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?”
“Because it is the wish of Her Majesty,” the Duke reminded him coolly. He drew out his pocket watch. “The hour grows late. I think the best course of action is for Dr. Munroe to stay and examine the body whilst we continue our inquiry at the theater. Do you have any objection to that, my lord?”
Kendra could see that the earl had plenty of objections, but once again Queen Charlotte’s name was enough to silence him. He pressed his lips together in an angry line.
“Very well, Your Grace,” he finally conceded. “But I want him to make quick work of it. I am expected elsewhere.”
“I’ll assist you,” Sam offered, earning a slight smile from Munroe.
“Thank you, Mr. Kelly.”
Lord Westford’s expression was stony. “Pentagross will show you out, Your Grace.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed toward the door.
Kendra followed him. “I actually have a few questions for you, my lord.”
“I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
“Are you familiar with the Bowden Theater?”
He stopped and turned to stare at her. She returned his regard and waited. After a moment, he blew out a breath. “I’ve attended a few performances there.”
I, not we. “Your wife didn’t go with you?”
“My wife and I did not share the same interests. She was, if you must know, a blue-stocking. She preferred attending lectures and seminars, when she wasn’t with Her Majesty.”
“We were at a few of the same lectures,” the Duke said, approaching. “She was a delightful lady, and, as I didn’t say this before, my condolences for your loss, my lord.”
Lord Westford acknowledged the Duke’s sympathy with a brusque nod.
Kendra asked, “Do you know why your wife went to the Bowden Theater on Saturday? Mr. Parker said that Lady Westford was distressed when she went there.”
“I didn’t tell you that—”
“No.” She leveled a hard glance at the Bow Street Runner as he rushed over. “I heard it secondhand. Do you deny it?”
Parker frowned, taken aback. “Well, ah, no. Of course not. A few actresses told me that Lady Westford was distraught. That’s why I thought she . . . may have . . .” He shot a sidelong look at Lord Westford and fell silent.
Lord Westford scowled. “I do not know why Grace was at the theater. Now, I—”
“Just a few more questions,” Kendra interrupted. “When was the last time you saw your wife?”
The earl’s eyes narrowed, but he replied, “Thursday morning. I was coming in from riding, and she was leaving.”
“What time?”
“Eleven. Maybe a little later. I don’t know. I didn’t look at the clock.”
“Where was she going?”
“I have no idea.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“No, I did not. She appeared to be in a hurry, as was I.”
“Did you notice her mood—other than she seemed to be in a hurry?”
He was silent for a long moment, then shook his head. “She was preoccupied—which is normal for a lady-in-waiting. Being inside the Palace is . . . stressful, especially given the King’s troubles. There are always worries when dealing with the royals.”
“Did she tell you if anything was bothering her?”
“I just told you, no.”
“And you never saw her on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday?”
“I dislike having to repeat myself, my lady. The last time I saw and spoke to Grace was Thursday morning.”
Kendra contemplated him. “That’s a long time to go without seeing your wife. Weren’t you worried?”
“As a lady-in-waiting, Grace would spend days—and nights—with the Queen. Regardless, Grace and I have never lived in one another’s pockets.”
“Where were you on Sunday morning, my lord?” she asked.
Lord Westford’s eyes lit up with fury. “Do you dare imply that I killed my wife?”
“I’m asking where you were on Sunday morning.”
“Your Grace, this is—”
“A necessary line of questioning,” the Duke said. “I’ve found the best way to deal with it is to answer Lady Sutcliffe’s questions and be done with it.”
The earl’s broad face tightened. Kendra wondered if he’d resist answering out of sheer spite. Or perhaps arrogance. But he surprised her by saying, “I was with a friend.”
“What’s the name of your friend?”
Lord Westford’s nostrils flared. “I will not have you disturbing my friends with senseless interrogation. And I find your implication that I killed my wife insulting, Lady Sutcliffe.” He turned his hostile gaze on the Duke.
“Your Grace, I have been more than generous with my time. I shall not answer another question. Good day.”
The earl strode out the door without a backward glance. A few seconds later, the butler—Pentagross—materialized to escort them out. Parker frowned at Munroe and Sam, then followed Kendra, Alec, and the Duke outside.
“I must return to Bow Street,” Parker announced, turning his collar up on his greatcoat as a gust of icy wind buffeted them. “I assume Mr. Kelly will be assisting you with your inquiries and my services are no longer required?”
“It is no disrespect, Mr. Parker. We are simply familiar with Mr. Kelly,” the Duke said.
Parker waved that away. “I have plenty of other tasks that I must attend to. I wish you luck, and good day.”
As the Bow Street Runner walked quickly down the street, Alec observed, “He seems remarkably sanguine for someone who has been replaced.”
Kendra laughed. “If Mr. Parker has political ambitions, the last place he’ll want to be is between Lord Westford and the Duke of Aldridge.”
“And Her Majesty,” Alec added, grinning.
The humor ebbed at they walked to the carriage.
“How did Dr. Thornton miss something so obvious?” Kendra asked, frowning. “I thought that he rushed the verdict to cover up a suicide, but he couldn’t have thought Lady Westford killed herself.”
“Maybe he truly believes it was an accident,” the Duke said, holding onto his hat to prevent it from flying off in another blast of wind.
“Why didn’t he insist on an inquest?” Kendra wondered aloud after they were settled in the carriage. “It’s the proper procedure.”
Personally, she considered inquests a waste of time. Their only purpose was to determine if the death was unnatural or natural causes, which they called a visitation by God. They didn’t do a hell of a lot to identify the killer. But it still would’ve been more helpful than doing absolutely nothing.
She drummed her fingers on her knee, thinking.
“We need to find out who Lord Westford’s friend is, and if they were really together at the time his wife was falling to her death at the Bowden Theater,” she said.
“They had a strange relationship. He hadn’t seen his wife in three days—four, really, since she was found Monday morning—and he wasn’t alarmed. ”
“It’s not that unusual in the Ton,” Alec said.
Kendra met Alec’s eyes. She couldn’t imagine not being worried if she hadn’t seen him in four days. “He didn’t love his wife. He didn’t express any regret that she was dead.”
“Not everyone wears grief the same way,” Alec pointed out. “And there are those who care more about society’s sensibilities and their own reputation than justice.”
“I agree with Kendra,” the Duke interjected softly. “That man didn’t love his wife.”
Pain flickered across his face. Kendra knew he was remembering his own wife, Arabella, and daughter, Charlotte, both of whom he’d lost twenty years ago in a boating accident at sea.
Arabella’s body had washed ashore, but Charlotte was never found.
More than twenty years later, and he still mourned.
Meanwhile, the Earl of Westford had lost his wife two days ago, and couldn’t be bothered to even look sad.
“He didn’t love her,” Kendra said. “The question is: Did he hate her enough to kill her?”