Chapter 14
Only a few crumbling stone walls of the old monastery remained amidst a warren of timbered taverns, warehouses, shops, and shabby dwellings. It was, Kendra mused, a far cry from the Blackfriars of the future, with its sleek, soaring glass-and-steel skyscrapers.
Kendra was also amazed to see the River Fleet, which gurgled and gushed through the neighborhood to the Thames.
The waterway would eventually vanish beneath concrete and asphalt, becoming one of London’s lost rivers.
Even now, construction was taking place, changing the cityscape into what it would someday be. And I am witnessing it firsthand.
“I’ve known Mr. Goldsten for more than three years,” Munroe said.
Kendra dragged her gaze away from the window to look at the anatomist, who was sitting across the carriage from her. When she’d picked him up ten minutes ago, she’d given him a brief rundown of what she’d discovered, including Lady Westford’s supposed relationship with Goldsten.
“We became acquainted mostly through the Metamorphosis Club,” he continued. “But we were not close, and I had no idea that he’d formed an . . . attachment to Lady Westford.”
“He never spoke about her?” Kendra asked as the carriage came to a halt. John, the head groom who ran Alec’s stables but performed the duties of coachman when needed, jumped off his perch and opened the door.
Munroe shook his head. “No. But our conversations centered around medical advancements and natural philosophy.”
Kendra descended from the carriage and paused to scan the street.
The general seediness of the area extended to the people, mostly tradesmen, laborers, shopkeepers—men, women and children—and, because the Thames was so close, dockworkers and sailors.
Mixed races, she noted. Those hurrying about their business gave them—or, rather, her—sidelong glances.
The men loitering in the alleyways, however, watched them with eyes crafty enough to make her dip her hand inside her reticule and close her finger over the muff pistol.
Out of the corner of her eye, Kendra saw John shift his stance as well, bringing up his blunderbuss to hold crosswise against his chest. The message was clear: Don’t mess with us.
The anatomist guided her toward a narrow red-brick building with sash windows.
It had clearly once been pretty but was now derelict, the bricks chipped and smudged with soot.
The white paint on the door and window trims had gone gray with grime and age, some of it peeling away to reveal rotting wood.
The inside wasn’t any better. The lobby—which Kendra suspected had once been an entrance hall—was dingy and spare.
Men occupied the rows of chairs. Most appeared to be suffering from gunshot or knife wounds or looked as if they’d been in an accident or brawl, their flesh bruised, bones broken, eyes swelled shut.
A handful of men looked ill, their skin pale and sweaty, their eyes dull and sunken into dark hollows.
One man’s face was deformed with oozing ulcers.
Bad, but the stench was worse. Kendra was struck forcibly by body odor, blood, decay, infirmity. She breathed shallowly and was relieved when Munroe strode quickly through the room, nudging open a door on the far wall.
Unfortunately, the putrid odor followed them.
Or maybe it awaited them in the next chamber—the smell of disease, maybe death.
There were about a dozen occupied cots here.
Some patients were sleeping, their chests rattling with every labored breath.
Others were staring at the ceiling with a vacant look in their eyes.
Maybe opium. Or maybe just imagining themselves in another place.
Kendra focused on activity on the other side of the room.
About five men, all of whom were barely old enough to shave, were clustered around a man lying on a cot, and watched an older man on a stool carefully peel a bandage from the man’s bicep.
Instead of wearing white lab coats, everyone but the patient was wearing blood-spattered aprons over their regular clothes.
“There doesn’t appear to be any infection, which I attribute to the marigold and honey ointment that was applied after the wound was cleaned and stitched,” said the man that Kendra assumed was Mr. Goldsten.
Leaning forward, he eyeballed the injury, then gave a satisfied sigh as he straightened.
“Let’s see your range of motion, Mr. Eastman. ”
The patient stared at him without comprehension. “Me w’ot?”
“Lift your arm . . . yes, like that. Now please move it in a circular motion. How does that feel, Mr. Eastman?”
“Better than when Oi ’ad a cheese-toaster stickin’ in there.”
“Indeed.” Goldsten hoisted himself to his feet.
“Mr. Beane, please reapply the salve and dress the wound with new wrappings.” He handed a jar and strips of linen to an earnest-looking young man with curly brown hair.
“Afterward, you may return to your duties, Mr. Eastman. But no more squabbles with midshipmen who fight with a dirk rather than their fists.”
