Chapter 30 #2
“My lady.” Dandridge smiled in greeting, but it vanished when he said, “Ethan told us that you found Thornton’s body. That must have been a shock.”
“It’s not something you want to find,” she acknowledged.
Burnell scowled. “I’m beginning to agree with those who want to set up a police force like Glasgow’s. God-fearing citizens in their own homes shouldn’t fear common filth from the stews.”
Kendra eyed him. “You think Dr. Thornton and Jenny’s murders were random crimes?”
“What else could it have been? Clearly, housebreakers didn’t realize Lucien was at home.”
She could give him a long list of reasons why that theory didn’t hold water, but she kept it simple: “Nothing was stolen.”
Burnell pursed his lips. “Alarmed, no doubt, by their own act of violence. Criminals are, at heart, cowardly creatures.”
“Not so cowardly that they wouldn’t have grabbed a few valuables on their way out the door. And,”—Kendra paused, watching Burnell closely—“they wouldn’t have chosen a scalpel as their murder weapon.”
Dandridge looked shocked. “How do you know that a scalpel was used?”
“Mr. Barts did the postmortem,” Munroe said as he and Alec joined the group. “I supervised. Lady Sutcliffe is correct—a scalpel was the murder weapon.”
Burnell’s lip curled. “I suppose you’ll now be quizzing us on where we were last night?”
Dandridge’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t possibly think one of us would harm him?”
“It’s a routine question.”
“Well, it’s insulting.” But then Dandridge seemed to take a beat and reconsider. “What time did it . . . did it happen?”
“Let’s say sometime between six and twelve that night.”
“I was at St. George’s until half-past seven. Then Andrew—Mr. Dawes—and I had dinner together. We were together until nearly ten. Isn’t that right, Mr. Dawes?”
Dawes looked a little startled to have been spoken to, but quickly nodded. “Yes, sir. We dined at the Gray Goose Inn, near St. George’s.”
“And after ten?” Kendra asked.
“I went home. Had a nightcap and went to bed. It’d been a long day.” Dandridge looked at Dawes. “Andrew?”
“I met Mr. Beane and Mr. Sumner at the Swan—it’s a pub on Piccadilly. We had a few rounds there, then went to one of the gaming clubs.” Dawes threaded his fingers through his ginger hair, a nervous gesture. “I lost,” he admitted. “My stepfather shall ring a peel over my head when he finds out.”
Mr. Beane nodded. “I was with Mr. Dawes. We didn’t leave the gaming tables until well after one in the morning.”
Burnell blew out a breath. “To be young again, when one could burn the candle at both ends. I left St. George’s shortly before five and was at home for the rest of the evening. Unfortunately, I was alone.”
Kendra regarded him steadily. “You seem to spend most of your free time alone, Mr. Burnell.”
“I’m of an age at which I prefer my own company to being forced to make tedious conversation with others,” he said, with a smile that reminded Kendra instantly of her father. Arrogant asshole.
“The conversations that you’ve had with your fellow members in the Metamorphosis Club aren’t tedious, Mr. Burnell,” she shot back. “There’s been talk of curing diseases through the blood, by introducing a vaccine or purifying the blood itself in some way. Interesting stuff.”
Burnell’s gaze sharpened. “We’ve discussed many theories on how to use the circulatory system to treat illnesses.”
“We have so much to learn,” Mr. Beane spoke up. “We haven’t had any advancement in that area since William Harvey’s theories on blood flow.”
“And Harvey was roundly trounced by the medical establishment in his time,” said Sir Preston, walking over with the Duke. The circle opened to include them.
“Forgive me, I couldn’t help but overhear your fascinating discussion,” Sir Preston said, offering Kendra a benevolent smile. “The reason the Metamorphosis Club was formed was to introduce any and all ideas without fear of being disparaged.”
Kendra took a sip of her wine as she surveyed the men around her. “Do you think a person’s blood can be removed and purified in some way?”
“Are you, perchance, referring to the body stolen from Munroe’s morgue?” Burnell guessed.
“Blimey,” said a pimply-faced young man standing with three other youths in their own cluster.
They’d clearly been eavesdropping and now inserted themselves into the circle.
“My uncle owns a plantation in the Caribbean. There are stories of a soucouyant,” he went on.
“It’s a demon that disguises itself as an old woman in the day, and at night, it slips out of its human skin and becomes a fireball, invading bedrooms and sucking the blood out of its victims.”
Kendra was reminded of Muldoon’s Dearg-due.
“Another reason to avoid the company of old women,” laughed one of his cohorts. His friend gave him a warning nudge, shooting a glance at Lady Maude, still in her chair and now chatting with Goldsten.
“I’m looking for a more scientific explanation,” Kendra said dryly.
