Echoes in Time, page 4
“Thank you, no,” the Duke said quickly. “We don’t want to put you out any more than is necessary. We’ve come about Lady Westford.”
“Yes, Ethan said as much in his message.” Thornton licked his lips, his gaze darting between them. “I don’t understand what you want with me. Were you acquainted with her, Your Grace?”
“A little. But I prefer country life over the city, so I didn’t know her as well as I would have liked. Now, it’s too late.”
Kendra added, “You did the postmortem.”
Something flickered in Dr. Thornton’s eyes before they went carefully blank. “Yes.”
Kendra kept her gaze on his. “You ruled the death an accident. I am going to ask you a question, and I would like you to think carefully before you answer: Was your ruling truthful?”
She saw the shock whip over his face as his eyes widened. “What are you suggesting? That . . . that I would lie about it? Why would I do such a thing?”
“Because you were being considerate of the family,” Munroe said carefully. “If Lord Westford feared that his wife may have killed herself, he may have asked you to issue a different verdict.”
“You must admit that it is very strange for her ladyship to have had such a mishap in an empty theater,” the Duke added gently.
Thornton pursed his lips and dropped his gaze to the cluttered table. For a moment, no one spoke. Kendra was aware of the street noises, the crackle of fire in the hearth, the tick-tick-tick of the pendulum as it swung side-to-side in the large grandfather clock in the corner of the room. She was beginning to wonder if he would ever speak when he let out a heavy sigh and raised his eyes to meet the Duke’s steady regard.
“I cannot speak to the lady’s state of mind, Your Grace. But I know she visited that very theater the day before her mishap.”
“She was at Bowden Theater on Saturday?” Kendra’s tone was sharp enough to bring Thornton’s eyes back to her. “How do you know?”
“Mr. Parker mentioned it. He said . . . ah, that witnesses described Lady Westford as being distressed.”
“Distressed about what?”
“That I do not know. Mr. Parker didn’t say.”
“You haven’t answered the question. Do you believe that Lady Westford’s death was an accident?” Alec asked.
The doctor averted his gaze. “’Tis my official assessment.”
Another answer/nonanswer, Kendra mused. “When is the inquest?”
“There is no inquest, as it was not a suspicious death.”
Kendra stared at him. “Not a suspicious death, Doctor? The woman went into an empty theater, climbed to the top balcony, and fell to her death. If that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is.”
Thornton stiffened. “Given her ladyship’s status, it was determined that it would be best for the incident to be resolved quickly.”
“Who made that determination, Lucien?” Munroe demanded.
“Lord Westford’s sensibilities—”
“Should never have been considered,” Munroe snapped. “We take an oath to pursue the truth, Lucien. ’Tis what the Metamorphosis Club is about.”
Thornton’s jaw tightened. “I know what the club is about. I was one of its founders!” He drew in an uneven breath, and then raised a hand. “Forgive me, Ethan, but you tend to the dead. You have forgotten what it’s like dealing with the living. The sensitivities that must be considered.”
Munroe opened his mouth to respond, but closed it abruptly when Jenny materialized in the doorway.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.” She flushed when everyone looked at her. “A message came for milady. Mr. Kelly’ll meet ye at Lord Westford’s residence. He said ter tell you: Her ladyship is at home.”
Chapter 6
“I don’t know what to think,” Munroe admitted as the carriage barreled down the road. “I’m afraid Lucien must have acquiesced to Lord Westford’s sensibilities and declared the death an accident, regardless of the truth. It’s unacceptable.”
Kendra met his troubled gaze. “Whatever he did—or didn’t do—has nothing to do with you, Dr. Munroe. If mistakes were made, we’ll put it right. It’s interesting that Lady Westford was at the theater the day before she died there.” And that bit of information meant they had to visit the theater sooner rather than later.
Now, though, her gaze was drawn to Westford’s Georgian red-brick mansion in the exclusive St. James Square. Sam Kelly was waiting on the stoop with another man, both of whom walked down the pebbled path to wait for them to climb out of the carriage. When they had, Sam introduced his companion as Mr. Parker of Bow Street.
