apart from the one that Lord Westford created with his wife.” He eyed her curiously. “You’ve never encountered arranged marriages like this in your America?”
That gave her pause. “Well, yes. I suppose there are wealthy, high-profile couples who stay together for political ambitions or because they don’t want to split up the family fortune. Or they have an image to protect,” she admitted. “But if a wife—or husband—found out their partner had a secret family, they tended to get seriously pissed. Then they called their divorce attorney to take their ex for every dime they can get.”
Except for the spouses that don’t—the spouses who choose to kill their partner rather than get a divorce.
But she no longer believed that was what they were dealing with here. This was bigger, more insidious.
She heard the heavy thud of footsteps before the door burst open, and Lord Westford strode through in an agitated rush.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. His face was red, his eyes burning with fury. It gave Kendra a moment of déjà vu from the first time she’d met the earl.
“We have a few more questions about your wife’s murder,” she said, but was momentarily distracted as a woman glided into the room after him. The mistress. Kendra had to admit that she was surprised. She had expected the “other woman” in Lord Westford’s life to be younger and prettier than his wife. Mrs. O’Leary was around the same age as Lady Westford, with a figure that could be best described as pleasantly plump. Or, less charitably, frumpy. Her hair, under the heavy lace cap, was a graying mouse-brown.
Lord Westford’s left-handed wife was unremarkable, Kendra thought, but revised that opinion when the lady smiled. There was something winsome in the curve of her lips that invited shared laughter, a light in her eyes that indicated kindness.
Or maybe her smile stood out because it was in stark contrast to Lord Westford’s hostile glower.
“Good morning. Lord Sutcliffe, isn’t it?” Mrs. O’Leary had a lovely, musical voice. She dipped into a pretty little curtsy, her sparkling hazel eyes cutting over to include Kendra as she rose. “And Lady Sutcliffe. Forgive me for being so bold as to force an introduction; I am Mrs. O’Leary.”
The woman thread her arm through Lord Westford’s. A united front.
“Heather,” Lord Westford muttered, half embarrassed.
Mrs. O’Leary ignored him. Keeping the smile pinned to her face, she gestured toward the two pale yellow Chippendale sofas facing each other. “Let’s sit, shall we? I hear congratulations are in order.” They did so, and her pale fingers plucked at her skirt, carefully arranging the material around her. “Westford tells me that you were recently wed.”
Alec nodded. “Yes, a few days ago.”
“He also told me about this terrible business with Lady Westford.” She pressed a hand to her chest as she glanced first at Alec, then at Kendra. “Westford would never harm his wife. I cannot bear anyone thinking him such a fiend.”
“Heather—”
She patted his hand. “No, Westford. We must discuss this. I sent the children to the schoolroom, so we shan’t be disturbed. When we heard the news, Westford thought . . . well, we both thought Lady Westford had done something dreadful.”
Kendra eyed the woman curiously, then looked to Westford. “Why? Did your wife say anything to make you think that she was depressed? Suicidal?”
“No.” He frowned a bit uncertainly. “At least, I don’t think so. Grace was, as I already told you, preoccupied.”
“You never saw her weeping?”
“No.”
“She never indicated to you that she was afraid?”
“Afraid?” Now he looked baffled. “Afraid of what?”
“Maybe of you,” Kendra said bluntly, studying him closely.
The earl sucked in a shocked breath. “Balderdash! I—”
“Was overheard threatening to kill your wife after you learned about her involvement with Mr. Goldsten,” Kendra interjected. “Why don’t you tell us about that?”
“I . . . well, for God’s sakes, I didn’t mean it literally. Grace and I had a cordial relationship. If you must know, I was quite fond of her.” He licked his lips nervously. “I would never kill her! What kind of monster do you think I am?”
Mrs. O’Leary laid a comforting hand on the earl’s arm, locking her steady gaze on Kendra. “Lady Westford has had several liaisons over the years once the line was secured, and Westford voiced no objections.”
“Until Lady Westford’s affair with Mr. Goldsten.”
“Well, of course!” Westford exploded. “He’s a Jew! Who would not be upset? Especially when I was being made sport of!”
Mrs. O’Leary patted his arm again, but kept her gaze on Kendra’s face. “Lord Crawford approached Westford about it one evening while he was at White’s,” she explained. “He taunted Westford in the most insulting way. Odious man! ’Tis little wonder Westford was distraught about the situation. He spoke unthinkingly.”
“Did you ever talk to your wife about her relationship with Mr. Goldsten?” Kendra asked.
“Of course!” Westford’s chest swelled in his indignation. “I told Grace that she needed to end it quickly. Not only for the Westford name, mind you, but also because she had a duty to the Queen as her lady-in-waiting. I can’t imagine Her Royal Highness being tolerant of the relationship either.”
Alec’s green eyes were cool as he regarded the earl. “I wouldn’t be too certain of that, Westford. Our Queen is an intelligent woman, and well aware that it was Nathan Mayer von Rothschild who funded Wellington’s campaign against the French. We ought to thank God that he was on our side, not Napoleon’s.”
Westford’s face reddened, but he waved his hand dismissively. “I think we would’ve won the war regardless, my lord.”
“Doubtful,” Alec countered drily. “Every war needs to be financed, its troops funded. Soldiers are always full of patriotism, love of God and country when wars begin, but without food in their bellies, fresh horses and ammunition, armies fall, campaigns fail.”
Westford scowled, his chin lifting at a mutinous angle, but he didn’t reply.
“When did you speak to your wife about Mr. Goldsten?” Kendra asked, refocusing the conversation.
“I can’t be expected to know the exact date, can I?” Westford grumbled.
“Before or after you spoke to Lord Crawford?”
“I spoke to her before—a word of caution. Then I spoke to her again after Lord Crawford brought home to me how much she was making a cake of herself.”
“You were angry. You argued.” Kendra paused. “How violent was your argument, sir?”
Westford’s nostrils flared. “I did not harm Grace! How many times must I tell you? For heaven’s sake, I did not throw her over the balcony in some shabby theater!”
Mrs. O’Leary said, “This is getting redundant, my lady. Westford is not responsible for his wife’s death.”
“Lady Westford had bruises on her that had nothing to do with her murder,” Kendra said. “It looks like someone grabbed her, maybe shook her.”
Westford turned a deeper red, shaking his head. “I swear, I did not lay a finger on her!”
Kendra noticed Mrs. O’Leary squeeze Westford’s arm. Trying to comfort him? Or a cautionary gesture?
Mrs. O’Leary smiled at Kendra. “Westford would not harm a fly. I can vouch that he was here all day on Sunday. The weather was nice enough for us to take the children to Regent Park to feed the ducks. This summer has been dreadfully cold.”
“How many children do you have, Mrs. O’Leary?” Alec inquired politely.
She smiled at him. “Six. Our eldest, Charles, is a barrister in the House of Commons. Blythe married last year, which makes her two sisters, Fanny and Sarah, frightfully jealous. They will soon be out of the schoolroom, finding beaus of their own. Thankfully, I have Robert and Cecil for a few more years, even though they are a bit of a handful.”
