Echoes in Time, page 19
“Did your wife ever mention a woman named Clarice? Clarice Chapman?” Kendra asked Westford.
He appeared confused by the abrupt change in topic. “No. Who is she?”
Kendra shifted her gaze to Mrs. O’Leary. “Do you know Clarice Chapman?”
“No. Who is that?”
Kendra fished the poster out of her reticule. “She was an actress at the Bowden Theater. Do you recognize her?”
“Westford and I enjoy the theater and have been to the Bowden Theater a time or two.” She frowned as she studied the illustration. “I don’t recognize her, but that isn’t entirely unusual with the greasepaint one wears on stage.”
“You don’t keep in touch with anyone from the theater?”
“Oh, good heavens, no! It’s been decades since I was part of a troupe. After I met Westford”—she beamed at the earl—“I never considered continuing on stage. My fellow thespians move around so often, ’tis difficult to keep up a correspondence.”
Kendra replaced the paper in her reticule. “Lord Westford, did your wife ever say the phrase, ‘Exitus acta probat’ to you in conversation?”
“No.” Now his frown was more puzzled than angry. “It’s Latin, isn’t it? I was never good at foreign languages. Waste of time, as far as I’m concerned. The King’s English is good enough for me. What does it mean?”
“’The outcome justifies the deed,’ or ‘the end justifies the means.’ Maybe she said it to you in English.”
“No. Why would she?”
“Did she talk to you about St. George’s Hospital?”
His brow cleared, seemingly relieved to be able to answer in the affirmative. “Yes! She was concerned about its state of disrepair. My wife enjoyed playing Lady Bountiful. She was drumming up interest with likeminded ladies to raise funds to build a new hospital.”
“Did she ever speak about the physicians or surgeons that worked there?”
Lord Westford’s jaw tightened. “I am aware of Grace’s fascination with medicine and natural philosophy. Even when we were children, she expressed curiosity in such matters. We did not share the interest, so we never discussed it. Her sister died from typhus. I believe that’s where her obsession came from.”
“Obsession is a strong word, my lord.”
“She was always reading books and journals on the subject, and going to St. George’s and lectures at the Royal Society. What would you call it?”
Before Kendra could reply, the door suddenly flew open and two young boys, about nine or ten, sprinted into the room.
“Papa! Papa!” they shouted, diving toward their father.
“Cecil kicked me, Papa—”
“I did not! You kicked me first!”
The younger boy scowled at his brother. It made his small, chubby face look oddly like his father’s. In another forty years, Kendra thought, he’ll be a replica of Lord Westford.
“Children, children!” Mrs. O’Leary clapped her hands to gain their attention, then shot an apologetic look at Kendra and Alec. “We have guests. Bow to Lord and Lady Sutcliffe.”
The boys immediately fell into quick, sloppy bows.
“Ma’am, I do apologize!” exclaimed the harried young woman who materialized in the doorway. “They got away from me.”
Mrs. O’Leary rose, herding her boys to the door. “Don’t fret, Lauren. Come on, bratlings. You’re going back to the nursery.” She paused to glance back at Kendra. “We’ve told you everything. Westford was with me on Sunday. I will swear that under oath if I have to.”
Kendra nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Leary. I have one more question for his lordship.”
“Go on, Heather,” Westford said, shoving himself to his feet, a signal that the interview was at end. “This won’t take long.”
Kendra and Alec stood, as well. Mrs. O’Leary and Lord Westford exchanged a look, and she reached out to capture his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Westford’s face softened.
The look disappeared as soon as he turned to face them. “Well? What else do you want to know?”
“I want to know why you ordered Dr. Thornton to declare your wife’s death an accident?”
“What?”
“You interfered with an investigation, my lord. I want to know why.”
Kendra expected him to give the typical speech: how families were tarnished if it became known that their loved ones had committed suicide, how anyone who committed self-murder could not be buried on church grounds, and their souls were damned for eternity. She certainly expected him to justify pressuring Thornton to shut down any investigation.
