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.”