Kendra studied the other Bow Street Runner. Mid-thirties, and opposite Sam in every way: tall and lean, with honey-blond hair cropped in the fashionable Brutus style. His clothes were tailored and pressed, his cravat flawlessly tied, his Hessian boots polished—and dust-free. Unlike Sam, whose Sunday-best clothes were now wrinkled and grimy, his boots caked in mud, after his two-hour horseback ride to London. She recalled Muldoon’s words that Parker was more politician than policeman. One look at him, and she decided the reporter was right.
Mr. Parker bowed. His blue eyes twinkled as they traveled over Alec and Kendra before settling on the Duke. Like most politicians, Kendra reflected, he had an uncanny knack for zeroing in on the most prestigious person in the group.
“Mr. Kelly has explained that you have concerns over Lady Westford’s death,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “I can assure you, as far as Bow Street is concerned, it was an accident. The case is closed. You needn’t have any fears on that score.”
He didn’t wink, but Kendra felt he might as well have. He was practically admitting there was a cover-up, and was damn proud of it.
“Excuse me, I need to see the body,” Kendra said abruptly, brushing past him as she strode to the door. The customary funerary hatchment was hung above the knocker, and the curtains were drawn tight across the windows to indicate a death in the family.
Alec joined her, reaching past her to knock on the door.
“I say!” Parker exclaimed, flabbergasted, as he hurried to catch up. “I’ve just explained that her ladyship’s death was an accident. There’s no need to disturb his lordship.”
Kendra shot him a frosty glance. “I heard you. Is it the truth?”
Parker’s lips parted in surprise. “The truth . . .” He cast a quick glance around him, as if seeking support from the men against this madwoman. When none came, he pivoted back to Kendra, blue eyes narrowing. “The truth is something that Lord Westford may not want known, if you take my meaning, ma’am.”
“I take your meaning, Mr. Parker,” she said, and summoned a pleasant smile. “And I don’t care what Lord Westford wants.”
She caught Sam’s quick grin and heard Parker’s swift intake of breath as she turned and, bypassing the knocker, banged on the door.
“Can you not stop her?” Parker implored Alec and the Duke.
Alec just smiled, as the Duke remarked, “I’m afraid Lady Sutcliffe is not a stoppable sort of female.”
Parker didn’t seem to know what to make of that statement. “The family shouldn’t be disturbed,” he muttered. “They’re in mourning.”
The butler who opened the door a moment later reflected that sentiment. He was wearing black armbands and viewed Kendra and Alec with a lofty expression. “The family has suffered a bereavement and is not at home to anyone,” he intoned, and began shutting the door. Kendra wedged her foot across the threshold to prevent it from closing, and wasn’t surprised when the butler’s eyes bulged in astonishment.
She said, “I’m here for Lady Westford.”
“You can’t— It isn’t— Lady Westford is—” the butler stuttered. He blew out an aggravated breath. “She is the reason the family is in mourning.”
“We are aware of her ladyship’s death,” the Duke said, stepping forward. “I am the Duke of Aldridge, and this is my nephew, Lord Sutcliffe, his wife, Lady Sutcliffe, Dr. Munroe, and Mr. Kelly from Bow Street. I assume you are familiar with Mr. Parker.”
Kendra had to suppress a smile. Now the Duke was using his “duke voice.” It always got results, and today was no different. The butler was already standing rigidly, but his shoulders went back another half an inch and his chest puffed out. He schooled his features into the impassivity expected of a high-class butler. If he was confused by the Duke of Aldridge’s desire to see a dead woman, he would never show it.
“Your Grace, madam, sirs.” The butler swung open the door, allowing them into a spacious, black-and-white-marble-tiled entrance hall. The paneled walls were decorated with gilt-framed oil paintings and mirrors draped in yards of black crepe. An ornate staircase dominated one wall. At the top landing, a maid was sweeping. She paused briefly to peer down at the intruders, then hastily resumed her duties.