But she was wrong.
Westford stared at her, mystified. “What the devil are you talking about? I told Dr. Thornton no such thing! He was the one who informed me that Grace had killed herself. To save our family from disgrace, he offered to declare the death an accident and even said that he could shut down the inquest. He never once mentioned the possibility that she could’ve been murdered. Never once.”
Chapter 25
Alec used the brass knocker when they arrived at Dr. Thornton’s townhome. After two rounds of polite knocking, Kendra used her fist to not-so-politely bang on the door.
“Damn it, where is he?” she muttered, tapping her foot impatiently.
“He could be making house calls,” Alec suggested.
“Where’s Jenny?”
“The market? Or her day off? Or she peered out of the window, saw your face and is now hiding under the bed rather than risk your wrath. You are a fearsome creature, my love.”
“Ha-ha. Very funny.”
Kendra took a step back to scan the house’s windows. Around them, the neighborhood hummed with quiet activity, but there was only stillness from Thornton’s townhouse. A sense of disquiet crept down Kendra’s spine.
“Let’s try the servant entrance,” she said, moving off the stoop and down the path.
Alec gave her a sidelong glance. “You think that Thornton has fled, don’t you?”
“No. Or if he has, it’s only temporary,” she said.
They walked the length of the townhouses, eventually turning to find themselves in the narrow alley behind the houses.
“He kept the drawing room exactly how his late wife decorated it,” Kendra went on. “Her portrait is in there, and in his study, like a shrine. He’s not going to abandon the home that he built with her.”
Counting the houses, Kendra located the servant’s entrance to Thornton’s townhouse. There was no brass knocker here, so Kendra used her fist again to thump against the panel.
A door in the adjacent house opened, and a middle-aged woman, bundled in a coat and bonnet and carrying a canvas bag, stepped onto the stoop. She paused when she spotted them.
“Are ye needing Dr. Thornton?” She cocked her head as she surveyed them, clearly pegging them as upper class from their clothing. “What are ye about, using the servant’s entrance?”
“We tried the front door, but no one answered,” Kendra replied. “We thought Dr. Thornton’s cook or maid might be in the kitchens.”
“He ain’t got a cook. He’s got a maid-of-all-work. Jenny. I haven’t seen her today.”
Kendra asked, “How about Dr. Thornton? Have you seen him?”
“Nay. It’s been quiet.”
“Is it normally quiet?”
The woman shrugged. “Quiet enough, I reckon. His patients are respectable folks. Not like they’re gonna make a ruckus. Sometimes he has his fellow physicians for dinner. Some kind of group, it is.”
Kendra thanked the woman for her time and received an uncertain nod in reply. When she reached the mouth of the alley, the housekeeper cast them another glance over her shoulder. Kendra waited for her to disappear from view, then reached out to test the knob. Locked.
She considered her options, then removed her bonnet and extracted two long pins from her hair. Pushing the tumbling curls away from her face, she knelt down.
Alec sucked in a breath. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”
She shot him a quick grin as she inserted the pins into the lock. “I can’t pull anything over on you.”
“Do you really think—”
“Sh-sh. I need to concentrate.”
It took her almost two minutes. “Damn. I’m getting rusty,” she muttered, straightening.
“At what? Being a housebreaker?”
“These skills have saved my life, you know,” she reminded him, and saw his eyes darken as he recalled the horrific time. She deliberately lightened her tone as she pushed open the door and added, “Consider this a welfare check.”
“And what, pray tell, is a welfare check?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. If there’s a concern, police can check on someone’s welfare, to make sure they’re okay.”
“We’re not police.”
Kendra didn’t reply as they stepped inside. She looked down the long hallway that ran the length of the townhouse. The fan window above the door let in the soft light of the day. The candles in the wall sconces and candelabra on the walnut cabinet were gutted. The house was eerily silent, as though the building was holding its breath. Kendra’s sense of disquiet intensified. She reached into her reticule to retrieve her muff pistol.
