Chapter 15
“When you care about a person who is murdered, you don’t forget the last time you spoke to them,” Kendra said quietly as they walked down the pavement to the carriage. The phenomena, she knew, was called trauma anniversaries. “He’s either lying outright or not telling us everything.”
Munroe let out a pensive sigh. “I don’t know what to say other than that Mr. Goldsten’s evasiveness is troubling.”
“Miss Don—Lady Sutcliffe!”
The shout had Kendra pivoting around. Phineas Muldoon was jogging toward them.
“Dr. Munroe,” the Irishman added, doffing his hat as he came to a stop in front of them.
Kendra surveyed his face, flushed from the cold wind. “How’d you know I was here?”
He gave her an impudent look, tapping the side of his nose.
“I have my ways.” When she merely lifted her eyebrows, he grinned.
“And I happened to encounter Mr. Kelly at Whitehall. He was searching for Mr. O’Leary at the time, and mentioned that you were making inquiries of Mr. Goldsten.
He was involved with Lady Westford, was he? ”
“That’s what we’ve been told. He confirmed they were friends.”
“Probably that’s all he’ll confirm. He’d never admit to having an intimate relationship with a lady, married or not.
He’d want to protect her reputation.” A shadow crossed the Irishman’s face, leaving it brooding.
“Common folk know their place, Lady Sutcliffe, and it isn’t to marry above their station. ”
Kendra had a feeling he wasn’t referring to Goldsten and Lady Westford’s relationship anymore. Maybe that’s what compelled her to say, “I’m a commoner. You could say I married above my station.” And out of my own time.
Muldoon’s morose expression lifted and his blue eyes twinkled. “If I may be so bold, there is nothing common about you, my lady.” He glanced at the carriage. “Are you returning to the morgue, or home?”
“Neither. St. George’s hospital. Mr. Goldsten said he was working there on Sunday.”
“Ah. And you’ll be wanting to confirm his alibi. May I join you? I have something of interest to share with you.”
“Of course.” She waited until they’d joined her in the carriage and it was underway before she asked, “Did you get my earlier message, Mr. Muldoon?”
His wide mouth curved into one of his sly smiles. “Mr. Kelly told me that Lord Westford spends most of his time with his mistress—Mr. O’Leary being a product of that union. Are you thinking that the earl murdered his wife to be free to marry his lady love?”
“A husband always needs to be looked at when his wife is killed, but I’m also looking elsewhere.”
“Mr. Goldsten.”
Kendra lifted her eyebrows. “Mr. Muldoon, I’m starting to think you wanted a ride to fish for information rather than share anything you found out.”
He grinned, unabashed. “Can’t fault me for being curious. Personally, I think it’s more likely that the English nobility will kill for money and power rather than for love, but what do I know? I’m just a poor Irish scribbler.”
“Mr. Muldoon—”
“Yes, I got your earlier note, my lady. I spent my entire morning hunting for the article, and even had to venture into my competitor’s territory, call in a few favors—”
“Mr. Muldoon, I’ll hire a marching band and give you a parade later for all the work you’ve done. Right now, I’d like you to tell me what it said.”
He laughed. “I have something even better, my lady.”
He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out a battered and stained copy of The Morning Post, which smelled a little like fish. Handing it to her, he said, “The article you seek is at the bottom of the page.”
“’Beauteous Mermaid Found In River’?” Kendra read aloud, then raised her eyebrows at Muldoon.
He chuckled. “The Morning Post scribblers are a creative lot.”
Kendra could only shake her head. Then again, she could hardly pass judgement. She’d scanned enough tabloid headlines announcing secret alien autopsies or Bigfoot sightings, let alone the outlandish clickbait that ran rampant on the Internet.
Lowering her eyes, she quickly read the article. The more scandalous broadsheets were just beginning to incorporate illustrations—the more outrageous the better—but The Morning Post was still dense in print.
In the wee hours of the morning, the Thames Police discovered the body of a beautiful young woman, clad only in seaweed, floating on the waves.
Mr. Tibbs, a local fisherman, described the creature as having an uncommon loveliness, with pitch-black hair and a heart-shaped mole on the left side of her face.
Tales of enchanting sirens and mermaids have long been part of sea lore, and Mr. Tibbs admitted that if the lady in question had sported a fishtail as opposed to being whole of limb, he would have given credence to her being a magical creature.
Mr. Cranston of the Thames Police said that, as there were no obvious wounds, they believe the beauty was bathing when she fell into the Thames and drowned.
The cadaver was transported to the morgue of Dr. Ethan Munroe, who runs a notorious anatomy school in Covent Garden, where he instructs his pupils in the ghoulish art of dissection.
Kendra handed the newspaper to Munroe to read for himself.
“We need to find out if Clarice had a beauty mark. It could be the thing that caught Lady Westford’s attention, if she was already familiar with Clarice.
Mr. Muldoon, take this article to Bowden Theater and ask for Prudence.
See if she can confirm that this description matches Clarice.
And find out anything else you can about the actress.
When we were at the theater yesterday, we were more focused on Lady Westford’s murder than Clarice’s disappearance. ”
Muldoon gave Kendra a jaunty salute. “Aye, aye, captain.”
“This is . . . rubbish!” Munroe exclaimed, rattling the newspaper irritably. “‘Notorious anatomy school,’ indeed! And ‘instructs his pupils in the ghoulish art of dissection’—ghoulish?”
He crumpled the paper in disgust before Muldoon snatched it back from him and smoothed it out on his knee.
“There is nothing notorious nor ghoulish about my school!” Munroe went on.
“It is this kind of fearmongering that keeps England’s medical community behind the rest of Europe.
