“You may have to expand your facility soon, Mr. Goldsten,” Munroe commented as they followed the man to an archway that led to a short hallway. “You have no shortage of patients.”
“’Tis one of the benefits of being located so near the docks.” Goldsten shot them a wry smile that temporarily lifted the weariness from his face. “Sailors enjoy celebrating their return to London by imbibing too much, and that inevitably leads to arguments that are settled with weapons and fists. Dreadful, of course, but it gives me ample specimens to experiment with new wound treatments without being on the battlefield. You’re right about the space, though, Dr. Munroe. I’ve spoken to Mr. Dawes’ stepfather about renting a larger building in the area. Mr. Stevens is the largest landlord in Blackfriar.”
“Convenient to have Mr. Dawes as an apprentice then,” murmured Munroe, and earned another fleeting smile from the surgeon.
“It is.”
“Tell me, do you still work at St. George’s?” Munroe asked.
“Oh, yes. Although for how long, I don’t know. I may be in desperate need of space here, but St. George’s is in desperate need of renovations. The building is falling down.”
Mr. Goldsten pushed open the door that led to his laboratory. Several windows on one wall allowed daylight to stream across counters and tables that displayed a smorgasbord of horrors. Pickled organs floating inside jars. A jumble of bones and skulls—human and animal. On one table, there was a full-length mummified body. On another was—holy crap—a human arm, its pale, waxy flesh sliced open to reveal muscles, tendons, and veins.
Aware that Goldsten was watching her—probably waiting for her to faint—Kendra schooled her features into impassive lines.
“Please, have a seat.” Goldsten indicated the chairs in front of his desk. He waited until they’d settled before he dropped into his own seat. “What is your visit really about, my lady?”
Kendra had to appreciate his directness. “Lady Westford’s murder.”
He gave a surprised jerk, then went utterly still. “What are you talking about? It was a tragic accident.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you? You think that Lady Westford went into an empty theater, climbed to the top balcony, andaccidentallyfell over the railing?”
She was watching him closely, and saw the quick flinch before his expression went carefully blank.
“I cannot presume to know what happened,” he said stiffly.
“There can be no doubt that her ladyship was murdered,” Munroe said gently. “I examined the body myself.”
Goldsten frowned at Munroe. “Dr. Thornton conducted the postmortem. He ruled it an accident.”
The anatomist blew out an uneasy breath. “I can only surmise that Lucien issued that verdict because Lord Westford pressured him to do so.”
“Do you know anybody who would wish to harm Lady Westford?” Kendra asked Goldsten.
“Why would I know such a thing?”
Kendra contemplated him for a long moment. “We know that you and Lady Westford were involved.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “We were friends. Suggesting anything else is unseemly and would besmirch the lady’s reputation.”
“The lady is dead, Mr. Goldsten, and past caring about her reputation.”
His gaze fell to the papers and books strewn across his desk. “Reputations aren’t only about the present, my lady. They’re about the future,” he said softly. “Our reputation today becomes our legacy of tomorrow.Sometimes it’s only our legacy that we pass on in the world.”
“I’m not interested in exposing Lady Westford’s romantic life,” Kendra said, impatient with proprieties. “The woman wasmurdered. If you and Lady Westford were friends, as you say you were, she may have confided in you. Did she ever talk to you about her husband, her marriage?”
Goldsten looked up. “No, not really. Grace—Lady Westford and I shared the same interests in medicine and natural philosophy. She was passionate about it, and even kept up a correspondence with Mr. Edward Jenner. She greatly admired his attempts to eradicate smallpox.”
Kendra had to control her shock. Edward Jenner was responsible for creating the first vaccine. Hell, he hadcoinedthe word “vaccine.” Would she ever get used to living in the same era as people she’d once read about in history books?
“An unusual lady,” Munroe murmured. “I regret not becoming better acquainted with her.”
“Lady Westford’s interest in medicine was inspired by her sister, who perished from typhus when she was quite young,” Goldsten said.
Kendra circled back to why she was there. “I’ve been told Lady Westford was estranged from her husband. That he has a mistress, another family.”
Goldsten’s brow creased in puzzlement. “Yes. What of it?”
