Chapter 14 #2
“I cannot presume to know what happened,” he said stiffly.
“There can be no doubt that her ladyship was murdered,” Munroe said gently. “I examined the body myself.”
Goldsten frowned at Munroe. “Dr. Thornton conducted the postmortem. He ruled it an accident.”
The anatomist blew out an uneasy breath. “I can only surmise that Lucien issued that verdict because Lord Westford pressured him to do so.”
“Do you know anybody who would wish to harm Lady Westford?” Kendra asked Goldsten.
“Why would I know such a thing?”
Kendra contemplated him for a long moment. “We know that you and Lady Westford were involved.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “We were friends. Suggesting anything else is unseemly and would besmirch the lady’s reputation.”
“The lady is dead, Mr. Goldsten, and past caring about her reputation.”
His gaze fell to the papers and books strewn across his desk. “Reputations aren’t only about the present, my lady. They’re about the future,” he said softly. “Our reputation today becomes our legacy of tomorrow. Sometimes it’s only our legacy that we pass on in the world.”
“I’m not interested in exposing Lady Westford’s romantic life,” Kendra said, impatient with proprieties. “The woman was murdered. If you and Lady Westford were friends, as you say you were, she may have confided in you. Did she ever talk to you about her husband, her marriage?”
Goldsten looked up. “No, not really. Grace—Lady Westford and I shared the same interests in medicine and natural philosophy. She was passionate about it, and even kept up a correspondence with Mr. Edward Jenner. She greatly admired his attempts to eradicate smallpox.”
Kendra had to control her shock. Edward Jenner was responsible for creating the first vaccine. Hell, he had coined the word “vaccine.” Would she ever get used to living in the same era as people she’d once read about in history books?
“An unusual lady,” Munroe murmured. “I regret not becoming better acquainted with her.”
“Lady Westford’s interest in medicine was inspired by her sister, who perished from typhus when she was quite young,” Goldsten said.
Kendra circled back to why she was there. “I’ve been told Lady Westford was estranged from her husband. That he has a mistress, another family.”
Goldsten’s brow creased in puzzlement. “Yes. What of it?”
“Maybe Lord Westford wasn’t happy with the arrangement.”
“Lady Westford rarely spoke of her husband other than to say that they married young and for reasons that had nothing to do with the finer emotions.” His tone was stiff. “It isn’t unusual in certain circles, my lady.”
“She never mentioned any arguments she and her husband had? Or that she was afraid of him?”
“No. She wasn’t afraid of her husband.”
“She told you that she wasn’t afraid of him?”
“Well, no—”
“She just never talked about him. So you don’t know for sure.”
Goldsten lifted his hands, palms up. Kendra noticed blood in the creases—not his, but belonging to the countless patients he’d worked on today.
“I can’t help you with that kind of gossip, Lady Sutcliffe,” he said.
“Did she mention having difficulties with anyone else?”
Frowning, he dropped both his hands and his gaze to the desk. “No.”
Kendra watched him fiddle with pieces of foolscap, tidying them into a pile. “No one that she was afraid of or troubled by?” she pressed.
His restless fingers stilled. He looked to the window and the gray clouds framed between the neighboring buildings. Kendra thought she saw sadness in his eyes as he said, “No, no. Lady Westford wasn’t a person that you could dislike, much less hate.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
He slowly brought his gaze back to hers. “I’m not certain. I think it was when we attended a lecture on typhus given by Monsieur Chevalier. He’s a French physician who was in Napoleon’s army when they retreated from Moscow. He witnessed the devastating death toll from the disease.”
“When was the lecture?”
He sifted through his periodicals, papers, and books until he found a tattered leatherbound journal. He spent a minute flipping through the pages until he found the one he wanted. “Thursday, August 28.”
“And that was the last time you saw her?”
“Yes.” But his gaze skittered away.
Kendra eyed him, then asked, “What was her mood like on that day?”
“She was . . . she was troubled by the King’s illness,” he replied. “She’d recently traveled with Her Majesty to Windsor, and witnessed firsthand the treatments being used on the King. It disturbed her.”
An icy chill raced down Kendra’s arms. More than a month ago, she’d spent time in a madhouse. She was all too aware of the treatments prescribed in this century.
“Do you know why she would be at Bowden Theater on Sunday morning?” Kendra asked.
The sudden change in topic seemed to confuse Goldsten. He frowned. “What? No.”
“She never talked about the Bowden Theater?”
Goldsten shook his head. “No.”
“What about an actress named Clarice?”
“What? Who? No, I don’t recall her mentioning that name.”
He was, Kendra decided, a very bad liar. The room was cold, but she detected a gleam of sweat on his brow. She said nothing, letting the silence spin out until he finally met her gaze.
“Mr. Goldsten, I am trying to find out who killed your friend,” she said at last. “You need to be honest with me.”
An emotion she couldn’t decipher flared behind his eyes, and then he pushed himself to his feet in a jerky movement. “I’ve told you everything that I know. I’m afraid I must return to my patients.”
“One more question.” She kept her gaze on his as she stood. Goldsten’s reluctance to continue the inquiry was palpable. “Where were you on Sunday morning?”
He inhaled sharply; he knew exactly what she was asking.
If he was insulted or outraged by the question, he didn’t show it.
His voice was oddly flat when he said, “I was at St. George’s in the morning.
By afternoon, I was here. Sunday is not a day of rest for the sick, diseased, and dying, Lady Sutcliffe. Now, I really must beg your leave.”
Kendra and Munroe followed the surgeon back to the patients’ ward. Mr. Dawes paused his administrations and began, “Mr. Goldsten—” but Goldsten shook his head.
“Hold your inquiry, Mr. Dawes, until I return from escorting our guests out.” He strode across the room, opening the door to the waiting room.
Munroe stepped across the threshold, then stopped, turning to face the surgeon.
“We both joined the Metamorphosis Club because we share the belief that scientific knowledge can only be advanced through research. Our quest for truth makes society uncomfortable, just as Lady Sutcliffe’s makes people uncomfortable. ”
Goldsten nodded. “I understand, but I have no more answers for you. Good day, Dr. Munroe, Lady Sutcliffe.”
Kendra crossed the lobby, aware of dozens of eyes on her.
But only one pair of eyes made the space between her shoulder blades itch.
As Munroe pulled open the front door for her, she glanced back to see that for all his talk about getting back to his patients, Goldsten hadn’t moved from his spot.
And even from this considerable distance, Kendra recognized the naked fear in his eyes.