He shook his head in denial. “You are implying that Andrew killed Lady Westford. Why would he do such a thing?”
“For the same reason Dr. Thornton and Jenny had to die. And,” she added softly, “Mr. Goldsten.”
Surprise flared in the old man’s eyes. “Mr. Goldsten killed himself.”
“How do you know he committed suicide?”
“This is madness. Everyone saw him do it.”
“No, they saw Goldsten go into his office and Dawes follow him in. Theyhearda gunshot. We only have Dawes’s word that Goldsten killed himself.” She kept her gaze steady on Sir Preston’s. “I think Dawes took Goldsten by surprise and shot him pointblank in the head. Then he pretended to save him.”
Sir Preston sucked in a breath. “I don’t believe it!”
“I actually think Dawes was shocked by his own act of violence.” She remembered the apprentice’s horror. “It couldn’t have been easy for him. To kill his own mentor.”
“You are accusing Andrew of being this . . . this vile mastermind.”
“No. He’s a follower, and was following orders to silence Goldsten before he could talk. He’s not the mastermind.” She slipped her hand in her reticule, and brought out the pistol, pointing it at the physician. “You, Sir Preston, are the mastermind.”
“You are insane, madam!” Sir Preston’s hands convulsed around the silver handle of his cane. “Put that weapon down before you hurt someone.”
Kendra smiled. “If I shoot you, Sir Preston, it won’t be an accident. Where are you taking me, by the way? What message did you give my coachman?”
He blinked. Then, amazingly, he chuckled. “You are quite the Amazon, Lady Sutcliffe. My wife told me not to underestimate you.”
That startled Kendra. “Lady Maude is part of this?”
“By this, I assume you’re referring to my little research group? No. She was merely making a general observation after meeting you. She’s an astute lady.” He leaned back in his seat, his hands resting loosely on his walking cane. Kendra thought he looked more comfortable and amused than anyone should be with a gun pointed at them. “I passed on your message to your coachman that we were going to Mr. Goldsten’s surgery. I didn’t mention your suspicion regarding Andrew, of course.”
He tilted his head, regarding her curiously. “You must tell me how you concluded that I was . . . I shan’t be so presumptuous and call myself a mastermind.” He smiled briefly at her. “Let’s just say that I was instrumental in putting the group together.”
“You’re one of the founders of the Metamorphosis Club, a group to discuss advancement and change in the medical community.”
“Is that what gave me away? No,” he answered his own question, shaking his head. “Lucien and I founded the club years ago—long before I had the idea to take what was discussed in our meetings and make it a reality.”
“Isabella Russo told me.”
“Doubtful. The woman was mad even before we finished with her.”
“And tossed her aside like trash.”
“It was clear that it was too late for her. The pox was already rotting her brain as well as her face. She couldn’t be saved, no matter what we did.”
“You gave her false hope. She told me she was being cured by Vivaldi and the saints.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Andrew and his red hair. How odd to be exposed by the rantings of a madwoman. But why did you suspect me?”
“I knew more than one person was involved. Vivaldiand the saints. Every group needs a leader. Someone respected by his peers and followed by his subordinates. You have that kind of reputation, both in your club and at St. George’s. My mistake was that I thought Isabella’s Vivaldi was the leader.”
“Fascinating.”
“You were also insistent—too insistent—about accompanying me to see Dawes, and about using your carriage. I assume your coachman was the one watching me down by the river—and the one who took Edwina.”
He regarded her intently. “You knew this was a trap, and yet you came anyway.”
Kendra wiggled the pistol at him. “I’m not worried.”
“Still, why take the risk?”
