“I should imagine,” the Duke said, shaking his head. “To have one’s own son behave in such a manner, to strike one’s own father, is shocking.”
“Well, now, in all fairness, he attempted to strike his father,” Muldoon said, lifting his finger. For the first time, Kendra noticed that his fingers were stained with ink. A trademark of this era’s journalists, she supposed. He added, “He actually didn’t manage to do so.”
Rebecca lowered the hankie she’d been holding to her nose. She was taking shallow breaths. “Only because he was foxed,” she retorted.
Kendra looked at the reporter. “What were they arguing about?”
“What many fathers and sons have been known to argue about. Mr. Holbrooke has a reputation for spending much of his time in gaming hells.”
“Losing?” Kendra guessed.
“If he’d been winning, I don’t think Sir Giles would have blinked an eye. As it was, Mr. Holbrooke has plunged himself into the River Tick. And something was mentioned about his wenching . . . ah.” He coughed, looking suddenly sheepish. “Pardon me, ladies.”
“We’re standing in the middle of an autopsy chamber, Mr. Muldoon,” Kendra pointed out drily. “I think we can dispense with the formalities.”
The reporter appeared startled for a moment, then his grin returned. “I’m beginning to believe the rumors that I heard about you are true, Miss Donovan.”
“Watch yourself, Mr. Muldoon,” Alec warned in a low voice.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect, my lord. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kendra said, shooting Alec an irritated look before she turned back to Muldoon. “You—”
“One moment, Miss Donovan,” the Duke interrupted, lifting his hand. “You make a good point about the autopsy chamber. If this discussion continues, I suggest it be in a more appropriate setting.” The Duke retrieved his fob watch. “I’m certain Caro and the servants are still en route. Dr. Munroe, is there a dining establishment with a private parlor in the area that you would recommend?”
“Covent Garden might not be an area that you wish to linger, sir,” said Munroe. “The crowds can become quite boisterous, and not at all suitable for young ladies. If you venture to Regent Street, the Lantern Tavern is a respectable establishment, Your Grace.”
“Aye,” Sam put in. “They make an excellent leek soup, and roast beef.”
“Very well. The Lantern Tavern it is.” Aldridge calmly tucked his watch back into his pocket. “Mr. Kelly, Dr. Munroe, will you be joining us?”
The Bow Street Runner grinned. “Aye, thank you, sir.”
Munroe shook his head. “Thank you, sir, but no.” His gaze fell to the body. “I’d like to finish my work with Sir Giles. I’ve found that it’s best not to let the dead stay too long. Being below ground helps slow the natural decomposition process, but one cannot stop it.”
Kendra hesitated. “If you discover anything else of relevance, you’ll let us know?”
“Certainly.” Munroe caught her eye. “I believe you have already observed the most important thing, Miss Donovan.”
Kendra nodded, understanding that he was referring to the symbols in invisible ink. The doctor wisely decided to err on the side of caution, and not mention it in front of Muldoon.
“I don’t imagine there will be any more surprises,” he added. “The manner of Sir Giles’s murder seems to be self-evident.”
“Strangulation?” Muldoon said, and ambled over to study the laceration on the neck.
“Yes.” Kendra looked at the reporter, and came to a quick decision. “Mr. Muldoon, you’ll join us for dinner. I have a few more questions for you.”
Kendra didn’t realize how high-handed she sounded until Muldoon gave a theatrical bow. “I would be honored, my lady.”
Smart ass. Kendra’s lips twitched. She didn’t know what to make of the man, but she was finding his flippancy refreshing in an era of tightly controlled social etiquette.
Apparently, Rebecca didn’t feel the same way. She was scowling at Muldoon, her mouth tight with disapproval that reminded Kendra oddly of Lady Atwood.
Kendra moved to the counter, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and indicated one of the buckets. “Do you mind if I use this, Doctor?”
“Of course.”
“Could I borrow a towel?” This was another decision she’d made, to bring a bit of the modern world into the 19th-century autopsy chamber.
“Certainly. Mr. Barts.” Although he was clearly puzzled by her request, Munroe nodded at his apprentice, who hurried to one of the cupboards and retrieved a thin strip of rough linen for her.
“Thank you.” Aware that everyone was now watching her with perplexed expressions, Kendra uncorked the whiskey, and tipped the bottle over the dirty water, pouring the alcohol onto one hand, and then, switching hands, splashing the whiskey onto the other. The fumes were strong enough to briefly obliterate the stench of death in the room.
“God’s teeth, lass, what are you doin’?” Sam’s voice rose up behind her in a distressed howl. “You’re wasting good whiskey!”
Munroe cocked his head as he regarded Kendra. “I am not distressed over the loss of my whiskey, but I am curious as to know why you are washing your hands with it instead of drinking it, Miss Donovan.”
Kendra put down the whiskey bottle and picked up the rag to pat her hands dry. What to say? What not to say? Microbes and germs had been studied as far back as ancient Rome, she knew, but it would be another fifty years before the British doctor Joseph Lister would make the leap that disinfectants and antiseptics could be used to stop the spread of infections. And even then, it would take several more years before doctors would accept his research.
The Duke came to her rescue. “Miss Donovan is a proponent of Mr. Richard Bradley’s philosophy that infectious diseases are spread by poisonous insects, which can only be detected under the lens of a microscope.”
