Chapter 31
The question haunted Kendra throughout the evening, as she maneuvered around the room, asking questions of each conversational group she entered and keeping thorough mental notes. She could eliminate some suspects easily, but others needed a deeper dive.
Goldsten eluded her. She wasn’t sure if it was deliberate or not, but every time she joined a cluster that he was a part of, he managed to slide away. When she spotted him alone at the buffet, she abruptly left the trio of surgeons who’d been talking to her.
“Mr. Goldsten,” she said.
He paused topping up his brandy to glance at her. “My lady,” he said, and set the decanter down. “Would you like more wine?”
The lines of worry and fatigue that she’d noticed when she’d first met him had deepened into craters. He looked twenty years older than the last time she saw him.
He looked, she decided, like a man with a lot on his mind.
“No, thank you. I was hoping for a moment of your time.”
Wariness flashed in Goldsten’s eyes. “I was about to take my leave.”
“This shouldn’t take long.” She gave a pointed look at the brandy he’d just refilled. “You’ll be able to finish your drink.”
His mouth turned down. “Very well.”
“Why don’t we step into the hallway? It’ll give us more privacy.”
In the marble hallway, Kendra stopped next to the sculpture of Tyche, the Greek goddess of prosperity and fortune. “You lied to me, Mr. Goldsten,” she began.
Goldsten’s nostrils flared at the blunt accusation, and something flickered behind his eyes. Fear? Or fury?
“What—”
“You told me that you hadn’t seen Lady Westford since the lecture you attended, but that’s not true, is it? You were seen together at St. George’s last week—shortly before she died. You were arguing. Why did you lie?”
Goldsten’s lips tightened, and he looked away for a long moment. “I did not murder Grace,” he said finally.
Oddly enough, she believed him. “That’s not what I asked. I want to know why you lied about the last time you saw her.”
“Because I knew how it would appear. And I . . . I was ashamed.”
“Ashamed of what?”
He sucked in a shaky breath, his lips twisting into a sad smile. “I shall rue my last moments with Grace until the day I die. I was upset and rough with her.”
“You grabbed her?”
“I only touched her to emphasize my point.”
That explains the bruises on her arms, Kendra thought.
“If I’d known that would be our last encounter . . . ’Tis a pathetic lament. One cannot wish away one’s regrets.”
“What were you arguing about?” she asked.
He averted his gaze. “Lady Westford was always passionate about her causes. She believed that St. George’s was too far gone to be saved. I did not agree.”
Kendra didn’t bother to hide her skepticism. “Please. You’re telling me that you were arguing about the hospital’s future so passionately that you left bruises on her arms?”
He pressed his lips together and fixed his gaze on Tyche.
“Exitus acta probat,” she said softly, and watched Goldsten’s face pale. He looked back to her.
“W-what?”
“Did Lady Westford ever say that to you?”
“No. Why would she?”
Kendra ignored the question. “Did Lady Westford talk to you about meeting Clarice?”
“I . . . no.”
“Clarice had syphilis. Have you treated that disease?”
“Most of my patients are dockworkers and sailors. Of course, I’ve treated the French pox,” he snapped.
“Have you heard anyone claim they found a new treatment or cure for it?”
“The treatment is almost as worse as the disease. There’s no cure, other than those promised by charlatans seeking money. They’re always claiming to cure diseases for the most gullible.”
“Why would someone remove all of Clarice’s blood?”
“Good God. How would I know?”
“I’m asking you as a surgeon, Mr. Goldsten. Could it be for a transfusion of some kind?”
“Transfusions are prohibited,” he said stiffly. “And it involves an exchange of fluid. What is removed must be replaced.”
“Dr. Munroe was given the body, and then it was stolen. But by a strange bit of luck, the body was found again. Except someone removed the corpse’s eyes and uterus. Why would they do that?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“I’m asking you for your medical opinion. To help me understand.”
“I don’t know. I can’t help you. Clearly, those are the actions of a madman.”
“Or someone conducting medical experiments.” She kept her gaze locked on him. “Have you heard of anyone conducting experiments to treat syphilis or any other diseases?”
