Chapter 16 #2
“Eh? What did you say, young Paulson?” The old man squinted at him.
“Maybe Mr. Dandridge would allow you to borrow Le Cylindre as a hearing aid, if you wish to eavesdrop on our conversation, Dr. Carter.” Laughing, Paulson set the stethoscope on the table and jumped to his feet. His friends followed, and the trio rushed out of the room.
“Bloody young pups,” muttered the old doctor, his wiry eyebrows twitching irritably as he rattled his newspaper and returned to his reading.
“Would you care for a drink?” Dandridge asked, crossing the room to the buffet.
“Thank you. Coffee,” Kendra said.
He lifted the pot, poured her a cup. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Two sugars, no milk.”
“I shall pour myself a cup,” Munroe said.
They carried their drinks to the table that the young men had vacated. Kendra picked up the primitive stethoscope, inspecting it more closely.
Dandridge said, “I was intrigued when Monsieur Laennec wrote about his invention. I am fortunate to have a cousin living in France, who managed to get his hands on one and send it to me. ’Tis a modest design, but I envision that it can be improved in the future.”
“I can envision that too,” Kendra said with a slight smile, setting down the old-fashioned instrument.
“Now, what’s this about Lady Westford?” Dandridge prompted. “I heard she fell off a balcony in a Covent Garden theater. A tragedy, but an accident nevertheless.”
“How well did you know Lady Westford?” she asked, picking up her cup. She tried not to make a face when she took a sip of the weak brew.
“She was a patroness at St. George’s, and is one of the ladies I spoke of visiting on occasion. She also attended lectures at the Royal Society, where we had many interesting conversations. I was shocked and saddened when I heard of her accident.”
“Except it wasn’t an accident.”
“So you say.” He fixed his gaze on her. “Who told you that it was murder?”
“The evidence.”
His eyes narrowed. “What evidence?”
“Let’s just say it would require considerable effort for Lady Westford to accidentally fall over the railing.”
Kendra recognized the flash of uneasiness in Dandridge’s eyes, and knew what he was thinking.
“She didn’t commit suicide either,” she added quietly.
He sucked in a breath. “You are very blunt, my lady.”
“When it comes to murder, I find it’s best to be blunt.” Kendra’s gaze strayed to the elderly gentleman at the next table. He was pretending to be absorbed in reading his newspaper.
Dandridge shook his head. “No. I cannot believe that. Who would wish to harm her?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” The comment prompted the elderly doctor to glance at her once quickly.
The lounge door opened and two gentlemen walked in, talking in low voices.
One was small and wizened, with wispy gray strands combed over his bald pate and silver spectacles that matched the curved silver handle of his cane.
The other man was tall and barrel-chested with a shock of white hair framing a broad, ruddy face.
Kendra clocked the old man to be eighty—or nearly so—while his colleague could’ve been anywhere from his early forties to early sixties.
He’d moderated his stride to match the old man’s, but Kendra sensed a leashed energy in him.
They broke off their conversation when they spotted the trio at the table.
The old man tapped his way to their table as the other man made a beeline for the sideboard.
Kendra noticed how the younger man’s ice-blue eyes scanned the room, taking in everything.
Bypassing the coffee and teapots, he reached for one of the decanters, splashing whisky into a glass.
The nineteenth-century’s mantra: it’s always five o’clock somewhere.
“Ethan,” the old man said, smiling, and his eyes, the color of washed-out denim, pinned Kendra with an inquiring look. “You brought us a guest.”
“Sir Preston, may I introduce Lady Sutcliffe,” Munroe said. “My lady, this is Sir Preston. He is a chairman at St. George’s and one of the founders of the Metamorphosis Club.”
The old man gave a little bow. “’Tis a pleasure, my lady.”
“And this is Mr. Burnell, one of our St. George’s surgeons,” Munroe continued when the other man walked over.
“Munroe is giving you a tour of St. George’s, I see,” Burnell said. “If you’re considering donating to the hospital, I would be remiss not to urge you to save your money for a new hospital, rather than trying to save an old one.”
Sir Preston frowned. “Let’s not be so hasty in tearing down what could be repaired.”
“Lady Sutcliffe is not here for the hospital. She’s here because she believes Lady Westford was murdered,” Dandridge told them, tossing Kendra an inscrutable look.
Both men looked startled by the blunt statement. But Burnell’s surprise faded quickly into amusement. “Indeed? And what gossipmonger has spread this tale? No doubt old biddies who relieve their boredom by inventing far-fetched fantasies.”
