“Maybe Lord Westford wasn’t happy with the arrangement.”
“Lady Westford rarely spoke of her husband other than to say that they married young and for reasons that had nothing to do with the finer emotions.” His tone was stiff. “It isn’t unusual in certain circles, my lady.”
“She never mentioned any arguments she and her husband had? Or that she was afraid of him?”
“No. She wasn’t afraid of her husband.”
“She told you that she wasn’t afraid of him?”
“Well, no—”
“She just never talked about him. So you don’t know for sure.”
Goldsten lifted his hands, palms up. Kendra noticed blood in the creases—not his, but belonging to the countless patients he’d worked on today.
“I can’t help you with that kind of gossip, Lady Sutcliffe,” he said.
“Did she mention having difficulties with anyone else?”
Frowning, he dropped both his hands and his gaze to the desk. “No.”
Kendra watched him fiddle with pieces of foolscap, tidying them into a pile. “No one that she was afraid of or troubled by?” she pressed.
His restless fingers stilled. He looked to the window and the gray clouds framed between the neighboring buildings. Kendra thought she saw sadness in his eyes as he said, “No, no. Lady Westford wasn’t a person that you could dislike, much less hate.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
He slowly brought his gaze back to hers. “I’m not certain. I think it was when we attended a lectureon typhus given by Monsieur Chevalier. He’s a French physician who was in Napoleon’s army when they retreated from Moscow. He witnessed the devastating death toll from the disease.”
“When was the lecture?”
He sifted through his periodicals, papers, and books until he found a tattered leatherbound journal. He spent a minute flipping through the pages until he found the one he wanted. “Thursday, August 28.”
“And that was the last time you saw her?”
“Yes.” But his gaze skittered away.
Kendra eyed him, then asked, “What was her mood like on that day?”
“She was . . . she was troubled by the King’s illness,” he replied. “She’d recently traveled with Her Majesty to Windsor, and witnessed firsthand the treatments being used on the King. It disturbed her.”
An icy chill raced down Kendra’s arms. More than a month ago, she’d spent time in a madhouse. She was all too aware of the treatments prescribed in this century.
“Do you know why she would be at Bowden Theater on Sunday morning?” Kendra asked.
The sudden change in topic seemed to confuse Goldsten. He frowned. “What? No.”
“She never talked about the Bowden Theater?”
Goldsten shook his head. “No.”
“What about an actress named Clarice?”
“What? Who? No, I don’t recall her mentioning that name.”
He was, Kendra decided, a very bad liar. The room was cold, but she detected a gleam of sweat on his brow. She said nothing, letting the silence spin out until he finally met her gaze.
“Mr. Goldsten, I am trying to find out who killed your friend,” she said at last. “You need to be honest with me.”
