Chapter 4
A bride and groom leaving their own wedding breakfast early was simply not done.
But the news that Lady Westford was dead sent shockwaves through half the wedding party.
Kendra wasn’t surprised when Lady Atwood still managed to glare at her, muttering darkly that all her fears were coming true.
Thankfully, the lady was slightly mollified when the Duke revealed that Queen Charlotte herself had requested that Kendra look into Lady Westford’s death.
She left them to speculate as she pulled Dr. Munroe, Sam, and Muldoon into the Gold Salon. Once there, Muldoon didn’t waste time, asking bluntly, “How was she murdered?”
The reporter was tall and lanky, with reddish-gold hair, a prominent chin and cerulean blue eyes that surveyed the world with a sly, irreverent sense of humor. He was also a tenacious journalist—a skill she’d found useful in past investigations.
“I didn’t say Lady Westford was murdered,” she replied.
He gave her a cheeky grin. “You didn’t say that she wasn’t either. It’s you, my lady. You’ve gained a bit of a reputation regarding your interest in unnatural deaths.”
Kendra could hardly argue the point. It was, after all, the reason the Queen asked her to investigate, and why Lady Atwood continued to look at her as if she’d just drunk a glass of spoiled milk.
She said, “I’ve been asked to review Lady Westford’s death, which was ruled an accident.”
Muldoon’s eyes sharpened. “Her Majesty disagrees, does she?”
“Let’s just say she wants a second opinion.”
“Who conducted the postmortem?” asked Munroe.
“Dr. Thornton.” Kendra saw recognition flash in his eyes. “You know him.”
It wasn’t a question, but Munroe nodded. “Yes, Lucien and I are well-acquainted. I belong to the Metamorphosis Club that he founded.”
The Duke frowned. “I’m not familiar with that organization.”
“It’s not a formal organization, Your Grace.
It’s more of an informal salon, allowing those in the medical community to discuss the latest advancements and theories in natural philosophy and medicine.
Lucien—Dr. Thornton—is an excellent physician, with interests that go beyond merely writing prescriptions. ”
Kendra understood the implication. The medical establishment here was a bizarro world that adhered to a rigid hierarchy.
At the top were physicians, who spent most of their time diagnosing their patients’ maladies and prescribing treatments.
Below them—or, rather, beneath them—were surgeons, who actually got blood on their hands in their attempts to save lives.
Then came apothecaries, who acted like modern-day pharmacists, followed by barber-surgeons.
This was a time when you could get your haircut and have minor surgery in the same visit.
An anatomist or medical examiner, like Munroe, was at the very bottom.
“I’d still like you to examine the body, doctor. Will that be a problem for you?”
He regarded her with steady gray eyes. “No. I’m certain Lucien won’t be insulted either.”
“Good.” She looked at Sam. “Mr. Kelly—”
“I’d be honored ter assist you, lass.”
She smiled. At barely five-six, with uptilted features and a mop of curly reddish-brown hair, Sam always reminded Kendra of an elf.
Granted, an unkempt elf with a penchant for whisky.
Today, though, he’d not only put on his Sunday best, but he’d combed his unruly hair and shaved.
His eyes, as gold as Spanish doubloons, could gleam warmly with humor or appreciation when he held a glass of whisky or turn as flat and skeptical as any cop’s she’d worked with in the twenty-first century.
“Before you accept, I should tell you that Sir Nathaniel Conant assigned a Runner to the case,” Kendra added. “A Mr. Parker. Do you know him?”
“Aye, I do.”
Kendra had to ask: “What’s your opinion of him?”
“We’re not mates.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Muldoon interjected. “The man prefers giving pretty speeches and currying favor with his betters than actually applying himself to being a thief-taker. I suspect it’s only a matter of time before he takes over for Sir Conant.”
Sam’s lips thinned, but he said nothing.
“I don’t want to cause problems for you, Mr. Kelly. Those in charge don’t like to have anyone second-guess their conclusions.” Or question their authority. Territorial pissing contests wasn’t confined to Kendra’s era.
He shrugged. “I ain’t worried.”
“And where do I fit in, my lady?” asked Muldoon. “I’m not a Runner or an anatomist. I am but a humble scribbler.”
Sam gave a snort. “You’re a lot of things, Muldoon—humble ain’t one of them.”
