“Do you want me to coddle you?”
She finally managed to yank her hand free. “No. Call me crazy, but I don’t want the man’s death on my conscience.”
“You didn’t put a gun to his head or in his hand—”
“Not literally, but figuratively—”
“Bugger that! He was a grown man, and he made a choice. I don’t bloody well care if he thought his world was crumbling down around his ears. What he did was cowardly. It’s the same cowardice I’ve seen with gamesters who couldn’t face their wives and children after losing their homes. It has nothing to do with you.”
“I failed to see how fragile his mental state really was.”
“He cared more about his standing in the medical community than justice for a woman with whom he was involved.”
Kendra pressed her fingers against her eyes as she considered Alec’s words. “You’re right,” she finally said, dropping her hand. “I know you’re right. But . . . this has messed me up. I don’t understand why he did it.”
“It’s a senseless act, beyond comprehension.”
She nodded, meeting his gaze. “You’re right about that too. Thanks for giving me a kick in the ass.”
Alec grinned. “A unique way of expressing gratitude, but you’re welcome, darling.” He took her hand again. “You’re all right?”
“I will be.”
“I’ll see you at home?”
“Not yet. I want to stop at the Bowden Theater and interview the seamstress that Edwina worked with. Old Beatrice.”
“Didn’t Mr. Kelly interview her?”
“Yes, and she told him that she didn’t know anything. But . . .” She lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug. “You know how people can be with law enforcement. Or maybe she’s had a chance to think and has an idea where the girl might be hiding.”
“Kendra—”
“I know—Edwina’s probably dead.”
“I was going to ask if you want me to go with you.”
“Thanks, but it might be less intimidating if it’s just me.”
Alec smiled as he ran a gentle finger along her jaw, the gold flecks in his eyes brightening with his laughter. “No one could ever believe that you are less intimidating than me, my love.”
***
It may have been before noon, but the Bowden Theater already had the same chaotic energy that Kendra had witnessed on her first visit. While there were no actors rehearsing lines on stage at the moment, stagehands sawed and hammered backdrops and several acrobats practiced their flips and rolls. The smell of sawdust tickled her nose as she mounted the steps to the stage. Mr. Myott was absent, she noted.
One of the workers paused when he spotted her. “Can Oi help ye, miss?”
“I’m looking for Old Beatrice.”
“Backstage.” He pointed to a hallway next to the stage. “Thatta way.”
The hallway branched into a labyrinth of narrow, low-ceilinged corridors. Empty, but Kendra heard the murmur of voices and laughter behind one of the closed doors. She knocked, and the door opened inward abruptly to reveal a scantily dressed, raven-haired beauty who glared daggers at her.
“Go away, ye bloody git— Oh, bugger! Pardon! I thought . . . well, never mind what I thought.” She grinned. “Ye’re early. Mr. Myott ain’t here yet. Want a drink?”
Kendra’s gaze moved past her to the four other young women wearing only shifts and robes—or nothing under the robes—lounging in a room that looked like a college dorm in the midst of a raging party. Clothes were everywhere—on chairs, puddled on the floor, balled up on the mirrored vanity around the grease paint pots, hairbrushes, wigs, and hair ornaments. Bottles of gin and whisky poked through the piles. The women were drinking out of tin cups. Given their flushed faces and foolish grins, Kendra was pretty sure it wasn’t tea. A girl with strawberry blonde hair pushed herself up from a worn settee and weaved across the room to grab a bottle.
“There’s another cup around here somewhere,” she said, casting a vague glance around the mess.
