Chapter 40
Kendra woke the next morning to gray light streaming into the bedchamber, an empty space beside her, and a strange restlessness.
She rolled off the feather tick mattress and into her yoga routine on the floor.
Most of that edginess, she knew, was because there’d been no knock early that morning.
Sam hadn’t managed to find Edwina—or, if he had, she had evaded him and was in the wind.
Damn it.
And the remaining restlessness? She couldn’t pinpoint the source. Was it anxiety that she’d missed something, or the sense that they were close to the finish line? She had motive and a list of likely suspects. She just needed to narrow that list down a little more . . .
She just needed a break, and she’d hoped she’d get it from their eyewitness. Without Edwina, she’d plow forward with what she had.
Burnell was number one on her agenda. It might be best to visit the Widow Shaw before she confronted the surgeon about his alibis. Home alone. Bullshit.
Kendra finished her yoga routine, and then yanked the bell-pull for Molly. Less than five minutes later, the maid arrived with a tray of coffee, brown bread, and pots of butter and jam.
“Are ye gonna be riskin’ yer life mudlarking today?” Molly asked, scowling at Kendra as she ate several slices of bread and gulped down coffee.
Kendra heard the snarky note in the maid’s voice. “Are you still angry about the boots?”
“It wasn’t about the boots. Although they were fine,” Molly sniffed. “Ye nearly got yerself killed, milady. Ye take too many risks.”
Kendra didn’t want to argue, so she stuffed the rest of the bread into her mouth.
After Kendra finished the bread and drank another cup of coffee, Molly helped her into a nettle-green, worsted-wool walking dress with gold braiding adorning the hem and cuffs of the long sleeves. She mentally reviewed her notes as she left the bedchamber, hurrying down the hallway to the library.
But a commotion—a shout, a shriek—sent her to the railing.
She all but goggled as a red-faced Wakely sprinted after a boy who was currently zigzagging around the foyer like a ricocheting bullet.
A maid with a mop in her hand screeched and leapt out of the way when the kid nearly plowed into her.
The footman—Hugh?—jumped forward, blocking the pint-sized intruder.
The kid swiveled, but Wakely managed to snag his tattered collar.
In a move that Kendra had to admire, the boy tried to free himself by stomping on the butler’s foot.
Wakely yelped in pain, but kept his grip on the child’s collar even as the butler grasped the boy’s boney arm.
“What the hell is going on?” Kendra raised her voice as she sped down the steps.
Wakely tried to assume a dignified posture, but was hampered by the squirming boy. “My apologies, madam—”
“Are ye Lady Sutcliffe?” The boy fixed his furious gaze on her.
He was beyond filthy. Brown hair—maybe blonde, if it was washed—stood up in tufts, and his blue eyes seared her like a flame.
She estimated him at fourteen or fifteen, but she added decades to those livid eyes.
Like most street kids, he was gaunt, all bones and sharp angles that she could see even with the bulky coat covering him.
“Can I help you?”
He jerked away from Wakely. “Aye! It’s yer fault! All yer fault!”
“Who are you? And what’s my fault?”
“Fish’s me name. And it’s yer fault that she’s gone!” His chin jutted up. “’E came and took ’er. She was safe and now she’s gone!”
A chill raced down Kendra’s spine. “Who?” she demanded, but she knew.
“Edie. Edwina, We were protectin’ ’er, keepin’ ’er safe. Then ye came and ’e found her.”
“You’re one of the mudlarks from yesterday,” she said slowly. “What happened?”
Fish crossed his arms, his gaze full of bitter condemnation. “’E must’ve followed ye.”
Christ, the kid knew how to go for the jugular. “Who took her? When?”
“’E was waiting for us on the docks this mornin’. ’E grabbed ’er and took off on ’is ’orse.”
“What did he look like, Fish?” She grasped the kid’s rigid shoulders and leaned down to look him in the eye. “Hair color, size, age? Anything that stood out to you?”
Fish was silent for a beat. “About ’is age.” He pointed to Hugh. “Bigger than ’im, though. Taller. Yellow ’air. I never saw ’im before. ’Is greatcoat was fine quality.”