“You’re in a position to hear things, Mr. Muldoon.” And in a time when she couldn’t search databases for information, she’d Kendra had found his network of sources invaluable.
“I cover politics, not Palace intrigue.”
“Sometimes the two overlap.”
“Yes, but not with Her Majesty’s household.
The King made certain of that when he stipulated his bride never involve herself in politics before he agreed to wed her.
Except for when the Queen quarreled with her son over him becoming the Prince Regent, she has always abided by the King’s edict.
” His eyes gleamed. “Unless you think the Queen’s lady-in-waiting could have been murdered by a political foe? ”
“I wouldn’t sound so excited if I were you, Mr. Muldoon,” she remarked dryly. “It’s too early to know what we’re dealing with. Right now, the official verdict is that her death was an accident. Our job is to find out if that’s the truth.”
***
There was no fast way to travel to London, but the Duke ordered six horses to pull the carriage instead of the typical four, which shaved some time off the four-hour journey.
Horseback, which both Sam and Muldoon chose, was the fastest way to travel—roughly two hours to the city—and Sam promised to locate and arrange an interview with Dr. Thornton by the time they rolled into town around four.
Another carriage followed, filled with their trunks and a handful of servants—Kendra’s maid, Alec and the Duke’s valets, and Mrs. Danbury (the Duke’s housekeeper) and Harding. The Beau Monde did not travel light.
“I can’t imagine Dr. Thornton making a mistake in the cause of death,” Munroe said, as the carriage rumbled down Aldridge Castle’s long drive.
Alec shook his head. “I’m sorry, doctor, but I don’t know how it could’ve been an accident.
I’ve been to the Bowden Theater. Like most theaters, the balustrades are high.
Too many young bucks attend performances while in their cups.
If it was easy to fall off balconies, most of the Ton would already have brained themselves by now. ”
The Duke chuckled. “You have a cynical view of the Beau Monde, nephew.”
“I have a pragmatic view of the Beau Monde, uncle. That leaves two possibilities. One, Lady Westford killed herself. But if so, it’s a bizarre way to commit suicide, throwing oneself off a balcony in an empty theater. Why?”
“She was making a statement with her death,” Kendra said.
“Pray tell, what sort of statement?” the Duke asked.
Kendra took a moment to consider the question. “I don’t know. Maybe something happened at the Bowden Theater, something that made her feel that she couldn’t live with herself anymore. Killing herself there might have been her way of drawing attention to the theater. A final, desperate act.”
Horror flared in the Duke’s eyes. “You don’t think she was . . . she was assaulted at the theater?”
“It would explain the venue,” she said, careful to keep her tone neutral. “We need to keep an open mind and investigate all possibilities, no matter how difficult.”
The Duke nodded, his expression troubled as he turned to look out the window. Kendra suspected that he really wasn’t seeing the patchwork of fields and hedgerows, or the metal-gray clouds pressing down in the horizon.
“The second possibility is murder,” Alec said, returning to his earlier points. “I have the same problem with murder as I do with suicide. Why kill someone in such a peculiar manner in a public venue? Especially someone like Lady Westford, who is part of the royal circle?”
“Mayhap her killer asked her to meet him at the empty theater?” the Duke offered. “It could’ve been a clandestine meeting where they could speak freely, but something happened . . . an argument that turned violent.”
“I’m not certain it’s possible to be guaranteed privacy at a theater.
” Dr. Munroe’s dark brows knitted over his gold spectacles.
“Theaters—even small stages—are usually drafty places with a warren of rooms beyond the main auditorium. I don’t think you can be assured privacy inside its walls, even if the theater is closed.
Maids often are cleaning the rooms, and theater managers hire ratcatchers to contain the vermin. ”
“It’s something to keep in mind,” Kendra said, even as she thought: rat catcher.
Concern pinched the Duke’s face as his gaze settled on her.
“I agree with Alec’s earlier point. Lady Westford is—was—no ordinary gentlewoman.
She was part of the Queen’s inner circle.
Her death would not go unnoticed. If this was premediated murder, then we’re dealing with a madman bold enough, ruthless enough, to kill someone at the very top of society.
“And,” he added softly, “without Her Majesty’s interference, clever enough to get away with it.”