Chapter 16 #3
So, not two weeks ago. Kendra wasn’t surprised that Goldsten had lied. She was surprised that he’d lied about something so easily checked.
“What was she doing with Mr. Goldsten?” she asked innocently.
Dandridge started to speak, but Sir Preston cut in: “Lady Westford visits periodically. She invested time and money in the hospital, and she felt it was her duty to keep an eye on things. She had expressed concern over the mortality rate of mothers and their babes.”
“Lady Westford and Mr. Goldsten were having an intense conversation when I saw them,” Burnell said.
“Intense?”
“A bit of a row, if you must know. It’s why I didn’t approach. One doesn’t want to become embroiled in someone else’s quarrel.”
“Did you hear what the quarrel was about?”
Burnell shook his head.
“Were you working at St. George’s on Sunday morning?” Kendra asked the group.
Dandridge frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Dandridge?” Burnell said, his eyes on Kendra. “That’s when Lady Westford died—or was killed, supposedly.”
“Good heavens!” Sir Preston exclaimed. “Young lady, surely you cannot believe we—anyone here—would have harmed Lady Westford?”
Kendra glanced at the old man and thought, Not you. Physically, Sir Preston would never have been able to throw Lady Westford off the balcony, much less chase her up the stairs or Edwina down the street.
“It’s a simple question.” Kendra turned back to Burnell. “Why not answer?”
He smiled. “I have a suspicion that there are no simple questions with you, my lady. However, I shall answer. I didn’t work on Sunday.
And since the direction of your inquiry is rather obvious, I shall state now that I did not murder Lady Westford.
She was a patroness here, and I was quite optimistic that she would be spearheading the campaign to fund a new hospital. ”
She’d come here just to verify Goldsten’s alibi, but something—just a whisper—made her Spidey sense tingle.
“I was here on Sunday,” Dandridge said. “And I shall repeat what Mr. Burnell said: I did not kill Lady Westford. The very idea is ridiculous.”
Sir Preston exhaled, clearly irritated. “On Sunday morning, I was at church. You can verify that with my wife.”
Kendra nodded. “Since you were here on Sunday, did you see Mr. Goldsten?” she asked Dandridge.
He frowned. “Yes, briefly. He was working the women’s ward.”
“He worked the entire morning?” she pressed.
“Well, I don’t know. We did not work together.”
Kendra figured she’d better keep asking questions while she had a captive audience. “Did Lady Westford ever mention a woman named Clarice?”
They looked confused. Burnell spoke first. “Not to my recollection. Who is she?”
“Another woman who might have been murdered.”
Burnell lifted a brow. “Might have been? You don’t know?”
Munroe said, “The Thames River Police brought a woman’s body to my school. I didn’t have a chance to conduct a postmortem, but I believe she was exsanguinated or lost a considerable amount of blood before her death.”
Burnell was clearly intrigued. “Self-inflicted?”
“I don’t believe so. There was bruising that indicated restraints, and two puncture marks on the inside of both arms.”
“My God. What is this about?” Sir Preston demanded, but Burnell ignored him.
“Fascinating. I would, of course, be interested in observing the postmortem when you do conduct it, Munroe.”
Munroe hesitated only slightly, then shook his head. “Unfortunately, that won’t be possible. The body was stolen.”
“Stolen?” Burnell stared at Munroe, stunned. “Are you certain?”
Munroe smiled wryly. “They don’t just get up and leave, you know.”
Burnell shook his head. “Who would steal from you?”
“I heard Mr. Percy paid an ungodly sum to obtain only an arm from a man who had leprosy,” Dandridge said, looking shaken.
The image of the leg in Goldsten’s laboratory flashed through Kendra’s mind. She’d assumed it had come from one of his patients, like the toes Dandridge had collected, but now she wondered if he’d purchased it on the black market.
Kendra circled back to the victim. “When you last saw Lady Westford, how did she seem?”
Burnell studied Kendra like she was a new species he’d discovered.
After an uncomfortable beat, his mouth curved into another smile.
“Forgive me, Lady Sutcliffe, but it is rather unusual for a gently-bred woman—or any woman, really—to be making these types of inquiries. Do you fancy yourself a Bow Street Runner?”
His amused condescension scraped her nerves more than his probing gaze, but she managed to summon a cool smile of her own. “Given your association with Lady Westford, I would think you’d be used to women having unusual interests, Mr. Burnell.”
“Yes, she was indeed an enlightened female,” Sir Preston said.
“Which is why it’s preposterous to think any one of us would wish to harm her.
She supported our causes. Now . . .” He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time.
“I’m afraid I must go.” The old man picked up his cane and leaned on it briefly as he eyed Kendra.
“If I can be of any further assistance, let me know, madam. Good day.”
Dandridge set down his coffee cup and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll accompany you, Sir Preston.”
The surgeon picked up his stethoscope and slipped it into his pocket before leaving with Sir Preston. Burnell, Kendra noticed, seemed to find his colleagues hasty departures amusing.
“You didn’t say where you were on Sunday morning, Mr. Burnell,” she noted.
“No, I didn’t.” He smiled. “Even God had a day of rest, my lady. I was at home. Enjoying my day of solitude.”
“I take it that means you don’t have a wife?”
“My wife died several years ago.”
“I’m sorry. Can anyone else verify you were at home?”
His smile thinned. “Solitude is derived from the Latin solus. By oneself.”
“Your housekeeper?” Munroe put in.
“I do not have live-in servants. Given my schedule, I find that would be a frivolous expense. I do have a maid who cleans once a week, but I am not such a pagan to require her to work on the Lord’s day.
” He finished his whisky and set down the glass.
“This has been . . . interesting, my lady. Munroe.” He nodded and sauntered across the room.
Kendra waited until the surgeon was gone before turning to Munroe. “Does he have a big house?”
He raised his dark brows at the question. “I’d say it’s a modest dwelling. Why do you ask?”
“I’m just wondering how he’s able to fit his giant ego into such a small space.”
Munroe chuckled. “I know Burnell can come across as insufferable, but he’s a highly skilled surgeon. And probably one of the most vocal proponents for medical advancements in the Metamorphosis Club, aside from Sir Preston.”
“I’m sorry if my questions will cause problems for you with your colleagues.”
“They’ll understand, once they’ve had a chance to think about it.”
They stepped back into the hallway, which seemed even more chaotic after the calm of the lounge area.
“Mr. Goldsten was telling the truth—he was here on Sunday morning,” the anatomist pointed out as they descended the stairs.
“Yes, but this is a big place. Lots of entry and exit points. He could have slipped out for a couple of hours, with no one the wiser.” She glanced at Munroe. “More importantly, Goldsten lied about the last time he saw Lady Westford.”
Munroe said nothing.
The wind slapped them in the face as soon as they stepped outside. Kendra lifted her gaze to the dark clouds blowing in from the north. Rain, definitely. Maybe even snow, which would send even more people into a tizzy that the sun was dying and they were facing the end of days.
Yet it wouldn’t stop the evening’s various parties and balls. Unfortunately.
“I cannot believe Mr. Goldsten had anything to do with Lady Westford’s death,” Munroe said at last.
Kendra didn’t respond as they strode quickly to the carriage. But she heard the underlying note in Munroe’s voice. Dread. Maybe even fear.
He doesn’t want to believe it. But he’s beginning to have his doubts.