Echoes in Time, page 6
“Which seat exactly?” Kendra asked.
“That one, third seat off the aisle. It was really quite dreadful.” Prudence’s cheerful tone was at odds with her words. “She was just lying there, her neck twisted at a peculiar angle. And the blood . . .”
Kendra tuned out the actress as she studied the crime scene. She observed the balconies, mentally calculating the distance. The lowest was about ten feet off the floor. A fall from there might result in a sprained ankle or a few broken bones, but the chance of survival was high. The second- and third-tier balconies were iffier, depending how one landed.
“We need to go to the top balcony,” she announced.
Prudence led the way down the aisle and through an arched door, to a wide, carpeted staircase.
“You mentioned someone named Edwina,” Kendra said as they mounted the steps. “She didn’t come in today?”
“I haven’t seen her since Saturday evening. Mr. Myott thinks she took off because she was probably the first one to find the body. I reckon she finally returned to her family, the poor dear.” Warming to the subject, Prudence explained, “She was burned something fierce in a fire at one of the theaters on Drury Lane. She’d come to London to be an actress, but afterwards . . . well, it ain’t like folks would want to see her onstage. She helped Old Beatrice, our seamstress, with the costumes. Quite clever with a needle, she is.”
Prudence flounced up the stairs. “It ain’t uncommon for folks to leave, of course. We’re a flighty lot.” She glanced over her shoulder, shooting Alec a flirtatious grin. “But, I confess, I was surprised Edwina didn’t tell Old Beatrice she was leaving. It was a shabby thing to do, as Old Beatrice treated her well. And Mr. Harvey. Mr. Myott acts as though he’s the one grievously injured, but it was Mr. Harvey who let her stay here at the theater. Felt sorry for her, I reckon. Still, probably gave her a fright if she found the body.”
“Edwina lives here at the theater?”
“Yes.”
“If she found the body, why wasn’t she the one who contacted the constables?”
Prudence lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Plenty of folks get nervous around the law.”
Kendra asked, “What’s Edwina’s last name?”
“Oh.” Prudence’s brow wrinkled. “I can’t say that I know. We just called her Edwina.”
Prudence paused on the third-floor landing to catch her breath, then continued up to the fourth level. When they reached the landing, she flung out a hand dramatically and announced, “Here you go!”
The entrance to each private box was framed by diaphanous gold silk curtains, which could be closed for the discretion of those inside. The space inside the boxes was small, with six Queen Anne chairs arranged in two rows facing the stage. Decorative sconces dotted each wall. A delicate side table was positioned next to the front row.
Kendra walked to the balustrade. Resting her hands on the rail, she estimated the height to be about three inches above her waist. Slowly, she leaned over the railing to peer down at the seats where Prudence had found Lady Westford’s broken body. On the stage, the noise and activity continued. No one was paying them any attention.
Alec joined her. “What a horrid way to die,” he murmured softly, his gaze on the seats below.
“Oh, I agree, sir. I can’t imagine killing myself in such a way,” Prudence piped up. “She must have been mad.”
Kendra regarded the actress curiously. “Why do you think she killed herself?”
“Well, because everyone knows it.” She shrugged. “She came here the day before she did it, you know. Right before our opening act. Lud, you should have heard Mr. Myott! He flew up into the boughs, told her that we had no time to answer her questions. You’d think Prinny himself was coming for the opening act.” She rolled her eyes. “We don’t even have a royal box.”
“Were you here when Lady Westford came?”
“Well, of course. I’m the one who spoke to her first.”
“What did she want?”
“To speak to Clarice.”
“Clarice. The actress who left?”
Prudence’s towering beehive bobbled as she gave an excited nod. “Yes. And when I told her that Clarice was gone, the lady looked like she was gonna cast up her accounts. Quite distressed, she was. Then she asked who Clarice was keeping company with, what she talked about.”
Kendra frowned. “Did she get her answers?”
“Not really.” The actress’s painted lips curved into a sly smile. “Before she left, Clarice was boasting about having made an arrangement that could be lucrative for her.”
