He lifted the pot, poured her a cup. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Two sugars, no milk.”
“I shall pour myself a cup,” Munroe said.
They carried their drinks to the table that the young men had vacated. Kendra picked up the primitive stethoscope, inspecting it more closely.
Dandridge said, “I was intrigued when Monsieur Laënnec wrote about his invention. I am fortunate to have a cousin living in France, who managed to get his hands on one and send it to me. ’Tis a modest design, but I envision that it can be improved in the future.”
“I can envision that too,” Kendra said with a slight smile, setting down the old-fashioned instrument.
“Now, what’s this about Lady Westford?” Dandridge prompted. “I heard she fell off a balcony in a Covent Garden theater. A tragedy, but an accident nevertheless.”
“How well did you know Lady Westford?” she asked, picking up her cup. She tried not to make a face when she took a sip of the weak brew.
“She was a patroness at St. George’s, and is one of the ladies I spoke of visiting on occasion. She also attended lectures at the Royal Society, where we had many interesting conversations. I was shocked and saddened when I heard of her accident.”
“Except it wasn’t an accident.”
“So you say.” He fixed his gaze on her. “Who told you that it was murder?”
“The evidence.”
His eyes narrowed. “What evidence?”
“Let’s just say it would require considerable effort for Lady Westford to accidentally fall over the railing.”
Kendra recognized the flash of uneasiness in Dandridge’s eyes, and knew what he was thinking.
“She didn’t commit suicide either,” she added quietly.
He sucked in a breath. “You are very blunt, my lady.”
“When it comes to murder, I find it’s best to be blunt.” Kendra’s gaze strayed to the elderly gentleman at the next table. He was pretending to be absorbed in reading his newspaper.
Dandridge shook his head. “No. I cannot believe that. Who would wish to harm her?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” The comment prompted the elderly doctor to glance at her once quickly.
The lounge door opened and two gentlemen walked in, talking in low voices.One was small and wizened, with wispy gray strands combed over his bald pate and silver spectacles that matched the curved silver handle of his cane. The other man was tall and barrel-chested with a shock of white hair framing a broad, ruddy face. Kendra clocked the old man to be eighty—or nearly so—while his colleague could’ve been anywhere from his early forties to early sixties. He’d moderated his stride to match the old man’s, but Kendra sensed a leashed energy in him.
They broke off their conversation when they spotted the trio at the table. The old man tapped his way to their table as the other man made a beeline for the sideboard. Kendra noticed how the younger man’s ice-blue eyes scanned the room, taking in everything. Bypassing the coffee and teapots, he reached for one of the decanters, splashing whisky into a glass.
The nineteenth-century’s mantra: it’s always five o’clock somewhere.
“Ethan,” the old man said, smiling, and his eyes, the color of washed-out denim, pinned Kendra with an inquiring look. “You brought us a guest.”
“Sir Preston, may I introduce Lady Sutcliffe,” Munroe said. “My lady, this is Sir Preston. He is a chairman at St. George’s and one of the founders of the Metamorphosis Club.”
The old man gave a little bow. “’Tis a pleasure, my lady.”
“And this is Mr. Burnell, one of our St. George’s surgeons,” Munroe continued when the other man walked over.
“Munroe is giving you a tour of St. George’s, I see,” Burnell said. “If you’re considering donating to the hospital, I would be remiss not to urge you to save your money for a new hospital, rather than trying to save an old one.”
Sir Preston frowned. “Let’s not be so hasty in tearing down what could be repaired.”
“Lady Sutcliffe is not here for the hospital. She’s here because she believes Lady Westford was murdered,” Dandridge told them, tossing Kendra an inscrutable look.
