Both men looked startled by the blunt statement. But Burnell’s surprise faded quickly into amusement. “Indeed? And what gossipmonger has spread this tale? No doubt old biddies who relieve their boredom by inventing far-fetched fantasies.”
His lip curled with contempt, and Kendra’s fingers tightened on her coffee mug.Oh, I know that look. For the first fourteen years of her life, she’d seen that look on her parents’ faces. They were brilliant scientists, but they each had the emotional IQ of a crocodile.
“This isn’t about gossip, Mr. Burnell,” she said. Maybe she didn’t have Alec and the Duke’s cutting upper-class accent, but her tone was frosty. “It’s about the evidence. Lady Westford didn’t accidentally fall—or kill herself.”
The smile remained cemented on his face. “And how, pray tell, did you come across this so-called evidence, madam?”
Munroe spoke up. “I examined the body myself. I concur with Lady Sutcliffe. This was no accident or suicide.”
The smile vanished. “I thought Thornton ruled it an accident?”
“He was wrong,” Kendra stated. “How well did you know Lady Westford?” She let her gaze drift between the men.
“This is extraordinary,” Sir Preston murmured, frowning. “Are you absolutely certain, Ethan?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness,” Sir Preston muttered. “My wife and I were well-acquainted with Lady Westford. The countess was interested in our work here at St. George’s, and we attended many of the same social events. We were distressed to learn of her death. And now this . . .”
“I knew her well enough,” Mr. Burnell replied, studying the amber liquid in his glass. “We had many conversations about raising funds for a new hospital. This building has been here for almost a hundred years. Personally, I doubt that we’ll get another twenty out of it.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Kendra asked all three men.
Dandridge answered first. “A few weeks ago, at the Royal Society. They had a fascinating discussion on using electricity to reanimate dead tissue.” His voice warmed with excitement. “It brings up a host of possibilities. I just amputated three toes of a local wherryman. But what if we could harness the forces of electricity to stimulate dying flesh, bringing it back to life? What if we could offer treatment rather than amputation?”
“Balderdash!” The old man at the next table gave up all pretense of reading his newspaper. “What you say is sacrilege, Mr. Dandridge. Only God can bring back the dead!”
“We are men of science, Dr. Carter—not clergymen.” Burnell matched the physician’s glower. “You may waste your time praying for cures to society’s ills, but the future will be shaped by natural philosophy and medicine. We must challenge ourselves and push past absurd barriers that are little more than superstition.”
“By tampering with nature? By playing God?” Dr. Carter threw aside the newspaper in disgust and hoisted himself to his feet, practically vibrating with outrage.
Dandridge shook his head. “We play God every time we save a patient’s life, Dr. Carter. If I hadn’t operated on the wherryman, gangrene would have spread and eventually killed him.”
“Mr. Dandridge makes a strong point,” Sir Preston interjected, earning a furious look from Dr. Carter.
“Bah! I am aware of thatclubthat you formed, sir! Mark my words, you shall regret toying with matters of which you know nothing. And you”—he scowled at Munroe—“with your dissections and experimentation. ’Tis blasphemy, and I will not listen to any more of this drivel.” He stomped to the door and slammed it after him.
Burnell’s lip curled. “That old relic still believes that disease is caused by an imbalance of bodily humors.”
“Some individuals have a difficult time letting go of their former views,” Munroe said quietly.
“You’ve always been too sentimental, Ethan. The man is archaic and should be drummed out of the medical profession.” Burnell blew out a breath, glancing at Kendra. “I was also at that lecture, my lady. Like my colleague here, I believe electricity will prove useful in medicine, although I sincerely doubt that it will bring the dead back to life.”
“My point is that we don’t know what it may do until wetry,” Dandridge said stiffly.
No wonder Mary Shelly had been inspired to writeFrankenstein. In fact, at this very moment, Kendra realized, the author was writing a masterpiece that would launch a new genre of fiction—and a million Halloween masks.
Kendra pushed away the distracting thought to ask, “Did you speak to Lady Westford at the lecture?”
“We tend to gather afterward to discuss what was presented,” Burnell said. “And, yes, Lady Westford was in that group.”
“How was her mood? Did she seem to be worried about anything or anyone?”
Burnell pursed his lips, frowning into his glass. “I don’t recall anything unusual. We spoke about the lecture, of course, and certain advancements that have been reported in the medical journals. She didn’t appear melancholy or fretful.”
“That was the last time you saw her?”
“No, she came to St. George’s last week. I saw her, but I didn’t speak to her.”