Alec said nothing, but brought out a gun of his own from the pocket of his greatcoat. Catching her astonished look, he grinned.
“Married to you, I thought I ought to come prepared.”
Sounds drifted in from outside: the clatter of wagon wheels; the clip-clop of horse hooves; the jingle of reins; the sporadic tweeting of birds; the occasional gust of wind.
But inside the house . . . nothing.
Nerves tightening, Kendra moved quickly to the stairs. Alec was on her heels as they climbed the steps. Reaching the landing, she stopped so abruptly that Alec bumped into her.
“What—?” he began, but she was already dashing down the hall.
The door to Thornton’s study was open. Jenny’s body lay across the threshold, face down in a pool of dried blood.
“Bloody hell,” Alec cursed as he came to a halt next to Kendra, his gaze locked on the young maid.
Kendra moved into the room, careful not to disturb the blood or the body. A silver tea tray was overturned about a yard away from the maid. A porcelain teapot lay on its side, cracked. Tea had soaked into the area rug. Two cups and saucers, plus bowls for sugar and milk, were part of the debris, scattered around the tray. Milk and tea mixed with blood. There was blood spattered on the wall.
Kendra’s eyes fell on the other body in the room, sprawled in front of the fireplace. Dr. Thornton was lying face up, his eyes open and filmy. His mouth was slightly agape, giving him a surprised look. His cravat, shirt, and vest were black with his blood.
Alec lifted his gaze from Thornton to Kendra’s eyes. “My God . . . why?”
“Because he was the weak link,” she said softly. “Thornton may have told Lord Westford that his wife killed herself, but it wasn’t his idea. Someone told him to do it.”
A wave a guilt washed over her. “I knew he was involved; I could tell when I talked to him yesterday. He was sweating, nervous. If I’d pushed him more, he would’ve given me the person who told him to shut down the investigation into Lady Westford’s death. I should’ve pushed him.”
“Stop it,” Alec said firmly. “This is not your fault, Kendra. You couldn’t have known this would happen.”
“I should have known it was a possibility.”
“Kendra—”
“Okay.” She held up a hand. “Give me a minute, okay?”
She drew in a deep, shaky breath, counted to three, and let it out slowly. This wasn’t the time for self-recriminations. That could come later. Now was the time to focus.
“All right,” she finally said. Shoving her pistol back into her reticule, she squatted down to study Thornton. Using one finger, she carefully pushed down the cravat. The material was stiff with dried blood, but she managed to expose a deep slash across Thornton’s throat.
“His vocal chords have been cut,” she said, and met Alec’s eyes. “Expedient or symbolic? Someone made damn sure Thornton would never talk.”
***
“God’s teeth,” said Sam Kelly, his gold eyes hard as he stared down at the carnage in Dr. Thornton’s study. “What madness is this?”
Kendra shook her head. “It’s not madness. The killer is covering his—” Ass, she nearly said, but caught herself. “He’s eliminating threats.”
“Dr. Thornton was a threat?”
Again, she had to take a moment to battle back the guilt. “I came here yesterday to talk to him. I knew he was hiding something, and I thought it was that he’d let Lord Westford pressure him into having Lady Westford’s death declared an accident. But we spoke with Lord Westford today. He said that Dr. Thornton was the one who told him that his wife’s death was a suicide and offered to cover it up.”
The Bow Street Runner let out a low whistle. “So, Dr. Thornton was deliberately shielding the murderer. And the villain paid him back by killing him.” His gaze moved to Jenny. “And his servant. Why now?”
Bile rose in Kendra’s throat. “I pushed him hard. He must have contacted the killer. Either he was seeking reassurance or he wanted to warn him. Maybe both.”
Sam shook his head. “Can’t blame yourself, lass. He made a choice. He might not have killed Lady Westford, but he made damn sure ter cover for the monster. He would’ve gotten away with it, too, if the Queen hadn’t asked you ter inquire into the matter.”
“Jenny didn’t make a choice,” she said softly.