“Lady Westford is in the drawing room,” the butler said. “Please, follow me.”
They crossed the foyer to a pair of double doors beyond the staircase. Kendra eyed the black mourning hatchment positioned above the doorway like a vulture. God, it was depressing.
The butler wrapped his hands around the twin doorknobs and opened both doors with a swoosh. He stepped aside, letting them file past.
The drawing room’s curtains were closed. The only light came from an oil lamp on a shelf, its meager glow barely reaching the open coffin positioned on a nearby table, and shadows pooled around the furniture. Even though Kendra knew it was customary to keep the dead at home until burial in this era, it was still weird to see the coffin in the drawing room. Flowers exploded out of vases positioned around the room. A nice touch, though Kendra had a feeling the blooms hadn’t been sent by loved ones. More likely, servants had placed the floral arrangements around the coffin to combat the sickly scent of death that currently permeated the drawing room.
“I shall inform his lordship that you are paying your respects,” the butler murmured, retreating.
Kendra glanced around. “Can we get more light?”
Alec walked to the fireplace. There was no fire in the hearth and the room was chilly. Kendra wondered if this was another way to keep the fumes from the decomposing body in check. Alec found tapers, lit one from the oil lamp, and then walked around the room lighting candles and more lamps.
She raised her eyebrows at him. “We can’t just open the drapes?”
Alec shrugged. “It would be disrespectful.”
It was one of those rules that made no sense. How was daylight disrespectful? Still, she wasn’t going to argue. Instead, she moved over to the open coffin, studying the figure inside.
Lady Westford was tiny. Almost doll-like. Maybe a whisper over five feet, with dainty, birdlike bones. Someone had dressed her in a gauzy black dress with a black ruff encircling her throat. A few silvery strands in her thick, chestnut hair indicated her advanced years. Her heart-shaped face was relatively unlined, with delicate features that had been dusted with rice powder. Probably an attempt to conceal the greenish discoloration of decaying flesh.
All and all, Lady Westford looked perfectly normal.
And that was completely wrong.
Kendra had seen victims of suicide who’d plunged to their deaths. They did not look perfect or normal.
Leaning forward, Kendra tried not to grimace when she speared her fingers through the woman’s thick hair. In the twenty-first century, it was standard procedure to don latex gloves when touching the dead. She was a bit of a germaphobe without the protective cover.
Not that it stopped her.
“Good God!” Behind her, Parker sucked in a shocked breath. “What the devil is she doing?”
Kendra ignored him. “I can feel deep lacerations of the occipital bone,” she said, glancing at Munroe. He was studying the dead woman with an intensity that made her think that he shared her suspicion. “The back of her skull appears to be concave. We need to roll her over, doctor.”
He jerked his gaze away from Lady Westford’s face and helped Kendra flip the body.
“You can’t do this!” Parker exclaimed. “Your Grace, she can’t do this! ’Tis unseemly!”
“Her ladyship has her reasons,” the Duke replied with remarkable calm, then focused on Kendra. “You do have your reasons?”
“I do.” She began to unbutton the jet-black fasteners, peeling open the gown.
“God’s teeth,” Sam breathed as they crowded around the coffin.
“What . . . what is this?” Parker spluttered.
“Mostly livor mortis.” Kendra let her gaze travel over the black-and-blue bruising that covered the dead woman’s shoulders, spine, and buttocks. The other injuries, however, were not. Using her fingertips, she explored the nape of Lady Westford’s neck, traveling down her spine and ribcage. The woman’s bones were broken and shattered. She brought her fingers back to probe her skull. The trauma was concealed mostly by Lady Westford’s hair, but it was impossible to ignore the misshapen shape of the occipital bone.
“What does that mean?” demanded Parker.
Kendra looked up at the Bow Street Runner. “It means, Mr. Parker, that Lady Westford didn’t kill herself. She was murdered.”
Chapter 7
Mr. Parker stared at her in speechless consternation. He began to shake his head, but before he could refute her proclamation, an angry shout drew everyone’s attention to the door, where a man stormed into the drawing room.
