Kendra had noticed the old-fashioned clothes the woman wore, with a full, swagged skirt, fitted bodice, and lace-trimmed square neckline.
“We were married for only a short time when Elizabeth developed diabetes mellitus,” he continued, his face sagging as he, too, gazed at the painting.
“My condolences,” Kendra said quietly. Diabetes mellitus would eventually become known as type 1 diabetes. There was no known cure, not even in her timeline, but at least there were treatments that prolonged life in the future. Here, Thornton’s marriage had been doomed by his wife’s diagnosis.
“I was a young physician at the time, but I recognized the signs. She followed the diet suggested by the physician Thomas Willis and the Scottish surgeon John Rollo, limiting carbohydrates and focusing on meats. Then, of course, there were the endless herbal treatments—sodium bicarbonate, potassium salts, chalk—even opium, and bloodletting . . .” He sighed heavily. “I knew, of course. I’d studied the disease in medical school, and I knew there was no cure. ’Tis in the blood, you see. I could only watch her . . . disappear.”
“How old was she?”
“Four-and-twenty. We grew up together, and married as soon as I finished my medical training when I was twenty. We moved here, and Lizzie decorated each room. After . . . after she was gone, I couldn’t bear to change anything. Now, it comforts me to be surrounded by the things that she personally selected.”
“The Duke of Aldridge lost his wife and daughter when they were young. He says that not a day goes by when he doesn’t think of them.”
Thornton’s smile was one of understanding, a shared sorrow. “Then he knows that once you have found the love of your life, there is no replacement. But you didn’t come to quiz me about my late wife, did you, Lady Sutcliffe?”
“No.” She kept her tone quiet, neutral. “Why did you rule Lady Westford’s death an accident? You must know that it was not.”
He drew in a swift breath. “There is no way we can be certain—”
“Yes, there is. I saw the railing on the upper balcony, and she was a small woman. She couldn’t have accidentally fallen over it.”
“Yes.” He surprised her with his quick agreement. “But there is another option.”
“She didn’t commit suicide. For her to do that, she would have had to climb over the railing—”
“Which she could have done.”
“And she would have had to shove herself away from the railing with enough force to land on seats several feet away. I don’t know if she had that kind of upper body strength, doctor, but why bother? If she wanted to commit suicide, why not just jump?”
“My examination concluded that Lady Westford’s skull was fractured, many other bones shattered. And she broke her neck. All consistent with falling off a balcony from that height.”
“Also consistent with beingthrownoff a balcony.”
She contemplated Thornton. Sweat was beginning to glisten on his upper lip.
“Your decision shut down the investigation, doctor,” she went on. “Who told you to rule it an accident? Lord Westford? Or someone else?”
“You cannot be certain—”
“I can. The evidence points to murder, not suicide, which you would have known if you’d bothered to properly investigate,” she snapped.
He went rigid. “I’m a physician, not a Bow Street Runner. I was asked to determine how she died, which I did!”
“You could have left it indeterminate, and an inquest would have been called. In fact an inquestshouldhave been called, regardless. It’s highly irregular that it was not.”
“Do you know what an inquest entails, Lady Sutcliffe?” He thrust up his chin, his eyes catching fire. “If the victim cannot be seenin situ, then it is laid out for everyone to view. Often naked. Usually in a tavern. No husband would ever wish to see their wife displayed in such a manner for the jurors to gawk at and to satisfy the public’s salacious curiosity. ’Tis unthinkable!”
“Are you saying it was Lord Westford who asked you to rule it an accident, to avoid an inquest?”
“I didn’t say that!” Suddenly, he shoved himself away from the table, sending what was left in his teacup sloshing onto the tablecloth. The lines on his face deepened as he turned to stare out the window. “Lady Westford was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Can you imagine the embarrassment? I truly thought the lady committed suicide and wished to preserve Lady Westford’s dignity.”
Kendra got to her feet as well. “All you did was preserve a murderer’s anonymity, doctor.”
Thornton drew in a harsh breath. “I don’t know how you can be so certain—”
“There was a witness,” she said.
“Someone witnessed Lady Westford being murdered? What did she—or he—say? Can that person identify the monster?”
