Chapter 22
By the time Kendra stood in front of the slate board the next morning, the sky was a dazzling blue, clear of both clouds and smog —a rarity in London.
Sunshine streamed through the library’s windows, reflecting off the many silver domed trays hat had been brought in by the servants, supervised by a stoic Wakely.
“Will that be all, madam?” the butler asked.
Kendra noticed how his gaze strayed to the slate board. Except for the small flicker in his eyes, she couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Probably wondering who the hell his master had married.
“Yes, thank you.”
She waited for Wakely and the staff to file out of the room before she poured herself a cup of coffee, then walked back to the slate board to review her notes.
She was savoring her first sip when she heard the clump of boots and swish of skirts.
A moment later, Rebecca and the Duke came through, and with them the scent of fresh, cold air and horses—the latter explained by the riding habits that they wore.
“Good morning,” Rebecca greeted cheerfully. She walked to the side table and helped herself to a cup of tea. “Duke and I met Sutcliffe in the park on our way over, and we had a lovely gallop. You must learn to ride, Kendra. You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Broken bones, probably. But Kendra kept that opinion to herself.
Rebecca and the Duke spoke of the previous night’s ball as they piled their plates with the classic English breakfast. They had just sat down at the table when Alec arrived with Sam and Muldoon.
More greetings were exchanged, more plates filled.
Kendra had to admit that having a briefing during breakfast was vastly better in the nineteenth century than in her own time.
“Dr. Munroe is not coming?” the Duke asked, glancing at the empty chair at the table.
“I invited him,” Kendra said. “We can catch him up when he gets here.” Her gaze roamed around the table and settled on Muldoon, who was slathering freshly churned butter on his bun.
“Let’s start. Muldoon, did anyone at Bowden Theater think the description of the woman from the Thames matched Clarice? ”
“I got something even better.” The reporter grinned as he set down his knife and bun.
He yanked from his pocket a neatly folded piece of paper.
He unfolded it several times, then flipped it around to reveal a poster for The Merchant of Venice.
Below the title and performance dates was a black-and-white illustration of a beautiful, dark-haired woman.
The artist had drawn her looking over her shoulder, head tilted, a coquettish half-smile curving her lips.
And a mole in the shape of a heart on her left cheek.
“Prudence said they printed these up two weeks ago,” Muldoon explained. “They were supposed to go out this week. ’Tis one of the reasons Mr. Myott is so vexed that Clarice took herself off.”
“This woman certainly matches the description in the newspaper,” Kendra said.
“I found out something else.” Muldoon paused—purposefully dramatic, Kendra thought.
Sam must have thought the same, because he narrowed his eyes and snapped, “Out with it, then!”
“Clarice isn’t the only actress to have gone missing from Bowden Theater.
” Muldoon smiled at their surprise. “Prudence told me that an understudy by the name of Isabella Russo disappeared a couple of months ago. No one thought anything of it; actors come and go in theater companies all the time, you understand. Especially understudies, who grow weary of waiting for their turn on stage. But Prudence said that Isabella left without telling anyone. And no one has heard from her—or about her—since.” His smile fell away, leaving his expression grim. “Rather ominous, don’t you think?”
“Two women missing from the same theater . . .” The Duke looked at Kendra. “You say that we are not dealing with a madman who preys on women, but I’m not so certain.”
“We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet,” she said quietly. But she was beginning to suspect. “We need to add Isabella Russo to our list on inquiries.”
She turned to Sam. “Mr. Kelly, can you send some of your men around to other theaters? Find out if they’ve had actresses who left without telling anyone.”
The Duke drew in a quick breath. “Then you do think we’re dealing with the same kind of monster as before!”
“I actually don’t. Not like before, anyway,” she said slowly. “I can’t explain it, but this is different. No less evil, but different.”
Rebecca took a sip of tea, then set down her cup. “You think Clarice is the woman you mentioned last night, the one that Lady Westford saw keeping company with Mr. Goldsten.”
Kendra’s gaze fell on the poster. Younger and prettier. “Yes, I think so.”
“But how does this Isabella connect?” Rebecca wondered. “Unless it’s just a coincidence that she, too, disappeared.”
“I don’t like coincidences. And if we find more missing women, then it’s definitely not a coincidence.
” Kendra hesitated, searching for the right words.
“Lady Westford was known for having a strong interest in science and medicine. It’s possible Clarice had a bloodletting treatment.
It would explain her being exsanguinated. ”
Rebecca, who hadn’t been privy to that information, gasped. “Dear heaven. What are you talking about?”
“The poor woman had been bled dry,” Muldoon replied, his eyes on Kendra. “God save me from the barber so inept that they took every drop of blood.”
“We don’t know if all of her blood was taken,” Kendra reminded him, and narrowed her eyes in warning when he opened his mouth. “Do not start talking about vampires again. We are not dealing with the supernatural.”
Muldoon grinned at her. “Ah, but none of this seems natural, my lady.”
Snagging two bacon strips, Kendra stood up and circled to the slate board.