The surgeon turned, eyes widening in surprise when he realized he had a new audience. “Dr. Munroe! I didn’t realize you were here.” His gaze slid to Kendra and he waited for introductions.
Munroe obliged. “Mr. Goldsten, may I introduce Lady Sutcliffe. My lady, this is Mr. Goldsten.”
“Lady Sutcliffe. This is a pleasure.”
He bowed, but he didn’t smile. There was an intensity to his expression that made Kendra think he rarely smiled.
She estimated him to be around Lady Westford’s age, somewhere in his mid-fifties.
He was attractive, with a full head of hair, once black, but now pewter gray.
His face was thin, worn down by worry, age, and exhaustion.
Like Munroe, he had spectacles pinched on the bridge of his narrow nose.
The hazel eyes behind the lenses were serious, guarded.
His clothes, beneath his stained apron, were rumpled, his cravat hastily tied.
Clearly, being fashionable was not a priority.
Goldsten was, Kendra decided, the opposite of Lord Westford almost in every way. And that’s interesting.
“Do you hope to become a patroness for surgeries serving the destitute, my lady?” he asked, his eyes steady on hers.
“Was Lady Westford a patroness for your clinic?” Kendra asked.
He sucked in a quick breath. After a moment, he said, his tone careful, “Lady Westford was a generous woman. She wanted to help those less fortunate than herself. Were you friends?”
“No.” Kendra glanced around, noting that there were several eyes on them. “Maybe we should go somewhere more private to talk?”
“Yes, that would be wise. Let’s go into my laboratory.” He paused, then shook his head. “On second thought, there’s a coffee shop down the street. My laboratory is not set up to accommodate a lady’s sensibilities.”
“I’m fine with your laboratory,” she assured him.
Munroe said, “Lady Sutcliffe has attended my autopsies on occasion. Smelling salts will not be required, Mr. Goldsten.”
“Very well,” Goldsten replied, peering at her curiously. “One moment.” He turned to address his apprentices. “Mr. Beane, escort Mr. Eastman out when you are finished. Mr. Dawes, please take over the care of our next patient. You’ve assisted me enough times in setting broken bones.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dawes, a handsome youth with curly, ginger hair. He’d been one of the apprentices staring at Kendra with open curiosity, but he now tore his gaze away to follow Goldsten’s instructions.
“You may have to expand your facility soon, Mr. Goldsten,” Munroe commented as they followed the man to an archway that led to a short hallway. “You have no shortage of patients.”
“’Tis one of the benefits of being located so near the docks.
” Goldsten shot them a wry smile that temporarily lifted the weariness from his face.
“Sailors enjoy celebrating their return to London by imbibing too much, and that inevitably leads to arguments that are settled with weapons and fists. Dreadful, of course, but it gives me ample specimens to experiment with new wound treatments without being on the battlefield. You’re right about the space, though, Dr. Munroe.
I’ve spoken to Mr. Dawes’ stepfather about renting a larger building in the area.
Mr. Stevens is the largest landlord in Blackfriar. ”
“Convenient to have Mr. Dawes as an apprentice then,” murmured Munroe, and earned another fleeting smile from the surgeon.
“It is.”
“Tell me, do you still work at St. George’s?” Munroe asked.
“Oh, yes. Although for how long, I don’t know. I may be in desperate need of space here, but St. George’s is in desperate need of renovations. The building is falling down.”
Mr. Goldsten pushed open the door that led to his laboratory.
Several windows on one wall allowed daylight to stream across counters and tables that displayed a smorgasbord of horrors.
Pickled organs floating inside jars. A jumble of bones and skulls—human and animal.
On one table, there was a full-length mummified body.
On another was—holy crap—a human arm, its pale, waxy flesh sliced open to reveal muscles, tendons, and veins.
Aware that Goldsten was watching her—probably waiting for her to faint—Kendra schooled her features into impassive lines.
“Please, have a seat.” Goldsten indicated the chairs in front of his desk. He waited until they’d settled before he dropped into his own seat. “What is your visit really about, my lady?”
Kendra had to appreciate his directness. “Lady Westford’s murder.”
He gave a surprised jerk, then went utterly still. “What are you talking about? It was a tragic accident.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you? You think that Lady Westford went into an empty theater, climbed to the top balcony, and accidentally fell over the railing?”
She was watching him closely, and saw the quick flinch before his expression went carefully blank.