“What in God’s name are you doing to my wife?!”
Lord Westford was a large man, both in height and in width, with a sizeable paunch that strained the gold buttons of his green-and-brown-striped waistcoat. His fleshy features, framed by a lion’s mane of white hair, were ruddy and quivering with his outrage.
Alec stepped in the path of the irate nobleman, forcing him to stop. “I’d advise you to calm down, my lord.”
“Calm down? Calm down?” The earl pointed a thick finger at Kendra. “This female is mauling my wife!” He glanced into the coffin, and his eyes bulged. “My God,” he sputtered. “You’ve undressed her? How dare you!”
Kendra met the man’s incensed gaze. In truth, she couldn’t blame him. If opening the drapes was considered disrespectful in this timeline, she only could imagine what it must look like for her to poke and prod at his deceased wife.
“I apologize, my lord,” she said, taking her hands off the victim. “But this was necessary—”
“You are an abomination to your sex, madam!”
“Careful,” Alec warned, his accent cold and clipped.
Lord Westford turned his blistering gaze on Alec. “I am aware that you married this . . . this American upstart.” His lip curled. “Your wits must have fled. She is—”
“My ward,” the Duke interjected. “And she is now my niece. You are understandably distressed, Westford.” He softened his voice. “However, I must advise you not to say anything you may regret.”
Lord Westford’s chest swelled and his face turned an alarming puce. Most people were intimidated by the Duke of Aldridge, whose lineage could be traced back to William the Conqueror. Add to that, the Duke’s incredible wealth. Those two factors normally earned deference. Kendra deduced that Lord Westford had an equally powerful pedigree and fortune—despite an earl being ranked below a duke—or he was simply too enraged to hold his tongue.
“I demand that you leave! I did not invite you here, Your Grace—”
“No, Her Majesty did,” the Duke returned, never taking his eyes off Westford.
“W-what?” His jaw sagged.
“Queen Charlotte feared that the investigation into your wife’s death was too hasty, and asked Lady Sutcliffe to review the matter.”
Kendra had never seen a man’s face change color so fast, going from deep crimson to ash gray. The power of royalty.
Westford shook his head. “My wife fell—”
“Your wife didn’t kill herself,” Kendra cut in, hoping that would alleviate Lord Westford’s greatest fear, and he wouldn’t cause difficulties in the investigation. Unless he was the one who caused his wife to fall.
“Lady Westford’s neck is broken, the back of her skull crushed.” She paused, searching his face to see if he understood the implication—or showed a flicker of guilt. But Westford’s face remained carefully guarded, no longer even revealing his earlier anger. “Most of the discoloration that you see was caused by lividity—livor mortis. That means when the heart stops pumping, blood pools at the lowest points of the body.”
He scowled. “I don’t know what that has to do with my wife’s mental state.”
Kendra eyed him curiously. “You bring up a good point, my lord. What was her mental state? Was she depressed, or upset about anything in particular?”
“This line of inquiry is ridiculous!” In an instant, Westford reverted to his outrage. “Dr. Thornton declared Grace’s death an accident, and I see no reason to contradict him.”
“The physical evidence contradicts him,” Kendra said. “Lady Westford’s injuries are consistent with someone who fell backward. That’s not the norm. People leap. They jump. They may even dive. But they don’t do it backward. And they sure as hell don’t twist around mid-flight so they land on their back.”
Lord Westford blinked. Kendra wasn’t sure if it was a reaction to the new narrative regarding his wife’s death or the fact that she’d used the word hell. Ladies did not curse.
She went on, “Dr. Munroe is going to take the body for a more thorough examination.”
“Absolutely not!” Westford huffed. “I shall not have my wife removed from this premises and dragged about like a . . . a sack of potatoes.”
The Duke looked at the anatomist. “Would it be possible to conduct your examination here, Dr. Munroe?”
“It would have to be a visual examination, but yes.”
Lord Westford’s jaw tightened. “Dr. Thornton is an esteemed physician and has already shared his findings. Why should I consent to this?”