Kendra released Fish and straightened to look at Wakely. “Take him to the kitchen and get him something to eat.”
“I don’t want food! I want Edie!” The boy glared at her.
“I’m going to find her,” Kendra said before she could stop herself. She knew better than to make those kind of promises.
Her chest was tight. She had to take a deep breath and let it out slowly before saying, “Go get something to eat, Fish. You won’t be any good to Edwina if you pass out from hunger.”
The kid maintained his hostile stance for a moment, then his shoulders slumped, the defiance draining out of him. Wakely put out his hand to guide Fish to the kitchens.
“Wakely?” Kendra said.
The butler paused. “Yes, madam?”
“Please have the carriage brought around. I need to go to St. George’s.”
He hesitated. “His lordship is on his morning ride. Perhaps you ought to wait until he returns?”
She shook her head and thought, No time. “I’m only following up on a few details,” she said. “Send word to Mr. Kelly. He’ll want to interview Fish about Edwina, then he can join me at the hospital.”
“Very well. Good luck, my lady.”
She bolted up the stairs, racing to her bedchamber to grab a coat and her reticule, and tried not to wonder if time was running out for Edwina.
Or if it was already too late.
***
Kendra strode briskly through St. George’s lobby, only stopping to flag down a sister carrying a mop and bucket. Given the strong stench of vomit, she guessed the woman was on clean-up duty.
“Is Mr. Burnell working today?”
The woman frowned impatiently. “I saw him . . . somewhere. Maybe surgery?”
“Thanks. Where—” But the woman was already moving away.
Kendra jogged up the steps to the second floor and scanned the hall. People were racing up and down the corridor. I’m not the only one feeling a sense of urgency, she reflected.
“Lady Sutcliffe!”
She paused and turned to see Sir Preston coming toward her, his cane tapping out a familiar staccato on the tiled floors.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling as he came to a halt. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. My wife enjoyed your company the other evening. I fear she finds our male conversation quite tiresome.”
Kendra had no time for small talk. “Where’s Mr. Burnell?”
Sir Preston’s eyebrows flew up at her abrupt tone. He peered at her more closely. “Are you all right, my lady?”
“I’m fine. I need to speak with Mr. Burnell.”
“Are you certain nothing is amiss?”
For fuck’s sake. “No. I just need to speak to him. Now.”
“He’s supervising Mr. Beane with his first amputation. He ought to be finished shortly, and will no doubt wish for a respite. Why don’t we wait for him in the lounge, shall we?”
Kendra was forced to slow her impatient stride to match Sir Preston’s slower pace as he guided her down the corridor.
“May I ask why you wish to speak to Mr. Burnell?” he asked, shooting her a sideways glance. “You appear . . . overwrought.”
“I’m not overwrought.” She gritted her teeth. Next, he’ll be bringing out the smelling salts. “I have a few follow up questions for him.”
“I see.”
He drew out the words in such a way to imply the opposite. He didn’t see, and she could hardly enlighten him that a young girl’s life was on the line.
Sir Preston opened the door to the lounge.
Dr. Carter was the sole occupant, sitting at the same table as during Kendra’s first visit.
A cup of tea was cooling next to his elbow as he read a newspaper.
At their entrance, he lowered the paper and made a grunting sound that Kendra assumed was a greeting.
“Dr. Carter, do you remember Lady Sutcliffe?” Sir Preston tapped his cane over to the table.
The old man scowled. “I haven’t lost my memory. Lady Sutcliffe,” he acknowledged with the briefest of nods.
Kendra couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the clock on the sideboard. How long did it take to do an amputation? Edwina had been kidnapped, and Burnell was the key to finding her.
She forced herself to look at the cantankerous old man. “Dr. Carter.”
“Would you like a cup of tea, my lady?” Sir Preston asked, moving to the sideboard.
“No, thank you.”
Sir Preston smiled. “Something stronger? To soothe one’s nerves?”
“My nerves are fine, thanks.” Still, she took a breath and then let it out slowly. It helped clear her mind a little, and she remembered something. “Actually, I have a few questions for you and Dr. Carter.”