How can they expect surgeons to successfully operate on the wounded if we don’t know basic anatomy?
My God, even France realized that! Their government supplies their surgeons with unlimited cadavers to dissect, even if those are only sent to one teaching school.
I—” He caught Kendra’s eye and broke off, blowing out a frustrated breath.
“Forgive me for my diatribe, my lady. This has been a sore point for me and my colleagues for years.”
“The rules are archaic,” she agreed sympathetically. She turned to her other companion. “Mr. Muldoon, when you’re at the theater, also ask if anyone knows whether Clarice suffered from severe anemia.”
“Now that’s a peculiar request. May I ask why?”
Kendra glanced at Munroe. “Do you want to explain, doctor?”
“I didn’t have a chance to conduct an autopsy, Mr. Muldoon, but my visual examination noted that the body showed no signs of lividity. She was either severely anemic or she had no blood coursing through her veins at the time of her death.”
Muldoon’s eyes widened. “Maybe she was a mermaid. Or, in Ireland, there are tales of a Dearg-due. A beautiful woman who transfixes her victims, then drinks their blood.”
“Maybe you should consider writing for The Morning Post yourself, Muldoon,” Kendra said.
The reporter laughed. “I didn’t say a Dearg-due killed the poor creature. I was simply reminded of the old folktales.” He then turned his attention to Munroe. “What stopped you from conducting the postmortem? Did someone claim the body?”
“What exactly did Mr. Kelly tell you?” Kendra asked.
“We spoke of Lord and Lady Westford’s marriage—which I already knew about from my inquiries.
He said that Lady Westford had been interested in a body pulled from the Thames and transported to Dr. Munroe’s morgue.
Again, I was aware of this because of your note inquiring after the article.
He did mention that the drowned woman in the article might be an actress named Clarice, who worked at the Bowden Theater, the very same theater where Lady Westford died.
Interesting coincidence. He did not mention a mermaid drained of her blood.
” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Or whatever else you two are hiding. Must I remind you of our deal to share information?”
“Fair enough. You know everything—except that the body was stolen from the morgue.”
Muldoon stared at her. “The body was stolen?” He cut his gaze to Munroe, then began to laugh.
“God knows there’s plenty of body snatching going on.
’Tis why families hire watchmen to patrol graveyards at night.
But anatomists like you, Dr. Munroe, tend to be the recipient of those bodies.
I’ve never heard of a resurrectionist stealing a corpse from an anatomist before. ”
“It’s not amusing, Mr. Muldoon.” Munroe scowled at him.
“We do not know who stole the body or why. Unfortunately, I was also only able to do a visual examination when I had it on my table, which is why I cannot say with one hundred percent certainty that the creature had no blood circulating in her veins, even though the lack of lividity suggests it. She did have bruising around the wrists and ankles, and puncture wounds on the inside of her arms.”
“Puncture wounds?” Muldoon’s eyebrows flew up. “Like she’d been bitten?”
Munroe’s look was derisive. “Surely you don’t believe in your Irish folktales of vampires or Dearg-dues sucking the blood out of their human victims?”
Kendra expected Muldoon to laugh off such a suggestion. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Mayhap I’m just Irish enough not to dismiss the mystical world, Dr. Munroe. As your own Shakespeare wrote, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
Kendra couldn’t argue with that. Hell, she was a time traveler. But she drew the line at vampires. “I think we can scratch Count Dracula off our list of suspects, Mr. Muldoon,” she remarked dryly.
“Vlad Dr?culea wasn’t a count—he was a prince.
In Walachia, Romania, I believe.” Muldoon lifted his eyebrows when they stared at him in surprise.
“What boy doesn’t love a good story about a brutal, bloodthirsty, fifteenth-century prince terrorizing Europe by impaling his enemies?
Do you know that it was said that Vlad insisted upon dining amongst his victims, soaking his bread in their blood? ”
“Good God.” Munroe was horrified.
Kendra had been thinking about the Dracula created by Bram Stoker. But the author of that book wouldn’t even be born for another thirty years.
For a long moment, no one said anything as the carriage moved forward. The noises of the street—the clopping of hooves, the thrumming of wheels on cobblestone and gravel, the cries from the costermongers as they touted their wares—seemed too normal a backdrop for their discussion.
Muldoon broke the silence. “Mr. Kelly told me that you have a witness, and he’s got his lads searching for her. She’s most likely dead.”
Kendra frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s been three days since anyone’s seen her. Mayhap she’ll be the next mermaid the River Police fish out of the Thames.”
Kendra already considered his grim prediction a likely scenario. London might not have CCTV cameras on every corner in this time, but it had a million-plus eyeballs. Edwina, with her scarred face, would be noticed.
She looked out the window as seedy gave way to stylish, Hyde Park’s velvety lawns of deep green dotted with sheep.
Not the fluffy white sheep that she was used to seeing in the countryside.
Here, the sheep’s fleece had turned a dingy brown from living in London’s smog.
St. George’s Hospital rose up on the other side of the thoroughfare.
“I shall make my way to the Bowden,” Muldoon said once the carriage stopped and he had leapt down. “I’ll let you know if I discover anything, my lady.”
“Come to Bedford Square tomorrow morning, nine a.m. We’ll have a briefing.”
Muldoon cocked his head. “Very well. But why not this evening? I ought to know something by then.”
Kendra let out a heavy sigh. “I can’t tonight. I have to go to a ball.”
Muldoon grinned. “You make attending a grand society soiree sound like you’re walking to the gallows, my lady.”
“I don’t see much of a difference, Mr. Muldoon.”