“An arrangement . . . with Lady Westford’s husband?” Alec guessed.
“Makes sense, don’t it? The lady wouldn’t have come the next day to pop herself off otherwise.”
“You believe Lady Westford killed herself because her husband was having an affair with Clarice.” Kendra thought of Lord Westford. What woman would kill herself over him?
“Well, it’s obvious, ain’t it? Her ladyship realized that her husband had betrayed her, and in an act of pure desolation, she returned on Sunday to fling herself off the balcony in the very theater where her husband’s lover once trod the boards!” Prudence exclaimed, pressing her a hand against her bosom. “Lud! It’s a tragedy worthy of the Bard himself.”
“It’s worthy of something, all right,” Kendra muttered dryly.
“Your fifteen minutes are up!” Myott hollered from the stage below. “Prue, I want you down here now!”
Prudence darted over to railing, and bellowed, “Hang on!” In a softer voice, she added, “You bloody twit.” Turning back, she grinned at them. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“When you spoke to Lady Westford, how did she seem?” Kendra asked. “Angry? Upset?”
Prudence looked confused. “I told you. She was upset when she found out that Clarice had taken off and we didn’t know where she’d gone. Worried, I expect, that she couldn’t confront the creature.”
“Prue!” shouted the theater director.
“What exactly did she say when she asked you about Clarice? Her exact words? You’re an actress; you have an excellent memory.”
The compliment did the trick. Prudence beamed, then closed her eyes, frowning in concentration. “She asked to speak to Miss Clarice Chapman. Mr. Myott told her that Clarice had taken herself off like a thief in the night, and we didn’t have time to talk about the bloody tart because we still had a performance to put on. She then wanted to know what Clarice had been up to, who she’d been seen with—”
“Prue! Get. Down. Here. Now!” Mr. Myott yelled again.
“Zounds! I’d better go before Mr. Myott has a fit.” She pushed herself away from the balustrade, crossing the small space.
“If I need to talk to you again, how can I reach you?” Kendra asked before the actress left the private box.
Prudence paused. “I’m here from two ’til closing, every day except for Sunday. Might have to reconsider that, though,” she added with a boisterous laugh. “Most of the action appears to be happening on Sundays.”
***
While they’d been in the theater, a misty, purple-tinted twilight had fallen. The streetlamps now cast a demonic orange-red glow over the faces of the pedestrians and costermongers as they moved up and down the lane. The sweet, nutty scent of roasting chestnuts from a nearby street vendor made Kendra’s stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Her wedding breakfast. Jesus, had it only been that morning she and Alec had exchanged vows?
She pushed aside that thought. Focus. “Alec was right earlier, about the balustrade being designed to prevent accidents from happening. Lady Westford was a petite woman, several inches shorter than me, and the railing was above my waist. The only way she could have gotten over it was to climb over.”
“Maybe she did . . . in a moment of madness,” the Duke said softly. “Maybe she climbed over, held on to the railing, and let herself fall backward. That would explain the position of the body.”
“Why? Because she assumed her husband was having an affair with Clarice?” Kendra scoffed. As far as she was concerned, Lord Westford wouldn’t inspire a woman to shave her legs, much less become so hysterical that she’d throw herself to her death.
“It’s not unheard of.” The Duke’s gaze was troubled, as they returned to the carriage. “Lady Caroline Lamb slashed her wrists in the middle of a ball honoring the Duke of Wellington when Lord Byron spurned her.”
Kendra shook her head. “The trajectory is still wrong for what you’re suggesting, Your Grace. The seat she landed on wasn’t under the balcony, but closer to the aisle. She’d need strength and momentum to achieve that kind of distance.”
She noticed a boy standing next to Coachman Benjamin by the carriage.
“Lady Westford didn’t kill herself,” she added firmly. “Someone picked her up and threw her over the balcony.”
“Dear God,” the Duke said beneath his breath.
“At least we know the fiend is a man,” Alec said. “A woman wouldn’t have the strength to do it.”
The Duke raised his eyebrows at his nephew. “Was a woman ever a consideration?”
