“Friday. We were together with Her Majesty at Buckingham House.”
Buckingham House—before it became Buckingham Palace.
“What time was this?”
“The Queen required our presence at three. We stayed until two the following afternoon.”
That explained the gap in time from when Lady Westford viewed the body at the morgue and when she showed up at Bowden Theater. “How did she seem to you?”
Lady Harrington was quiet, then said, “Grace was a bit of bluestocking. Did you know?”
Kendra frowned at the non sequitur. “I’ve been told that she had an interest in science. Medicine.”
In another era, Lady Westford could have been a doctor or scientist herself, not reduced to the sidelines, she reflected.
“Yes. She was fascinated by both old and new techniques,” Lady Harrington murmured, her gaze moving over the dancers gliding across the floor. “She was also an avid gardener. I am not speaking of pretty flowers. She was interested in herbs for medicinal purposes. Did you know that her sister died of typhus?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at Kendra, seemingly pleased. “You have found out a great deal in a short amount of time, Lady Sutcliffe. The tragedy influenced her. She advocated for more aggressive methods to finding cures for diseases. I am telling you this because I want you to understand that Grace was not someone with windmills in her head. She was very intelligent and thoughtful.” Another flickering smile. “She was not like Amelia. She didn’t gossip.”
The matron unfurled her fan, using it to combat the stifling heat from the press of bodies around them. “The ball is a success, but it is quite warm in here. Let us step outside, shall we?”
Kendra followed Lady Harrington through the French doors to the veranda. She welcomed the rush of cold air as they stepped outside. Several torches had been lit to drive the shadows into corners and crevices. The evenings’ drizzle had stopped—or paused—but the veranda’s tiles were wet enough to dampen the hem of their skirts. A handful of couples was already outside, using the terrace as a respite from the overheated ballroom. And, given the young ladies who were accompanied by gentlemen, a reprieve from the watchful eyes of chaperones.
Lady Harrington stopped near a green topiary, snipped and shaped into a geometric spire, away from the listening ears of the other terrace occupants. “Grace tended to be serious of mind,” she said. “But she’d become more somber than usual.”
“You noticed this on Friday?”
She shook her head. “Her mood changed before that. A month, at least. Maybe more. She was blue-devilled. I approached her about what might be ailing her, but . . .” She lifted one shoulder in a dainty half-shrug. “Grace was one to keep her own counsel. I discovered her alone in one of the palace’s antechambers, weeping.”
“When was this?”
“A few weeks ago. I can’t give you an exact date.”
“Did you ask her why she was upset?”
“Of course. She dismissed my concern initially. I pressed, and she finally confessed that she was having difficulties with the men in her life.”
“Men, plural? Not man?”
“Definitely men. I assume she meant her husband and Mr. Goldsten.” Lady Harrington’s eyes glinted with humor. “I may be called ‘The Saint,’ but that doesn’t make me deaf and blind to reality, my dear. I am fortunate to be blessed in my marriage. However, I know, more than most, that not everyone is.”
“Did she tell you what kind of trouble she was having with these men?”
“Not in so many words, but I know Henry—Lord Westford. He would not have been pleased that his wife had a friendship with a Jew. He’s a pompous prig. Like many, he forgets that the Jewish people are as English as any of us.”
“I heard that he wasn’t happy about their relationship,” Kendra acknowledge. “Do you think he could have had her killed because of it?”
Lady Harrington narrowed her eyes. “Very clever of you to suggest that Henry wouldn’t have done the deed himself. As I said, he’s a pompous prig, and pompous prigs excel at being quarrelsome, but shy away from physical confrontations. Henry wouldn’t have laid his hands on Grace in a violent manner.”
Kendra wondered if that was true, recalling the old bruises on Lady Westford’s arms. Someone had laid their hands on her before her death. If not Lord Westford, was it Goldsten? Or someone else?
“My instinct is to say no, Henry would never have arranged for Grace’s murder,” Lady Harrington continued. “I trust my instincts, but I have to ask myself if I truly believe it, or if I believe it because I can’t imagine a person that I know could be capable of such evil?”
Lady Harrington shook her head and sighed heavily. “I have spent many years behind palace walls, Lady Sutcliffe. In that time, I’ve learned that most people wear many faces. They cloak their true nature to further their cause. Society may criticize and condemn my mother-in-law and sister, but neither one of them pretended to be something they were not.
“So . . . I don’t know,” she added, her gaze somber. “I don’t know if Henry hired someone to kill Grace.”
