Chapter 5
Coming from the bucolic peace of the country, returning to London was always a bit of a shock.
With more than a million souls inhabiting what was once a Roman fortress, the city had a kinetic energy that was both appealing and appalling.
Formerly affluent neighborhoods had fallen to ruin, becoming rookeries and slums that housed the working poor and the more criminally inclined.
Poverty was grinding, with beggars and hollow-eyed men and women huddling in doorways and alleys, and raggedy children darting around the muddy streets.
While she’d seen the same—homeless encampments, hungry children, cities rocked by crime—in her own time, she didn’t think she’d ever become used to the animals that shuffled through the streets of London.
Cows, pigs, goats, sheep, stray dogs, and feral cats shared the thoroughfares and pavement with pedestrians, carriages, wagons, and horseback riders.
The stench was like a punch in the face, the air thick with livestock’s gamey odor, raw sewage, and rotting carcasses from nearby stockyards.
Added to the stink was the smog from the city’s numerous coal fires, which turned the already overcast sky a sickly yellow and brown.
“Good God,” the Duke murmured, pulling out a handkerchief that his valet had wisely scented with Albany cologne. “I fear the smell is getting worse.”
Kendra nearly smiled. He said that every time they came to London.
Munroe said, “’Tis a far cry from the fresh air you enjoy in Aldridge Village, Your Grace. It will get better once we are beyond the slaughterhouses. Dr. Thornton ought to be at his residence on Curzon Street. I took the liberty of giving your coachman his address before we departed.”
“Where would he keep Lady Westford’s body?” Kendra wondered.
“Since her ladyship’s death was declared an accident, the body was most likely released to her family. She will be at home until the funeral.”
Kendra nodded as her gaze strayed again to the window.
The stink of the stews slowly dissipated as they made their way toward the fashionable Mayfair District.
An assortment of businesses, shops, and residences lined streets congested with service wagons carrying vegetables, kegs of ale, and bins of coal; a few horseback riders; and a steady stream of private carriages, hackneys, phaetons, and curricles.
Children raced dangerously in and out of the traffic with brooms to sweep away the dung and dirt.
London echoed with noise: people hailing acquaintances or arguing with shopkeepers, laughing with friends; ringing hammers as structures were repaired, rebuilt.
or demolished; and the never-ending clop-clop-clop of horse hooves and the thrumming of wheels.
Coachman Benjamin skillfully steered the vehicle to Curzon Street, easing the carriage to a stop at the curb outside a pretty, three-story, white stucco townhouse.
The carriage rocked as Benjamin and the stableboy, Dylan, leapt down.
Dylan scurried to secure the horses while Benjamin came around to open the door and unfold the steps.
“Send word to Mr. Kelly at Bow Street that we’ve arrived,” the Duke instructed the coachman as they descended.
“Aye, Yer Grace.”
The group approached the house, and Alec used the simple brass knocker to rap the black-painted door. It took a few minutes, then the door creaked open, and a young uniformed maid peered inquiringly out at them.
“I am the Duke of Aldridge,” the Duke said. “We are here to speak to Dr. Thornton.”
The aristocrat didn’t use what Kendra considered his “duke voice”—the upper-class accent so sharp it should’ve been registered as a deadly instrument—but the maid’s eyes grew round regardless, and she immediately dropped into a curtsy.
“Oh, aye, Yer Grace. Dr. Thornton said ye’d be coming, and ter bring ye right up ter his study.”
Munroe waved off the maid. “I know the way. Continue with your duties, Jenny.”
The maid smiled, knees buckling in another curtsy. “Aye, Dr. Munroe,” she said before scampering away.
Munroe glanced at them briefly as he led them to the staircase at the end of the hall. “Most members open their homes to host the Metamorphosis Club,” he explained.
“I would enjoy attending one of your salons, if it’s permitted, Dr. Munroe,” the Duke said as they climbed the stairs. “Your discussions are, I’m certain, most fascinating.”
“You would be welcome as my guest, Your Grace,” Munroe said, and smiled. “During our last meeting, Mr. Dandridge introduced us to a new invention that you would find interesting. ’Tis an instrument that allows a physician to listen to the heart without having to press one’s ear against the chest.”
“A stethoscope,” Kendra said automatically, even as she thought: Holy shit, I live in a world where the stethoscope is a new invention.
Munroe glanced at her in surprise when they reached the landing.
“Yes, my lady. A stethoscope. Or, at least, that is what some physicians have begun calling it. René Théophile Hyacinthe Laennec is the physician who designed the device, and he prefers the name Le Cylindre. Though Laennec’s invention is only a few months old, and has not yet been widely used outside of France. ”
Damn, damn, and double damn. It was the little details that always tripped up criminals—and, apparently, time travelers.
Thankfully, the Duke rescued her. “Her ladyship enjoys reading the medical journals I subscribe to,” he said smoothly. “I believe there was a small article about Le Cylindre in one of them.”
Munroe gave Kendra an admiring look. “If you have an interest in medical advancements, my lady, perhaps you would like to attend our meetings, as well.”
An evening where she’d have to pretend surprise over tools and techniques that were outdated in her era? Oh, joy.
“Sounds interesting,” she murmured politely, earning a knowing smile from Alec.
The anatomist led them down the hall to an open door.
A quick inspection revealed a study clearly used by someone in the medical field.
Shelves were crammed with books and scientific equipment, including microscopes, a couple of Leyden jars, and a black doctor’s medical bag.
No stethoscope that Kendra could see, but she also wasn’t entirely sure what that would look like in this era.
A desk sat in front of the window overlooking the street and a large oval table with at least a dozen chairs stood in the center of the room, below a chandelier.
Both the desk and the table were strewn with newspapers, foolscap, and more books.
Kendra’s eyes cut to a short, rotund man standing in front of the fireplace, sipping a glass of whisky.
Early sixties, she estimated. He’d compensated for his balding pate by sporting bushy, gray mutton-chop side-whiskers.
He was not contemplating the flames that were currently devouring the logs in the hearth.
Rather, his gaze was fixed on a painting of a young blonde woman hanging above the carved mantle.
His expression was one of intense sorrow.
Upon their entrance, he turned and summoned a smile that didn’t quite dispel the sadness in his eyes. “Ethan! Good afternoon,” he said. Kendra noticed the slight tremor in his hand as he set his glass on his desk. “Mr. Kelly gave me your message.”
“Thank you for taking the time to receive us. This is the Duke of Aldridge, and Lord and Lady Sutcliffe. Your Grace, my lady, my lord, may I introduce Dr. Lucien Thornton.”
“Your servant.” Thornton bowed. “May I offer you refreshments? I shall summon Jenny to bring tea—”
“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.”