“Let’s focus on what we know,” she said.
“Two women are dead. Lady Westford read the newspaper article and recognized Clarice. She went to Munroe’s to confirm her suspicion.
” Kendra took a bite of bacon, chewed, and swallowed before continuing.
“Lady Harrington told me that the Queen wanted them on Friday. They were with her until Saturday afternoon.”
“That explains why she didn’t go immediately to the theater to inquire after Clarice,” Alec said.
Sam paused in shoveling his scrambled eggs into his mouth. “Aye, but it don’t explain why she didn’t identify the body ter Dr. Munroe.”
Muldoon tapped his finger against his tankard of ale. “More to the point, why’d she go to the theater on Saturday at all? She verified that Clarice was dead. Why inquire about her afterwards? Unless . . .” He flashed Kendra a cocky grin. “Maybe she believed the creature had risen from the grave.”
Kendra rolled her eyes. “I think we’re dealing with a more mundane explanation, Mr. Muldoon.”
“Such as?”
“Lady Westford was conducting her own investigation,” she said, laying out her theory.
“She didn’t go to the theater to see if Clarice was there.
She wanted to know if Clarice had been seen with anyone, talked about anyone.
Unfortunately for her, it was Saturday night.
The troupe was busy. No one had time for her. ”
She pointed at Edwina’s name on the slate board. “Edwina lives and works at the theater. It makes sense that she observed this and approached Lady Westford, arranging to meet her the next day at the theater.”
Muldoon leaned back in his chair, surveying the slate board. “A reasonable assumption, I suppose. Although I can’t imagine Lady Westford conducting her own investigation.”
“Why, pray tell?” Rebecca asked. “Because she’s a woman?”
“Well, ladies of the Beau Monde typically don’t concern themselves with the murder of a lowly actress, much less investigate the murder themselves,” he replied, his tone light.
Kendra could tell that Rebecca was not amused by his observation. “That is a rather narrow-minded point of view, Mr. Muldoon,” she said. “As a lady of the Beau Monde, I can tell you that we aren’t all feeble, featherbrained females only interested in the cut of our gowns, sir.”
The reporter’s eyes widened, and it seemed to occur to him that might have put his foot in his mouth. “I never said—”
“I understand exactly what you are saying, Mr. Muldoon. You’ve made your position abundantly clear.”
If Rebecca lifted her nose any higher, she’d be staring at the ceiling,
Muldoon cast a glance around the table, obviously looking for help. Sam muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “chucklehead,” while Alec and the Duke focused on eating their breakfast.
Kendra deliberately put the focus on Sam. “Mr. Kelly, any leads on Edwina’s whereabouts?”
“Not exactly. I’ve had me lads talking ter stagecoach whips and wherrymen. No one had a passenger meetin’ the girl’s description. However, one of the keel bullies said they might’ve seen a scarred-face chit in the area.”
“Keel bullies?”
“Dockworkers who unloads or loads coal vessels,” Alec explained, and looked at Sam. “Why couldn’t he be certain it was her?”
“He said it was dark and he’d been drinking. And the chit’s face was half covered with a scarf. He didn’t think she was a bunter, which is the usual strumpet plying their wares about the docks.”
“This is good news,” the Duke said, glancing around the table. “If the dockworker really did see Edwina, then she’s alive.”
“For now.” Kendra realized how pessimistic she sounded when everyone stared at her. “We’re not the only ones looking for her. She can identify the killer.”
Rebecca shivered. “The poor girl.”
“If she was seen at the docks, maybe she was trying to book passage out of England,” Kendra said.
“Aye, we looked into that,” Sam replied. “No one admitted ter taking in the chit. She couldn’t have enough blunt ter bribe them ter keep their mouths shut.”
“It’s possible she’s hiding near the docks,” Alec said. “If she had any money on her when she fled, it goes further in that part of town.”
“Unless someone lightens your pockets—which is known to happen in that part of town too,” Muldoon quipped.
“We’ll keep searching,” Sam said. “It’s a bit trickier with the cold weather, and everybody bundled up these days.
By the by, I spoke with Lord Westford’s servants.
They said their mistress left the house on Sunday by foot.
I doubt she walked all the way ter Coventry Garden. She must’ve hired a hackney.”
He took a breath before continuing, “Lady Westford’s abigail admitted that her mistress was quieter, more tense than usual, in the last couple of weeks. But she didn’t know why.”
Kendra asked, “Did she know about Lady Westford’s involvement with Mr. Goldsten?”
“Aye, but not from her ladyship. Most of the staff learned of it one evening when they overheard Lord Westford railing at her about the affair. The abigail said his rage was fierce, but her mistress never once mentioned her husband’s wrath or her involvement with Mr. Goldsten.”
Kendra moved back to the table. “We have to add Isabella Russo to our inquiries—” she broke off when Wakely materialized at the door.
“Forgive the interruption, my lady, but a message has come from Dr. Munroe.” A strange expression crossed his face. “He requests that you come to the morgue. He said that the body that was taken has been . . . returned.”