His lip curled with contempt, and Kendra’s fingers tightened on her coffee mug. Oh, I know that look. For the first fourteen years of her life, she’d seen that look on her parents’ faces. They were brilliant scientists, but they each had the emotional IQ of a crocodile.
“This isn’t about gossip, Mr. Burnell,” she said. Maybe she didn’t have Alec and the Duke’s cutting upper-class accent, but her tone was frosty. “It’s about the evidence. Lady Westford didn’t accidentally fall—or kill herself.”
The smile remained cemented on his face. “And how, pray tell, did you come across this so-called evidence, madam?”
Munroe spoke up. “I examined the body myself. I concur with Lady Sutcliffe. This was no accident or suicide.”
The smile vanished. “I thought Thornton ruled it an accident?”
“He was wrong,” Kendra stated. “How well did you know Lady Westford?” She let her gaze drift between the men.
“This is extraordinary,” Sir Preston murmured, frowning. “Are you absolutely certain, Ethan?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness,” Sir Preston muttered. “My wife and I were well-acquainted with Lady Westford. The countess was interested in our work here at St. George’s, and we attended many of the same social events. We were distressed to learn of her death. And now this . . .”
“I knew her well enough,” Mr. Burnell replied, studying the amber liquid in his glass. “We had many conversations about raising funds for a new hospital. This building has been here for almost a hundred years. Personally, I doubt that we’ll get another twenty out of it.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Kendra asked all three men.
Dandridge answered first. “A few weeks ago, at the Royal Society. They had a fascinating discussion on using electricity to reanimate dead tissue.” His voice warmed with excitement.
“It brings up a host of possibilities. I just amputated three toes of a local wherryman. But what if we could harness the forces of electricity to stimulate dying flesh, bringing it back to life? What if we could offer treatment rather than amputation?”
“Balderdash!” The old man at the next table gave up all pretense of reading his newspaper. “What you say is sacrilege, Mr. Dandridge. Only God can bring back the dead!”
“We are men of science, Dr. Carter—not clergymen.” Burnell matched the physician’s glower.
“You may waste your time praying for cures to society’s ills, but the future will be shaped by natural philosophy and medicine.
We must challenge ourselves and push past absurd barriers that are little more than superstition. ”
“By tampering with nature? By playing God?” Dr. Carter threw aside the newspaper in disgust and hoisted himself to his feet, practically vibrating with outrage.
Dandridge shook his head. “We play God every time we save a patient’s life, Dr. Carter. If I hadn’t operated on the wherryman, gangrene would have spread and eventually killed him.”
“Mr. Dandridge makes a strong point,” Sir Preston interjected, earning a furious look from Dr. Carter.
“Bah! I am aware of that club that you formed, sir! Mark my words, you shall regret toying with matters of which you know nothing. And you”—he scowled at Munroe—“with your dissections and experimentation. ’Tis blasphemy, and I will not listen to any more of this drivel.
” He stomped to the door and slammed it after him.
Burnell’s lip curled. “That old relic still believes that disease is caused by an imbalance of bodily humors.”
“Some individuals have a difficult time letting go of their former views,” Munroe said quietly.
“You’ve always been too sentimental, Ethan.
The man is archaic and should be drummed out of the medical profession.
” Burnell blew out a breath, glancing at Kendra.
“I was also at that lecture, my lady. Like my colleague here, I believe electricity will prove useful in medicine, although I sincerely doubt that it will bring the dead back to life.”
“My point is that we don’t know what it may do until we try,” Dandridge said stiffly.
No wonder Mary Shelly had been inspired to write Frankenstein. In fact, at this very moment, Kendra realized, the author was writing a masterpiece that would launch a new genre of fiction—and a million Halloween masks.
Kendra pushed away the distracting thought to ask, “Did you speak to Lady Westford at the lecture?”
“We tend to gather afterward to discuss what was presented,” Burnell said. “And, yes, Lady Westford was in that group.”
“How was her mood? Did she seem to be worried about anything or anyone?”
Burnell pursed his lips, frowning into his glass. “I don’t recall anything unusual. We spoke about the lecture, of course, and certain advancements that have been reported in the medical journals. She didn’t appear melancholy or fretful.”
“That was the last time you saw her?”
“No, she came to St. George’s last week. I saw her, but I didn’t speak to her.”
Kendra glanced at Dandridge. “Did you see her? Speak to her?”
“No. I mean, yes, I saw her, as well, but I didn’t speak to her. She was with Mr. Goldsten.”