“Vlad Draculea wasn’t a count—he was a prince. In Walachia, Romania, I believe.” Muldoon lifted his eyebrows when they stared at him in surprise. “What boy doesn’t love a good story about a brutal, bloodthirsty, fifteenth-century prince terrorizing Europe by impaling his enemies? Do you know that it was said that Vlad insisted upon dining amongst his victims, soaking his bread in their blood?”
“Good God.” Munroe was horrified.
Kendra had been thinking about the Dracula created by Bram Stoker. But the author of that book wouldn’t even be born for another thirty years.
For a long moment, no one said anything as the carriage moved forward. The noises of the street—the clopping of hooves, the thrumming of wheels on cobblestone and gravel, the cries from the costermongers as they touted their wares—seemed too normal a backdrop for their discussion.
Muldoon broke the silence. “Mr. Kelly told me that you have a witness, and he’s got his lads searching for her. She’s most likely dead.”
Kendra frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s been three days since anyone’s seen her. Mayhap she’ll be the next mermaid the River Police fish out of the Thames.”
Kendra already considered his grim prediction a likely scenario. London might not have CCTV cameras on every corner in this time, but it had a million-plus eyeballs. Edwina, with her scarred face, would be noticed.
She looked out the window as seedy gave way to stylish, Hyde Park’s velvety lawns of deep green dotted with sheep. Not the fluffy white sheep that she was used to seeing in the countryside. Here, the sheep’s fleece had turned a dingy brown from living in London’s smog. St. George’s Hospital rose up on the other side of the thoroughfare.
“I shall make my way to the Bowden,” Muldoon said once the carriage stopped and he had leapt down. “I’ll let you know if I discover anything, my lady.”
“Come to Bedford Square tomorrow morning, nine a.m. We’ll have a briefing.”
Muldoon cocked his head. “Very well. But why not this evening? I ought to know something by then.”
Kendra let out a heavy sigh. “I can’t tonight. I have to go to a ball.”
Muldoon grinned. “You make attending a grand society soiree sound like you’re walking to the gallows, my lady.”
“I don’t see much of a difference, Mr. Muldoon.”
Chapter 16
St. George’s Hospital resembled Mr. Goldsten’s surgery, Kendra supposed, except on a much grander scale. As they walked up the steps of the neoclassical mansion, Munroe explained that the hospital had once been the London residence of Viscount Lanesborough, back when Hyde Park was nothing more than open fields. Like many wealthy families, the Lanesboroughs moved to more fashionable neighborhoods on the West End of London when the area urbanized. At the time, Lanesborough House had been taken over by medical staff who were unhappy with their facilities in the Westminster Infirmary, and they had rechristened it St. George’s Hospital.
“I studied here for a time under John Hunter—one of the most brilliant anatomists I’ve ever known,” Munroe said, opening the door for Kendra. “In fact, he was the reason I decided to become an anatomist and open a school rather than continue as a physician.”
Munroe let out a soft sigh as they entered the waiting room, his gaze regarding the cracks in the walls, the crumbling crown molding, the peeling paint and scuff marks on the floor. “I confess, it’s difficult for me to see St. George in such poor shape these days. The faculty is hoping to tear it down and build another in its place.”
The interior did have the sad aura of an aging beauty unable to stop the ravages of time, Kendra thought. Unlike Mr. Goldsten’s clinic, all kinds of patients occupied the waiting room chairs. Poor and working class, judging by their clothes. The upper classes—nobility or the nouveau riche—consulted physicians who made house calls. In a world of haves and have-nots, it was always nice to be the former.Will that ever change?
The stench was a little less oppressive here than in Goldsten’s surgery, but not by much. Kendra didn’t have to breathe shallowly or only through her mouth, but sickness had its own smell. As they crossed the room to the staircase, she was conscious of eyes, dulled by disease or drink or glittering with pain, tracking their progress. The sick muttered and moaned, hacked into dirty rags, or sat in quiet stupors.
“St. George has more than two hundred-fifty patients in fifteen wards,” Munroe told her as they climbed. He paused on the next landing, where the long, wide hallway was a beehive of activity. Women wearing blue aprons over stiff, black bombazine dresses and carrying chamber pots and wooden buckets hurried in and out of rooms. A few men, also wearing aprons, theirs smeared with blood or bodily fluids, were making their rounds. Kendra could hear the dull murmur of conversation punctuated by sobs and shrieks coming from behind closed doors.
Kendra and Munroe received a few curious glances, but no one stopped to inquire about their presence. Munroe held out a hand to catch the attention of two women—one tall and thin; the other short and round—scurrying past with armloads of fresh, folded linens.
“Is Mr. Dandridge or Sir Preston working today?” he asked, earning an impatient look from the tall woman.
“Sir Preston is with a patient. Mr. Dandridge is currently in surgery.” She shifted the bundle in her arms, pointing to a nearby door.
Munroe nodded. “Carry on, Sisters.”
The women darted off, skirts flapping around their heels. Munroe opened the door, and Kendra stepped into a long, narrow room. Daylight streamed in a bank of windows, but oil lamps had also been lit, as well as a massive fireplace on one wall. There were fifty occupied cots, and Kendra identified at least a dozen medical staff—doctors and nurses—moving between patients. They seemed inured to the screaming, weeping, muttering, and cursing around them. Or the sound of urine hitting porcelain as a man with angry red, pus-filled boils covering his face stood pissing into a chamber pot. Another patient was vomiting loudly into a bucket.
Privacy was a luxury the poor could not afford.
Kendra had spent six years as an FBI profiler, viewing the ghastliest of crime scenes. In that time, she’d become hardened to dealing with the dead. It was ironic, she mused, that her stomach now roiled as her gaze traveled over the living.If you can call this living…
Munroe looked at her. “It can be overwhelming. We can wait for Mr. Dandridge elsewhere.”