“No.”
“Exitus acta probat,” she repeated, and noticed this time that he was a little steadier.
“If Lady Westford heard about someone conducting unorthodox medical tests, I can see where that would put her in a difficult position. She believed in advancing science, trying to find cures. Her sister died from typhus. If an experiment showed promise in curing that disease, even if there was a fatality, she might wonder if the end justified the means.”
She paused. When Goldsten said nothing, she continued, “Dr. Thornton probably thought the same. He lost his wife to diabetes. What would he have given to find a cure? What would he overlook? What about you, Mr. Goldsten?”
He gave a small jerk. “What about me?”
“Did you lose someone to a disease that you would have given anything to find a cure for? Is that why you became a doctor?”
“I’m not a physician. I’m a sawbones. And most people—rich and poor—have known someone who has perished from an illness. Humanity is remarkably frail. Whoever discovers cures to the sickness that plague us will not only be honored, they’ll be revered.”
“Even godlike,” Kendra said quietly. “That prospect might be enough to make a person kill anyone who stands in their way.”
He took an unsteady breath. “I must go—”
“You need to talk, Mr. Goldsten.” She stepped forward.
“A woman you know, a woman that I think you cared for, maybe even loved, was murdered. She was chased—stalked—up four flights of stairs and thrown over the railing to her death. In her final moments, she would’ve known absolute terror. If you know who did that to her—”
“I don’t!” The fury erupted, hot enough to scorch. His hand shook so badly that brandy threatened to spill out of his glass. He set it down and then turned back to her, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. “You don’t know what you ask of me!”
“I’m asking for the truth.”
“You’re asking me to destroy my life!” He pointed to the drawing room’s closed door.
“Do you think it’s easy for me, a Jew, to be accepted in there?
I set my clinic up in the stews because those men don’t care what I am when I’m removing balls of lead from their flesh or mending their broken bones.
I’ve fought hard to practice medicine in London, much less at St. George’s. I will—”
“Not get justice for Lady Westford, apparently,” Kendra snapped, cutting him off. He flinched as though she’d slapped him. “You pay a heavy price, Mr. Goldsten, for keeping secrets.”
“I don’t know who killed her!” he hissed, nostrils flaring. “I swear, I don’t. I thought she’d killed herself. She’d seen—” He stopped suddenly and glanced uneasily at the door.
“What did she see? What do you know?” Kendra pressed.
Emotions, too fast to decipher, flickered across his face.
“Lady Westford isn’t the only victim,” she reminded him softly. “Thornton and Jenny are dead too. Not to mention the patients being treated. How many more people are going to die because you kept silent, Mr. Goldsten?”
Kendra could see him waver and felt a moment of triumph. Then the door to the drawing room opened, and Burnell, Dawes, and Beane poured out. They stopped in surprise when they saw Kendra and Goldsten in the hallway.
“Continuing your inquiries, my lady?” Burnell wondered.
Kendra didn’t answer him. Instead, she asked, “You’re leaving? It’s a little early, isn’t it?”
“I can’t speak for these young bucks, but my day begins early tomorrow. Good evening, my lady.” His expression was unreadable as he looked to the surgeon opposite her. “Mr. Goldsten.”
The two apprentices muttered their goodbyes, as well, and hurried to catch up with Burnell. Dawes and Beane both cast curious glances over their shoulders, but Burnell never looked back.
Kendra waited for them to disappear from view before saying, “Mr. Goldsten—”
“I can’t speak to you here.” He licked his lips uneasily. “Tomorrow. Can you come to my clinic tomorrow morning? Or we could meet—”
“No. I’ll come.” She kept her tone neutral. “What time?”
“Ten o’clock?”
The inquest was scheduled for nine, but she didn’t dare try to negotiate for a later time. She could tell that Goldsten was already regretting their appointment. “I’ll be there. Thank you, Mr. Goldsten.”
A muscle in his cheek jerked, and he looked as if he was going to say something. But in the end, he simply shook his head, turning to walk down the hallway.