Kendra smiled. “Don’t ever underestimate women, Your Grace. But in this instance, I agree with Alec. We’re looking for a man.”
Coachman Benjamin stepped forward as they came up to the carriage. “Your Grace, this . . . person—"
“Oy! Ye’re the Duke?” The boy, about ten years old, darted forward. His too-thin face was streaked with dirt and soot. Staring up at the Duke, he swiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “If’n yer the nob, Oi gotta message fer ye.”
The Duke’s lips twitched. “I’m the nob. Let’s see the message.”
“Ain’t on paper. Got it in me head. Thief-taker told me that Oi’d find ye at Bowden’s and Oi’m ter tell ye . . .” His face scrunched in concentration. “The doc’s done with his examination. You can find ‘’im at the doc’s house.” The boy’s eyes shone with excitement. “The doc lives in the dead-house. Sawing and cutting up bodies for a livin’, he does.”
Kendra stifled a smile. Bloodthirsty kid. The Duke tossed the boy a coin, and then the urchin dashed away.
“The anatomy school isn’t far.” Alec eyed the traffic on the street. “We’ll make faster time on foot.”
As they started down the pavement, Kendra said, “I think we have an eyewitness to Lady Westford’s murder.”
“Edwina,” Alec filled in.
Kendra nodded. “She lives at the theater, so, yes, I think that’s likely. I also think it’s likely that Lady Westford went to the theater on Sunday morning to meet Edwina. No one has heard from her since Saturday night.” Uneasiness knotted her stomach as she looked at Alec and the Duke. “Lady Westford might not be our only murder victim.”
Chapter 9
Dr. Munroe’s anatomy school was an unassuming, three-story brick building in a shadowy pocket of Covent Garden. Deliberately unassuming, Kendra knew. Despite the messenger boy’s ghoulish excitement, medical examiners in this time faced condemnation and superstition from the public.
The door was unlocked, so they let themselves into the darkly-paneled foyer. Oil lamps had been lit, guiding them down the hallway to Dr. Munroe’s office. There, the door was open, light spilling into the hallway, and Kendra heard the murmur of masculine voices as they approached.
Munroe was sitting behind his desk, facing Sam, who was lounging in one of the wingback chairs. They held glasses of whisky.
Both men stood as they entered. “Your Grace, my lord and lady, you received my message,” Munroe said, moving to the sideboard, which held several decanters. “Would you like a whisky? A sherry?”
The latter was meant for Kendra, as sherry was considered a ladylike beverage. Munroe may have accepted her presence in the autopsy room, Kendra reflected wryly, but he couldn’t overcome his preconceived notions of what was a proper drink for women.
She didn’t argue, though, accepting the glass and taking a sip of the fortified wine. Her gaze roamed the cluttered room. Shelves and tables were packed with a mishmash of scientific equipment and jars filled with cloudy liquid and weird bobbing shapes. A full-sized skeleton was wired together on a T-stand.
“What did you find out from your examination, doctor?” she asked, looking to Munroe.
He didn’t answer immediately. “As you are aware, my examination was limited to a visual and tactile observation,” he said slowly. “Without a proper autopsy, I cannot determine the exact nature of Lady Westford’s injuries.”
Sam gave a snort. “Seems obvious enough. You take a tumble from that height, you die.”
“Not necessarily,” Kendra said. “We’re talking roughly forty-eight feet. Statistically, you have a fifty percent chance of survival. From that height, it’s less about the fall, and more about how you land, what you land on, and what you’re wearing. If Lady Westford had jumped, she would’ve been seriously injured, but she had a good chance of surviving.”
“But she didn’t jump,” Alec murmured, his eyes on the amber liquid that he swirled in his glass. “She was thrown over.”
Munroe nodded. “Yes, that’s my conclusion. She struck her head against the back of a theater seat, along the occipital bone, fracturing her skull and causing the lacerations that you observed earlier, Lady Sutcliffe. The impact caused a severe cervical laceration—basically, she broke her neck. I cannot say if she died instantly, but the head trauma most likely caused her to lose consciousness, and she would have expired shortly after impact.”
