“Ah. I thought you were limping. I hope he was able to help. Did you enjoy the show the other night?”
“It was very good, thank you. I saw your brother and his family there.”
He smiled. “So I heard.” He glanced around and took a step closer. “Speaking of the Playhouse, how is your investigation for Lord Rumford coming along?”
“I’m making progress.”
“Excellent.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I want you to rush to conclusions, but do you think you’ll have a conclusion for him soon? It’s just that he plans to check out on Sunday and would like to know who was behind Miss Westwood’s unfortunate demise before he leaves London.”
“I’ll do my best, but I’m struggling to make headway. No one will talk to me, you see.”
“Have you tried bribery?”
I smothered my smile. For some reason, hearing this upstanding and kind man encourage me to bribe people amused me. “Unfortunately lords and ladies aren’t easily bribed.”
“You could try blackmail.”
“I am.”
“Ask Harry to help again. He’s very good at charming answers out of women.”
I arched my brows. “Is that so?”
“Haven’t you noticed?”
“I have but haven’t experienced those charms first hand. He hasn’t employed them on me.”
“Perhaps he’d rather you saw the real him, warts and all.”
Speaking of warts… “You know a great many things about this city, Mr. Hobart. Perhaps you can help. There’s a doctor on Harley Street with no plaque on his door stating his specialty.”
“Is he a general practitioner?”
“There’s no plaque even mentioning that. His receptionist also wouldn’t let me in unless I was prepared to make an appointment. When I said I just wanted to know what the doctor’s medical specialty was, she slammed the doorin my face.”
He looked down at my boots. “Your face or your foot?”
“Both.”
He hitched the leather folder higher. “In my experience, if a medical clinic is so secretive as to not advertise their specialty on the door and not even allow in visitors who are not patients, the doctor must be the sort who treats diseases of a sensitive nature.” He cleared his throat and his cheeks pinked a little. “If you understand my meaning.”
“I believe I do.” What Mr. Hobart was trying to discreetly tell me was that the doctor treated patients suffering from ailments that affected parts of their bodies they’d rather not mention.
“I know the names of a great many specialists, some of whom have rooms on Harley Street. Sometimes guests ask me to recommend a doctor. Indeed, some even come to London and stay at the Mayfair while they’re being treated. Perhaps if you tell me this doctor’s name, I’ll know what he does.”
“Dr. Martin at number twenty-nine.”
His cheeks flushed a brighter pink. “Ah. Now that is interesting.”
“Go on.”
He fidgeted with his tie and nibbled the inside of his lip. With a glance around, he leaned closer. “He’s the pre-eminent doctor in the country for treating syphilis.”
No wonder he was uncomfortable telling me. The sexually transmitted disease was not a topic one liked to mention in conversation. “I see. Thank you, Mr. Hobart. That’s very helpful. Very helpful indeed.”
I watched him walk off to the lift where he pressed the button and waited. I stood beneath the central chandelier for some minutes, thinking about what he’d told me. I knew two things about syphilis. It was contagious, but only passed between sexual partners, and that it was a dreadfully disfiguring disease with no cure. The disease must be the cause of the sores on Lord Wrexham’s face.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Goliath smiled one of his wide, open smiles.
