Chapter 17
Kendra instructed Coachman John to drop Munroe off at his anatomy school before traveling on to Curzon Street.
She’d briefly considered asking the anatomist to accompany her, but discarded the idea even before it was wholly formed.
She needed answers from Dr. Thornton, and she didn’t give a rat’s ass about this era’s sensibilities.
She’d already caused enough tension between Munroe and his colleagues; she didn’t want to be responsible for an even greater rift.
Fifteen minutes later, she knocked at Dr. Thornton’s door. The same maid as the day before—Jenny—answered.
“Hello. Is Dr. Thornton at home?” Kendra asked.
The girl’s brow furrowed in confusion. Maybe it was the use of “hello,” which wouldn’t become a common greeting until the advent of the telephone.
Or maybe it was because Kendra was alone.
Married women of the ton might not need chaperones to accompany them everywhere, but it was still outside the norm for them to visit a gentleman alone.
Jenny swallowed and made a visible effort to compose herself. “Aye. Is he expecting ye, ma’am?”
“He’ll see me.”
“Oh.” She opened the door wider, stepping back to allow Kendra into the hallway. “If ye’ll wait here—”
“Is he in his study?”
“Nay. He’s in the drawing room.”
“Take me to him.” Kendra didn’t wait; she began striding toward the stairs. Guilt pinched her for putting the maid in an awkward position, but she didn’t want to give Dr. Thornton any chance to prepare for her. Not that he’d be able to prepare for the questions that she planned to ask.
Jenny scrambled past her and up the staircase.
On the landing, she turned in the opposite direction of the study.
Another open door revealed a small drawing room decorated in seafoam greens, fragile blues, and buttery yellows.
Tasteful and feminine. Kendra’s eyes flicked to the oval portrait above the marble fireplace, both a focal point and a position of honor.
In the twenty-first century that position would be held by enormous flat-screen TVs.
What that said about her time, she didn’t know.
The portrait was of the same blonde woman in the painting in the study. Kendra had a feeling that she was the one responsible for the drawing room’s décor.
Kendra had only a brief moment to observe Dr. Thornton before Jenny announced her presence. He was sitting at a small table in front of the window, engrossed in a book, with a teacup on the table.
“Dr. Thornton, sir, her ladyship is . . . she wants ter speak with ye.”
The doctor glanced up, surprise widening his eyes when he saw Kendra in the doorway. “My lady.” He started to rise.
“No, please, don’t get up.”
He ignored her, putting aside his book and bowing briefly. “Lady Sutcliffe. What can I do for you? Jenny, take her ladyship’s cloak, bonnet, and gloves, and bring another cup of tea.”
“Thank you, but I won’t be staying long.”
Thornton hesitated, then said, “Very well. Jenny, you may go. Please, have a seat, my lady.”
“This is a lovely room,” Kendra said as she sat down. Her original intention had been to go after the doctor hard, but instinct now had her choosing a different tactic. “Your wife?” she asked, her gaze shifting again to the portrait as she tugged off her gloves.
“Yes.” The word was laced with sadness. “Mrs. Thornton was a lady of remarkable refinement.”
Kendra had noticed the old-fashioned clothes the woman wore, with a full, swagged skirt, fitted bodice, and lace-trimmed square neckline.
“We were married for only a short time when Elizabeth developed diabetes mellitus,” he continued, his face sagging as he, too, gazed at the painting.
“My condolences,” Kendra said quietly. Diabetes mellitus would eventually become known as type 1 diabetes. There was no known cure, not even in her timeline, but at least there were treatments that prolonged life in the future. Here, Thornton’s marriage had been doomed by his wife’s diagnosis.
“I was a young physician at the time, but I recognized the signs. She followed the diet suggested by the physician Thomas Willis and the Scottish surgeon John Rollo, limiting carbohydrates and focusing on meats. Then, of course, there were the endless herbal treatments—sodium bicarbonate, potassium salts, chalk—even opium, and bloodletting . . .” He sighed heavily.
“I knew, of course. I’d studied the disease in medical school, and I knew there was no cure.
’Tis in the blood, you see. I could only watch her . . . disappear.”
“How old was she?”
“Four-and-twenty. We grew up together, and married as soon as I finished my medical training when I was twenty. We moved here, and Lizzie decorated each room. After . . . after she was gone, I couldn’t bear to change anything.
Now, it comforts me to be surrounded by the things that she personally selected. ”
“The Duke of Aldridge lost his wife and daughter when they were young. He says that not a day goes by when he doesn’t think of them.”
Thornton’s smile was one of understanding, a shared sorrow. “Then he knows that once you have found the love of your life, there is no replacement. But you didn’t come to quiz me about my late wife, did you, Lady Sutcliffe?”
“No.” She kept her tone quiet, neutral. “Why did you rule Lady Westford’s death an accident? You must know that it was not.”
He drew in a swift breath. “There is no way we can be certain—”
“Yes, there is. I saw the railing on the upper balcony, and she was a small woman. She couldn’t have accidentally fallen over it.”
“Yes.” He surprised her with his quick agreement. “But there is another option.”
“She didn’t commit suicide. For her to do that, she would have had to climb over the railing—”
“Which she could have done.”
“And she would have had to shove herself away from the railing with enough force to land on seats several feet away. I don’t know if she had that kind of upper body strength, doctor, but why bother? If she wanted to commit suicide, why not just jump?”
“My examination concluded that Lady Westford’s skull was fractured, many other bones shattered. And she broke her neck. All consistent with falling off a balcony from that height.”
“Also consistent with being thrown off a balcony.”
