“When did you speak to your wife about Mr. Goldsten?” Kendra asked, refocusing the conversation.
“I can’t be expected to know the exact date, can I?” Westford grumbled.
“Before or after you spoke to Lord Crawford?”
“I spoke to her before—a word of caution. Then I spoke to her again after Lord Crawford brought home to me how much she was making a cake of herself.”
“You were angry. You argued.” Kendra paused. “How violent was your argument, sir?”
Westford’s nostrils flared. “I did not harm Grace! How many times must I tell you? For heaven’s sake, I did not throw her over the balcony in some shabby theater!”
Mrs. O’Leary said, “This is getting redundant, my lady. Westford is not responsible for his wife’s death.”
“Lady Westford had bruises on her that had nothing to do with her murder,” Kendra said. “It looks like someone grabbed her, maybe shook her.”
Westford turned a deeper red, shaking his head. “I swear, I did not lay a finger on her!”
Kendra noticed Mrs. O’Leary squeeze Westford’s arm. Trying to comfort him? Or a cautionary gesture?
Mrs. O’Leary smiled at Kendra. “Westford would not harm a fly. I can vouch that he was here all day on Sunday. The weather was nice enough for us to take the children to Regent Park to feed the ducks. This summer has been dreadfully cold.”
“How many children do you have, Mrs. O’Leary?” Alec inquired politely.
She smiled at him. “Six. Our eldest, Charles, is a barrister in the House of Commons. Blythe married last year, which makes her two sisters, Fanny and Sarah, frightfully jealous. They will soon be out of the schoolroom, finding beaus of their own. Thankfully, I have Robert and Cecil for a few more years, even though they are a bit of a handful.”
“Did your wife ever mention a woman named Clarice? Clarice Chapman?” Kendra asked Westford.
He appeared confused by the abrupt change in topic. “No. Who is she?”
Kendra shifted her gaze to Mrs. O’Leary. “Do you know Clarice Chapman?”
“No. Who is that?”
Kendra fished the poster out of her reticule. “She was an actress at the Bowden Theater. Do you recognize her?”
“Westford and I enjoy the theater and have been to the Bowden Theater a time or two.” She frowned as she studied the illustration. “I don’t recognize her, but that isn’t entirely unusual with the greasepaint one wears on stage.”
“You don’t keep in touch with anyone from the theater?”
“Oh, good heavens, no! It’s been decades since I was part of a troupe. After I met Westford”—she beamed at the earl—“I never considered continuing on stage. My fellow thespians move around so often, ’tis difficult to keep up a correspondence.”
Kendra replaced the paper in her reticule. “Lord Westford, did your wife ever say the phrase, ‘Exitus acta probat’to you in conversation?”
“No.” Now his frown was more puzzled than angry. “It’s Latin, isn’t it? I was never good at foreign languages. Waste of time, as far as I’m concerned. The King’s English is good enough for me. What does it mean?”
“’The outcome justifies the deed,’ or ‘the end justifies the means.’ Maybe she said it to you in English.”
“No. Why would she?”
“Did she talk to you about St. George’s Hospital?”
His brow cleared, seemingly relieved to be able to answer in the affirmative. “Yes! She was concerned about its state of disrepair. My wife enjoyed playing Lady Bountiful. She was drumming up interest with likeminded ladies to raise funds to build a new hospital.”
“Did she ever speak about the physicians or surgeons that worked there?”
Lord Westford’s jaw tightened. “I am aware of Grace’s fascination with medicine and natural philosophy. Even when we were children, she expressed curiosity in such matters. We did not share the interest, so we never discussed it. Her sister died from typhus. I believe that’s where her obsession came from.”
“Obsession is a strong word, my lord.”