Sir Preston shook his head. “There can be no scientific explanation for draining someone completely of their blood supply, madam. At least not in our modern age.”
“No, but using blood as a cure for ailments is not new,” Mr. Beane said, his dark eyes serious.
“In ancient Rome, the blood of gladiators who’d been defeated in the Coliseum was used to treat disease.
There are tales that the sick would rush the arena to drink the fallen gladiator’s blood while it was still warm. ”
Burnell looked amused. “Where did you hear of such barbarism, Mr. Beane?”
The apprentice’s chin jerked up. “The Roman physician Scribonius Largus wrote about the practice. It wasn’t just drinking the blood either. Spectators would dig out and consume the gladiator’s liver, believing it would cure them of any disease with which they were afflicted.”
Dawes nodded. “I read that a couple of centuries ago, a Franciscan apothecary made a jam mixture from blood, which he sold to those wishing to increase their vitality.”
“And there are reports of bystanders consuming the blood of those executed by La Guillotine,” added another young man. “That wasn’t very long ago.”
“Ignorant peasants,” Burnell snorted.
“It’s been said that King Louis XI and Pope Innocent VIII both were known to consume the blood of young boys to give them back their strength,” said Sir Preston mildly.
“What can you expect from the French and Catholics?” a man named Tyson muttered.
“The Catholic Pope didn’t consume blood like your mythical soucouyant, Mr. Tyson,” Dawes argued. “He was given a transfusion while on his deathbed, in the hope that it would rejuvenate him.”
Mr. Tyson’s lip curled. “Not only barbaric, but foolish too.”
Burnell’s mouth thinned. “We are practicing our own barbarism by not allowing scientific exploration when it comes to our life blood. We know so little and are hamstrung in every way from pursuing what could be life-saving knowledge.”
That declaration received vigorous nods and a few frowns. Their group had grown to include everyone in the room, with the exceptions of Goldsten and Lady Maude.
“From my understanding, safeguards were put into place after the disastrous experiments in the seventeen-hundreds,” the Duke said quietly. “King Louis XIV’s physician, Jean-Baptiste Denis, killed a man by giving him a transfusion.”
“Yes, but that was after several successful transfusions,” Burnell pointed out. “Denis gave a fifteen-year-old suffering from fever and excessive bloodletting a transfusion of sheep’s blood, and the boy lived. One might even say it saved his life.”
“The French were only replicating what we English were doing at the time,” Dandridge said, taking a sip of his drink. “It was Richard Lower who documented his experimental transfusions with dogs, which eventually led him to give a patient a transfusion of lamb’s blood.”
Kendra stared at the surgeon. “And the patient lived?” she had to ask.
Dandridge nodded. “He did, indeed. He even had another transfusion, with no ill effects.”
Holy shit.
“That’s true, but as Denis continued to experiment, more people died from the procedure,” Munroe interjected. “He was eventually tried for murder when the wife of one of his patients died. He was acquitted, but the French government then banned the practice. The Crown and the Pope followed suit.”
“As if it matters what the Papists do,” Mr. Tyson sniffed.
Dandridge narrowed his eyes at the young man.
“It matters when those in power restrict natural philosophy from advancing. Burnell is right. Think of all we have lost! Denis had only just begun to discover that certain bloods ought not be mixed. But why? What makes one person’s blood different from another?
How can we ever know without conducting research? ”
After listening quietly, Kendra asked, “What about syphilis?”
That stopped the discussion, and everyone turned to look at her.
“What of it?” Burnell finally asked.
“Could someone be cured of syphilis through a blood transfusion?” She expected them to scoff at the idea, but several of the club members nodded.
“We discussed the possibility at one of our meetings,” Sir Preston said. “And not only the pox. Any number of diseases.”
Alec asked, “Did you reach a consensus?”
Burnell laughed. “In the Metamorphosis Club, there is no consensus, my lord. We discuss, challenge, theorize, and hypothesize. Alas, we do not agree.”
“Yes, but we had many in agreement that the French pox is caused by some sort of blood mutation,” said Mr. Tyson. “The mutation is no doubt caused by the poor living conditions of women of ill-repute.” He cast Kendra an apologetic glance. “Begging your pardon, my lady.”
“We cannot assume that,” Sir Preston argued. “We need more research—”
“And how do we conduct research when we aren’t allowed to test our theories?” Dandridge interjected. The surgeon sounded exasperated.
Munroe offered Kendra a wry smile. “This is a common theme among our members, my lady: frustration.”
Sir Preston chuckled. “Ethan is right, and I suggest we put it aside—at least until our next meeting. Tonight is not about scientific inquiry, but to remember our colleague and friend. Let’s raise a glass to his memory.”
Kendra lifted her glass and let her gaze skim over the faces around her. Cold washed over her. Because she knew, absolutely knew, she was drinking with a murderer.
But who was it?