Kendra thought it was interesting that each man’s eyebrows went in opposite directions—Sir Preston’s up in surprise while Dr. Carter’s went down in a wary scowl.
“I was told that you both have treated many patients with syphilis,” she continued. “Have either of you ever had patients by the names of Isabella Russo or Clarice Chapman?”
“I can hardly be expected to remember every prostitute with the pox,” Dr. Carter groused.
Sir Preston shook his head. “I don’t recall them either.”
“Clarice was an actress at the Bowden Theater. Isabella Russo worked there, as well, but she dreamed of being a singer. She had a fondness for Vivaldi and had the voice of an angel.”
Kendra hoped repeating Mrs. Chirone’s words about her sister would help humanize Isabella, get more information about her from the old men.
Dr. Carter’s eyes lit up. “Vivaldi!”
“You remember her? Isabella?” Kendra asked.
“Good God, no.” His lip curled as he dismissed Isabella with a flick of his wrist. “I remember Vivaldi. I was blessed to attend one of his final performances in Vienna. The man was a genius.”
Kendra stared at him and had to wonder exactly how old he was.
He must have read her thoughts, because he glared at her. “I was a child of ten, but I never forgot the magic of Il Prete Rosso.”
For a moment Kendra’s vision wavered, then snapped back into sharp focus. Oh, my God . . .
“What did you say?” she managed through numb lips.
“I said that I was blessed to attend one of Vivaldi’s final concertos.”
Sir Preston eyed her with concern. “Do you feel faint, my lady?”
She barely heard him, keeping her gaze on Dr. Carter. “But what did you call him?”
The old man frowned, clearly bewildered. “Il Prete Rosso. It’s the nickname given to him after he was ordained as a priest. It means—”
“The Red Priest,” Kendra translated. Her pulsed jumped with the surge of adrenalin. Stupid, she thought. I’ve been so stupid. “Vivaldi had red hair.”
“Yes—”
“Where’s Dawes?” She spun to face Sir Preston. She must have looked crazed, because the physician’s eyes widened and he took a step back from her. “Dawes. Where is he?”
“Mr. Goldsten’s surgery. He’s taken it over—where are you going? My lady!”
“Young people—so rude!” Dr. Carter sniffed.
“Lady Sutcliffe—wait!” Sir Preston hurried after her.
“I don’t have time to wait.” Still, she paused long enough for the old man to catch up. “I have to find Dawes and send a message to my husband,” she said as they began walking again.
“Why? What is this about?”
“Dawes is Vivaldi.”
“What?”
She blew out an annoyed breath. “I don’t have time to explain.”
“I shall accompany you, and you can explain on the way.” He hailed one of the apprentice’s striding down the corridor. “Mr. Quayle, run out to the mews and tell my coachman to bring my carriage around immediately.”
Irritation flashed in the young man’s face, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I have a carriage,” she retorted as they approached the stairs.
“My coachman will instruct yours to deliver the message to your husband. It’ll save time, as your man knows your address. Could you please slow your pace a bit, madam? I realize you are in a great hurry to speak to young Dawes, but he’s not going anywhere.”
Kendra shot him an impatient look. “Sir Preston, this is an emergency—”
“Is someone in risk of imminent death?” He took her arm and smiled at her.
Short of shaking him off, she was forced to slow down.
“Everything is an emergency for the young.” He made a tutting noise. “When you reach my age, you begin to—”
“A girl has been kidnapped,” she snapped.
Sir Preston’s eyes widened. “Good heavens. What does this have to do with Mr. Dawes?”
“He’s involved.”
“No.”
“Yes. Sir Preston—”
“I’m coming with you, my lady.” His tone took on a steely edge. “I’ve known that boy all his life. I went to school with Andrew’s father. I’ll not let you accuse him falsely.”
Kendra was still stunned that Dawes was Vivaldi, but her mind was beginning to clear. Her mistake, she realized, was assuming Isabella’s Vivaldi was the leader. There was no way the apprentice was the one spearheading the experiments. He was a follower.
But she was beginning to think she knew who he was following.