Sam said nothing.
Kendra forced herself to concentrate on the crime scene. “The postmortem will give us the full story on what happened,” she said, careful to keep her tone brusque. “Based on my visual examination, the only injury that Thornton appears to have sustained is the slash across the throat. It looks deep, from ear to ear. I believe he was facing his killer when his throat was cut.” She surveyed the blood spatter on the wall and fireplace. The arterial spurt pattern showed the last beats of Thornton’s heart.
She brought her eyes back to the dead man. “He doesn’t have any defensive wounds, but his palms are bloody. He brought his hands up to his throat to staunch the flow of blood.”
“The poor bastard must’ve known he was dying,” Sam said.
“Oh, yeah. He had a minute, maybe two.”
“That’s an eternity for someone feeling their life’s blood seeping away,” Alec said grimly.
“It could’ve been quicker if an air bubble entered the jugular vein, causing an embolism,” Kendra said. “Same with Jenny. Her throat was slashed too.”
Everyone’s eyes tracked across the room, to where the maid lay sprawled.
“Thornton invited his killer into his inner sanctum,” Kendra said slowly. “He asked Jenny to bring tea . . . or, more likely, the killer asked for it.”
Alec frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“The murders happened sometime last night. The candles in the hallway are burnt down,” Kendra added, anticipating the question she saw in Sam’s eyes. “The killer didn’t think to put them out before he left. Why bother? And since it was evening, Dr. Thornton would be more likely to offer his guest something stronger than tea.” She flicked a hand at the decanters on the side table. “Jenny was a witness. As soon as she opened the front door . . .” She was as good as dead. “The killer knew she had to be eliminated. That’s why he turned down an offer of brandy or whisky in favor of tea. He needed Jenny to go down to the kitchen to make it.”
“Giving him time ter slit the doctor’s gullet.” Sam pressed his lips together in a tight, grim line. “Cold-blooded bastard. Beggin’ your pardon, lass.”
“He is a cold-blooded bastard. He stood facing Thornton—a man he called a friend, I think—and he slit his throat in a quick, violent attack. Then he waited . . .” Waited while Thornton’s blood pooled and cooled around him. “When Jenny returned, she saw what happened and threw down the tray. She tried to run.”
Alec said, “She didn’t have a chance.”
“No.” Sadness rose inside Kendra as she contemplated the young woman. Girl, really. What was she, seventeen? Eighteen? Murder was wrong on any level, but Thornton wasn’t completely innocent. He’d waded nose-deep into danger. Jenny, on the other hand, was innocent.
“Her wound is consistent with the killer coming at her from behind,” Kendra said. “He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back to expose her throat before slashing it.”
There was a brief silence, weighed down in horror as they imagined the scene. Kendra was aware of the noises outside the window, the earth continuing to spin.
She cleared her throat. “There’s no way the unsub wouldn’t have gotten blood on him. He probably removed his outerwear at the front door and handed it to Jenny. Before he left, he would have put his coat on, covering the blood. Maybe he walked home or got a hackney. If he has a carriage, he wouldn’t have used it. His coachman would be one more witness.”
“I’ll have me lads inquire around the neighborhood,” Sam said. “Maybe someone had their peepers out and saw him arrive or leave. He ain’t a ghost.”
“We spoke to the housekeeper next door. She was the one who told us that she hadn’t seen Jenny or Dr. Thornton at all today.”
Sam frowned. “If she thought something was wrong, why didn’t she find a watchman or constable, raise hue and cry?”
“It was more subliminal than that,” Kendra said. “It struck her as odd, but I don’t think she really had any idea what had happened.”
Alec looked at Kendra. “Who will do the postmortem?
The question was a good one. Munroe was a friend of Thornton’s. If this were the twenty-first century, another ME would be called in. The problem, at least from her perspective, was that she didn’t trust anyone else.
Especially now, when she was starting to suspect that the person responsible was in the medical community: one of Thornton and Munroe’s colleague’s.
