“Dr. Thornton.” Kendra saw recognition flash in his eyes. “You know him.”
It wasn’t a question, but Munroe nodded. “Yes, Lucien and I are well-acquainted. I belong to the Metamorphosis Club that he founded.”
The Duke frowned. “I’m not familiar with that organization.”
“It’s not a formal organization, Your Grace. It’s more of an informal salon, allowing those in the medical community to discuss the latest advancements and theories in natural philosophy and medicine. Lucien—Dr. Thornton—is an excellent physician, with interests that go beyond merely writing prescriptions.”
Kendra understood the implication. The medical establishment here was a bizarro world that adhered to a rigid hierarchy. At the top were physicians, who spent most of their time diagnosing their patients’ maladies and prescribing treatments. Below them—or, rather,beneaththem—were surgeons, who actually got blood on their hands in their attempts to save lives. Then came apothecaries, who acted like modern-day pharmacists, followed by barber-surgeons. This was a time when you could get your haircut and have minor surgery in the same visit.
An anatomist or medical examiner, like Munroe, was at the very bottom.
“I’d still like you to examine the body, doctor. Will that be a problem for you?”
He regarded her with steady gray eyes. “No. I’m certain Lucien won’t be insulted either.”
“Good.” She looked at Sam. “Mr. Kelly—”
“I’d be honored ter assist you, lass.”
She smiled. At barely five-six, with uptilted features and a mop of curly reddish-brown hair, Sam always reminded Kendra of an elf. Granted, an unkempt elf with a penchant for whisky. Today, though, he’d not only put on his Sunday best, but he’d combed his unruly hair and shaved. His eyes, as gold as Spanish doubloons, could gleam warmly with humor or appreciation when he held a glass of whisky or turn as flat and skeptical as any cop’s she’d worked with in the twenty-first century.
“Before you accept, I should tell you that Sir Nathaniel Conant assigned a Runner to the case,” Kendra added. “A Mr. Parker. Do you know him?”
“Aye, I do.”
Kendra had to ask: “What’s your opinion of him?”
“We’re not mates.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Muldoon interjected. “The man prefers giving pretty speeches and currying favor with his betters than actually applying himself to being a thief-taker. I suspect it’s only a matter of time before he takes over for Sir Conant.”
Sam’s lips thinned, but he said nothing.
“I don’t want to cause problems for you, Mr. Kelly. Those in charge don’t like to have anyone second-guess their conclusions.” Or question their authority. Territorial pissing contests wasn’t confined to Kendra’s era.
He shrugged. “I ain’t worried.”
“And where do I fit in, my lady?” asked Muldoon. “I’m not a Runner or an anatomist. I am but a humble scribbler.”
Sam gave a snort. “You’re a lot of things, Muldoon—humble ain’t one of them.”
“You’re in a position to hear things, Mr. Muldoon.” And in a time when she couldn’t search databases for information, she’d Kendra had found his network of sources invaluable.
“I cover politics, not Palace intrigue.”
“Sometimes the two overlap.”
“Yes, but not with Her Majesty’s household. The King made certain of that when he stipulated his bride never involve herself in politics before he agreed to wed her. Except for when the Queen quarreled with her son over him becoming the Prince Regent, she has always abided by the King’s edict.” His eyes gleamed. “Unless you think the Queen’s lady-in-waiting could have been murdered by a political foe?”
“I wouldn’t sound so excited if I were you, Mr. Muldoon,” she remarked dryly. “It’s too early to know what we’re dealing with. Right now, the official verdict is that her death was an accident. Our job is to find out if that’s the truth.”
***
There was nofastway to travel to London, but the Duke ordered six horses to pull the carriage instead of the typical four, which shaved some time off the four-hour journey. Horseback, which both Sam and Muldoon chose, was the fastest way to travel—roughly two hours to the city—and Sam promised to locate and arrange an interview with Dr. Thornton by the time they rolled into town around four.
Another carriage followed, filled with their trunks and a handful of servants—Kendra’s maid, Alec and the Duke’s valets, and Mrs. Danbury (the Duke’s housekeeper) and Harding. The Beau Monde did not travel light.
“I can’t imagine Dr. Thornton making a mistake in the cause of death,” Munroe said, as the carriage rumbled down Aldridge Castle’s long drive.
