Alec shook his head. “I’m sorry, doctor, but I don’t know how it could’ve been an accident. I’ve been to the Bowden Theater. Like most theaters, the balustrades are high. Too many young bucks attend performances while in their cups. If it was easy to fall off balconies, most of the Ton would already have brained themselves by now.”
The Duke chuckled. “You have a cynical view of the Beau Monde, nephew.”
“I have a pragmatic view of the Beau Monde, uncle. That leaves two possibilities. One, Lady Westford killed herself. But if so, it’s a bizarre way to commit suicide, throwing oneself off a balcony in an empty theater. Why?”
“She was making a statement with her death,” Kendra said.
“Pray tell, what sort of statement?” the Duke asked.
Kendra took a moment to consider the question. “I don’t know. Maybe something happened at the Bowden Theater, something that made her feel that she couldn’t live with herself anymore. Killing herself there might have been her way of drawing attention to the theater. A final, desperate act.”
Horror flared in the Duke’s eyes. “You don’t think she was . . . she was assaulted at the theater?”
“It would explain the venue,” she said, careful to keep her tone neutral. “We need to keep an open mind and investigate all possibilities, no matter how difficult.”
The Duke nodded, his expression troubled as he turned to look out the window. Kendra suspected that he really wasn’t seeing the patchwork of fields and hedgerows, or the metal-gray clouds pressing down in the horizon.
“The second possibility is murder,” Alec said, returning to his earlier points. “I have the same problem with murder as I do with suicide. Why kill someone in such a peculiar manner in a public venue? Especially someone like Lady Westford, who is part of the royal circle?”
“Mayhap her killer asked her to meet him at the empty theater?” the Duke offered. “It could’ve been a clandestine meeting where they could speak freely, but something happened . . . an argument that turned violent.”
“I’m not certain it’s possible to be guaranteed privacy at a theater.” Dr. Munroe’s dark brows knitted over his gold spectacles. “Theaters—even small stages—are usually drafty places with a warren of rooms beyond the main auditorium. I don’t think you can be assured privacy inside its walls, even if the theater is closed. Maids often are cleaning the rooms, and theater managers hire ratcatchers to contain the vermin.”
“It’s something to keep in mind,” Kendra said, even as she thought:rat catcher.
Concern pinched the Duke’s face as his gaze settled on her. “I agree with Alec’s earlier point. Lady Westford is—was—no ordinary gentlewoman. She was part of the Queen’s inner circle. Herdeath would not go unnoticed. If this was premediated murder, then we’re dealing with a madman bold enough, ruthless enough, to kill someone at the very top of society.
“And,” he added softly, “without Her Majesty’s interference, clever enough to get away with it.”
Chapter 5
Coming from the bucolic peace of the country, returning to London was always a bit of a shock. With more than a million souls inhabiting what was once a Roman fortress, the city had a kinetic energy that was both appealing and appalling. Formerly affluent neighborhoods had fallen to ruin, becoming rookeries and slums that housed the working poor and the more criminally inclined. Poverty was grinding, with beggars and hollow-eyed men and women huddling in doorways and alleys, and raggedy children darting around the muddy streets.
While she’d seen the same—homeless encampments, hungry children, cities rocked by crime—in her own time, she didn’t think she’d ever become used to the animals that shuffled through the streets of London. Cows, pigs, goats, sheep, stray dogs, and feral cats shared the thoroughfares and pavement with pedestrians, carriages, wagons, and horseback riders. The stench was like a punch in the face, the air thick with livestock’s gamey odor, raw sewage, and rotting carcasses from nearby stockyards. Added to the stink was the smog from the city’s numerous coal fires, which turned the already overcast sky a sickly yellow and brown.
“Good God,” the Duke murmured, pulling out a handkerchief that his valet had wisely scented with Albany cologne. “I fear the smell is getting worse.”
Kendra nearly smiled. He said that every time they came to London.
Munroe said, “’Tis a far cry from the fresh air you enjoy in Aldridge Village, Your Grace. It will get better once we are beyond the slaughterhouses. Dr. Thornton ought to be at his residence on Curzon Street. I took the liberty of giving your coachman his address before we departed.”
“Where would he keep Lady Westford’s body?” Kendra wondered.
“Since her ladyship’s death was declared an accident, the body was most likely released to her family. She will be at home until the funeral.”
Kendra nodded as her gaze strayed again to the window. The stink of the stews slowly dissipated as they made their way toward the fashionable Mayfair District. An assortment of businesses, shops, and residences lined streets congested with service wagons carrying vegetables, kegs of ale, and bins of coal; a few horseback riders; and a steady stream of private carriages, hackneys, phaetons, and curricles. Children raced dangerously in and out of the traffic with brooms to sweep away the dung and dirt. London echoed with noise: people hailing acquaintances or arguing with shopkeepers, laughing with friends; ringing hammers as structures were repaired, rebuilt. or demolished; and the never-endingclop-clop-clopof horse hooves and the thrumming of wheels.
Coachman Benjamin skillfully steered the vehicle to Curzon Street, easing the carriage to a stop at the curb outside a pretty, three-story, white stucco townhouse. The carriage rocked as Benjamin and the stableboy, Dylan, leapt down. Dylan scurried to secure the horses while Benjamin came around to open the door and unfold the steps.
“Send word to Mr. Kelly at Bow Street that we’ve arrived,” the Duke instructed the coachman as they descended.
“Aye, Yer Grace.”
The group approached the house, and Alec used the simple brass knocker to rap the black-painted door. It took a few minutes, then the door creaked open, and a young uniformed maid peered inquiringly out at them.
“I am the Duke of Aldridge,” the Duke said. “We are here to speak to Dr. Thornton.”
The aristocrat didn’t use what Kendra considered his “duke voice”—the upper-class accent so sharp it should’ve been registered as a deadly instrument—but the maid’s eyes grew round regardless, and she immediately dropped into a curtsy.