He hesitated, then added, “Naturally, she had considerable bruising, but there were contusions on her upper arms that I believe were at least a week old.”
Kendra recalled Lord Westford’s angry face as he strode toward her earlier. “Abuse?”
“I have no way of knowing that.” Munroe pursed his lips and said carefully, “But the injuries are consistent with someone grabbing her upper arms hard, possibly shaking her.”
“They were not sustained when the monster threw her off the balcony?” the Duke asked.
“There was bruising along her waist that was most likely caused when the fiend grabbed her and threw her over.” Munroe took a sip of whisky. “She didn’t struggle before she was thrown over.”
The Duke lifted his eyebrows. “How can you be certain of that?”
“Lady Westford had no damage to her person, except for the injuries I just mentioned. No torn fingernails to indicate that she tried to claw her attacker, or self-defense wounds on her hands. I had her abigail bring me the clothes that she’d been wearing when she died, as well as everything that was found on her person. There was very little ruin, except for a tearing along the ruffle at the hem of her skirt. The cloak she’d been wearing was velvet, so made of sturdier material, and not as easily damaged, but it was scuffed along the hem as well. Hardly surprising for an outdoor garment, I suppose. The gown was made of a lighter muslin. If there’d been a prolonged struggle, the seams would have split open. Her shoes, stockings, and reticule had no dirt, smudges, or tears.”
Again, Kendra was impressed with Dr. Munroe’s thoroughness. It was why she wanted him on her team.
“The hem of her skirt could have been torn if she ran up the stairs to the balcony,” she said. Regency gowns were not meant to be worn in marathons. She’d ruined a few dresses by doing just that—either trying to escape a killer or catch a killer.
“Or it was torn before she arrived at the theater,” Alec countered.
“Not if she came directly from her home. Her maid would have noticed and wouldn’t have let her leave the house with a torn skirt.” Kendra could say that with considerable confidence, given that her own maid, Molly, was a stickler about such things.
Sam scratched the side of his nose as he regarded her. “Don’t make much sense why she’d run up the stairs, lass. If a monster was after her, she’d do better ter flee outside the theater where she could get help.”
“Unless she had no choice but to go up the stairs.” Kendra took a long sip of her sherry as she imagined the scenario. “Her killer could have threatened her with a knife or gun to get her to go up to the balcony. Or he simply intimidated her with his size. Lady Westford was very petite. I don’t think it would have taken much for her to feel threatened.”
The Duke pressed his lips together. “What you’re saying is the fiend deliberately stalked her like he would an animal, chasing her to the balcony because he intended to throw her to her death.”
“And she reacted like an animal would, her only thought to get away from the danger,” Kendra said quietly. “Fear has a way of making a person irrational. Once he got her to the stairs, she had no choice but to go up.”
Alec frowned. “Yes, but she would have fought—like any trapped animal. There would’ve been defensive wounds.”
Kendra shook her head. “Not necessarily. Some animals—and people—freeze in fear. Her assailant could have rushed her, grabbed her, and tossed her over the balcony before she had time to react. Lady Westford had to have been facing her killer. He saw her face—her terror—when he picked her up, when he threw her over . . . when she plunged to her death.”
“God’s teeth,” Sam breathed. “The man is a monster.”
Kendra could tell by the otherwise stunned silence that her words had painted the horror of Lady Westford’s final moments. It took a moment, then Sam cleared his throat, the sound piercing the tension that wound around them.
“Why?” he asked. “If he was planning ter stop her claret, why chase her up the stairs? Seems like a lot of bother ter kill someone.”
“I don’t know,” Kendra admitted.
The Bow Street Runner continued, “And why was she even at the theater? It was closed on Sunday.”
“That I can tell you. We found out that Lady Westford was at the theater on Saturday, asking about one of their actresses, Clarice. Apparently, she’s disappeared. I think Lady Westford arranged to meet with a girl named Edwina who works and lives at the theater. Unfortunately, Edwina is now missing.”