She contemplated Thornton. Sweat was beginning to glisten on his upper lip.
“Your decision shut down the investigation, doctor,” she went on. “Who told you to rule it an accident? Lord Westford? Or someone else?”
“You cannot be certain—”
“I can. The evidence points to murder, not suicide, which you would have known if you’d bothered to properly investigate,” she snapped.
He went rigid. “I’m a physician, not a Bow Street Runner. I was asked to determine how she died, which I did!”
“You could have left it indeterminate, and an inquest would have been called. In fact an inquest should have been called, regardless. It’s highly irregular that it was not.”
“Do you know what an inquest entails, Lady Sutcliffe?” He thrust up his chin, his eyes catching fire.
“If the victim cannot be seen in situ, then it is laid out for everyone to view. Often naked. Usually in a tavern. No husband would ever wish to see their wife displayed in such a manner for the jurors to gawk at and to satisfy the public’s salacious curiosity. ’Tis unthinkable!”
“Are you saying it was Lord Westford who asked you to rule it an accident, to avoid an inquest?”
“I didn’t say that!” Suddenly, he shoved himself away from the table, sending what was left in his teacup sloshing onto the tablecloth.
The lines on his face deepened as he turned to stare out the window.
“Lady Westford was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Can you imagine the embarrassment? I truly thought the lady committed suicide and wished to preserve Lady Westford’s dignity. ”
Kendra got to her feet as well. “All you did was preserve a murderer’s anonymity, doctor.”
Thornton drew in a harsh breath. “I don’t know how you can be so certain—”
“There was a witness,” she said.
“Someone witnessed Lady Westford being murdered? What did she—or he—say? Can that person identify the monster?”
Kendra eyed the doctor. Natural questions. Except, in her experience, people tended to place the masculine pronoun before the feminine. “What did he—or she—say?” Was it a quirk, or was it a subconscious slip of the tongue by someone who knew the witness was female?
Thornton wasn’t the killer, she knew. He was too old and not fit enough to be the one running after Edwina, and she was almost certain those people were one in the same.
But he knew something.
“The witness has disappeared.” Do you already know that, doctor? “Not for long, though. We’re following several leads and are close to finding her,” she lied. “When we do, we’ll have Lady Westford’s killer.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“It is.” She kept her eyes on him as she tugged on her gloves. “Do you know a woman named Clarice? She’s an actress.”
“No. No, I don’t.” He licked his lips. “What does she have to do with Lady Westford’s death?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.” She gave him a hard look. “If you remember anything, or have something to tell me, doctor, send word to 25 Bedford Square.” She waited a beat. When he didn’t reply, she added, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Thornton.”
“I’ll have Jenny show you out.” He moved to the bell-pull.
“Don’t bother. I can find my way to the front door.”
***
He could have handled that better. But, by God, she’d taken him by surprise, just appearing like that and asking those damnable questions.
Lady Sutcliffe was an odd creature, to be sure, but there was no denying her intelligence.
Those rapier-sharp eyes of hers, that seemed to bore right into his brain. See into his very soul.
She knew. Maybe not the who or why. But she knew that he’d been asked to rule the death an accident.
No, not asked. Told. It had been an order, one that he dared not disobey.
Listening to Lady Sutcliffe’s footsteps fade as she descended the stairs, Lucien Thornton searched his pockets and found his linen handkerchief.
His fingers trembled as he mopped the sweat off his face.
He’d begun perspiring the minute Lady Sutcliffe pinned him with her perceptive gaze. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Slowly, shuffling like the old man he was now, Thornton crossed to the window. The position gave him a good view of the street below, the carriage waiting at the curb. Lady Sutcliffe appeared a moment later. Her stride was not dainty or ladylike. Nothing like his Elizabeth.
She did not look back or up at the window. The coachman rushed to assist her into the carriage, before climbing back onto his perch. A second later, the carriage pulled away from the curb, joining the traffic rolling down the street.
Lucien released the breath he’d been holding, but that didn’t ease the heaviness in his chest. Long ago, he’d read how peine forte et dure had been used as a punishment for those who refused to plead guilty in court.
Prisoners were forced to lie with a board on top of them and stones were slowly added, until the prisoner issued a plea or was crushed to death.
Lucien had no board or stones on him, but the sensation of his chest being squeezed felt real.
This should have been a simple matter, he thought. Declare Lady Westford’s death an accident, avoid an inquest, and bury her—and any possible investigation.
What to do, what to do . . . ?
He turned away from the window and went to his desk.
He found a scrap of foolscap in one of the drawers.
Uncapping the vial of ink on the writing stand, he picked up a quill and dipped the nib into the ink pot.
He had to think for a long moment about what to write.
Better to keep it brief and innocuous, he decided.
This discussion required a private, face-to-face meeting.
Once he got the words down, he sanded the paper and carefully folded it.
Hoisting himself to his feet, he moved to the sideboard, where he poured a generous four fingers of whisky into a glass.
Whisky was meant to be sipped, savored, but he tossed it back like a shipman at the local tavern.
He gasped as the spirit hit the back of his throat, burning its way to his belly.
Unfortunately, it did nothing to dispel the cold fear that had begun pumping through his veins.
Or is it guilt?
He refilled his glass and walked to the fireplace, lifting his gaze to view the ageless features of his wife.
“What have I done, Lizzie?” he whispered.
He’d been so sure, the vision so clear, but now . . . now he was questioning everything. Lady Westford’s death changed things. Tainted what was supposed to be pure.
His stomach churned with whisky and horror. “Oh, my God, what have I done?”