“Can you not stop her?” Parker implored Alec and the Duke.
Alec just smiled, as the Duke remarked, “I’m afraid Lady Sutcliffe is not a stoppable sort of female.”
Parker didn’t seem to know what to make of that statement. “The family shouldn’t be disturbed,” he muttered. “They’re in mourning.”
The butler who opened the door a moment later reflected that sentiment. He was wearing black armbands and viewed Kendra and Alec with a lofty expression. “The family has suffered a bereavement and is not at home to anyone,” he intoned, and began shutting the door. Kendra wedged her foot across the threshold to prevent it from closing, and wasn’t surprised when the butler’s eyes bulged in astonishment.
She said, “I’m here for Lady Westford.”
“You can’t— It isn’t— Lady Westford is—” the butler stuttered. He blew out an aggravated breath. “She is the reason the family is in mourning.”
“We are aware of her ladyship’s death,” the Duke said, stepping forward. “I am the Duke of Aldridge, and this is my nephew, Lord Sutcliffe, his wife, Lady Sutcliffe, Dr. Munroe, and Mr. Kelly from Bow Street. I assume you are familiar with Mr. Parker.”
Kendra had to suppress a smile. Now the Dukewasusing his “duke voice.” It always got results, and today was no different. The butler was already standing rigidly, but his shoulders went back another half an inch and his chest puffed out. He schooled his features into the impassivity expected of a high-class butler. If he was confused by the Duke of Aldridge’s desire to see a dead woman, he would never show it.
“Your Grace, madam, sirs.” The butler swung open the door, allowing them into a spacious, black-and-white-marble-tiled entrance hall. The paneled walls were decorated with gilt-framed oil paintings and mirrors draped in yards of black crepe. An ornate staircase dominated one wall. At the top landing, a maid was sweeping. She paused briefly to peer down at the intruders, then hastily resumed her duties.
“Lady Westford is in the drawing room,” the butler said. “Please, follow me.”
They crossed the foyer to a pair of double doors beyond the staircase. Kendra eyed the black mourning hatchment positioned above the doorway like a vulture. God, it was depressing.
The butler wrapped his hands around the twin doorknobs and opened both doors with a swoosh. He stepped aside, letting them file past.
The drawing room’s curtains were closed. The only light came from an oil lamp on a shelf, its meager glow barely reaching the open coffin positioned on a nearby table, and shadows pooled around the furniture. Even though Kendra knew it was customary to keep the dead at home until burial in this era, it was still weird to see the coffin in the drawing room. Flowers exploded out of vases positioned around the room. A nice touch, though Kendra had a feeling the blooms hadn’t been sent by loved ones. More likely, servants had placed the floral arrangements around the coffin to combat the sickly scent of death that currently permeated the drawing room.
“I shall inform his lordship that you are paying your respects,” the butler murmured, retreating.
Kendra glanced around. “Can we get more light?”
Alec walked to the fireplace. There was no fire in the hearth and the room was chilly. Kendra wondered if this was another way to keep the fumes from the decomposing body in check. Alec found tapers, lit one from the oil lamp, and then walked around the room lighting candles and more lamps.
She raised her eyebrows at him. “We can’t just open the drapes?”
Alec shrugged. “It would be disrespectful.”
It was one of those rules that made no sense. How was daylight disrespectful? Still, she wasn’t going to argue. Instead, she moved over to the open coffin, studying the figure inside.
Lady Westford was tiny. Almost doll-like. Maybe a whisper over five feet, with dainty, birdlike bones. Someone had dressed her in a gauzy black dress with a black ruff encircling her throat. A few silvery strands in her thick, chestnut hair indicated her advanced years. Her heart-shaped face was relatively unlined, with delicate features that had been dusted with rice powder. Probably an attempt to conceal the greenish discoloration of decaying flesh.
All and all, Lady Westford looked perfectly normal.
And that was completely wrong.
Kendra had seen victims of suicide who’d plunged to their deaths. They did not look perfect or normal.
Leaning forward, Kendra tried not to grimace when she speared her fingers through the woman’s thick hair. In the twenty-first century, it was standard procedure to don latex gloves when touching the dead. She was a bit of a germaphobe without the protective cover.
Not that it stopped her.
“Good God!” Behind her, Parker sucked in a shocked breath. “What the devil is she doing?”
Kendra ignored him. “I can feel deep lacerations of the occipital bone,” she said, glancing at Munroe. He was studying the dead woman with an intensity that made her think that he shared her suspicion. “The back of her skull appears to be concave. We need to roll her over, doctor.”
He jerked his gaze away from Lady Westford’s face and helped Kendra flip the body.
“You can’t do this!” Parker exclaimed. “Your Grace, she can’t do this! ’Tis unseemly!”
“Her ladyship has her reasons,” the Duke replied with remarkable calm, then focused on Kendra. “Youdohave your reasons?”