“Ah.” Munroe’s features relaxed, and he nodded. “I have read Mr. Bradley’s work, and found his hypothesis intriguing. However, his theories have been rejected by the medical community.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s wrong,” Kendra said. She tossed the rag aside. Whiskey wasn’t the same as the medical-grade antiseptics in her own era, but she felt marginally better as she pulled on her coat and gloves. You can take the girl out of the 21st century, but you can’t take the 21st century out of the girl . . .
“Do you recommend that I begin washing my hands with whiskey from now on?” Munroe asked Kendra. “To kill any poisonous insects that may exist upon my person?”
Sam muttered something beneath his breath that she didn’t catch, but she understood the sentiment very well.
Kendra kept her eyes on the doctor. “I think that is an excellent idea for you to do after you conduct autopsies.”
He seemed a little surprised at her answer, and his gaze turned speculative as he looked at the whiskey bottle she’d left on the counter. Kendra swung around, heading for the door. She’d done her good deed, she thought. Imparted a small slice of knowledge from the future that would one day save millions of lives. Maybe it would save Dr. Munroe or Barts from becoming seriously ill. Or from infecting others.
Was she saving someone who should have perished? And would that change the future? As with most other things in this time, she had no way of knowing.
10
Forty minutes later, they were comfortably seated in the private parlor of the Lantern Tavern, a rambling Tudor that looked like it should have been in the middle of a forest, not on a crowded London street. A blazing fire crackled in the hearth, a nice contrast to the light snow that had begun to fall outside. A young maid moved around the shadowy room, filling their goblets with homemade blackcurrant wine, while the proprietor himself, Mr. Flock, sliced off thick slabs of roast beef with a large boning knife.
In the candlelight, the blade glimmered. Kendra couldn’t help but think about how Sir Giles’s tongue had been cut out by his ki
ller.
Yet even that gruesome mental imagery couldn’t stop Kendra’s stomach from growling as the savory scents from the roast beef and side dishes—boiled turnip greens and potatoes—filled the room. She was only mildly disappointed that the meal didn’t include the freshly baked brown bread that had become her greatest culinary weakness.
Kendra waited until their plates were loaded and Mr. Flock and the serving maid had left the room before turning her eyes on the reporter. “Okay, Mr. Muldoon. Tell me what you know about Mr. Holbrooke. The son.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the basics. How old is he?”
Muldoon pursed his lips as he picked up his knife and fork. “Four and twenty, I think.”
“What does he do?”
“Do?”
“Yeah. For a living.” Kendra cut into her roast beef. “How did he get the money to gamble?”
The reporter frowned. “I assume he has an allowance, but most likely moved on to credit. ’Tis a common enough practice.”
“How did his father find out about his debt?”
Muldoon shrugged. “I’m certain Sir Giles was well aware that his son was a wastrel. The man knew how to ferret out secrets. He’d hardly be ignorant to what was happening in his own household.”
“You might be surprised by how many people are oblivious to what goes on under their own roof.” Kendra leaned forward and stabbed a buttered turnip with her fork. “By the way, whatever we discuss here at this table stays off the record.”
A sly smile curved the reporter’s lips. “Well, now—”
“We won’t be able to talk freely if we know we’ll be reading our words in tomorrow’s newspaper.” Not that she was going to be talking too freely around the man anyway, but Kendra wanted to set the parameters. “It either stays private, or we can ask Mr. Flock to pack up your meal and you can take it home with you.”
Muldoon leaned back in his chair to study her. “You are a hard woman, Miss Donovan. I’m just a poor scribbler, and you’re interfering with my livelihood. Would you have me starve?”
Sam snorted. “You’re doin’ it up too brown, me lad.”
Kendra said, “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.” When he said nothing, she put down her knife and fork and began to rise. “I’ll get Mr. Flock.”
“All right! All right! ’Tis a deal you have, Miss Donovan. But whatever I find out elsewhere, I shall do as I please,” he warned.
“Fair enough. But if you find out something that’s relevant to the investigation, I want you to bring it to us first. I don’t want any surprises waiting for us in your newspaper. Deal?”
Muldoon grinned. “And you’ll keep me informed?”
“Yes.” Maybe.
“Then, deal.”
Kendra switched her attention to Sam. First things first. “I assume you notified Sir Giles’s family about his death?”
“Aye.”
“Did you have a chance to interview Mr. Holbrooke?”
Sam swallowed the food he’d been chewing. “Nay. Mr. Holbrooke was not in residence at the time I called upon Lady Holbrooke.”
“How did Lady Holbrooke react to her husband’s death?” she asked.
“Shocked, of course. But she appears a sturdy woman. She didn’t swoon or go off into a cryin’ jag.” The Bow Street Runner shrugged. “In my experience, folks react differently ter bad news.”
“When was the last time Lady Holbrooke saw her husband?”
“Yesterday morning. They had breakfast together before he left for his office in Whitehall.”
“She didn’t think it was odd that her husband never returned home last night?” Kendra wondered, but then waved the question away. She’d been in this century long enough to become familiar with the patterns of husbands and wives in society’s upper circles. It was the norm to keep separate bedrooms and, often, separate lives—or at least distant lives. “Was there any other family member in residence?”
“Aye.” A small smile tugged at the Bow Street Runner’s mouth. “There’s a daughter. I spotted her hidin’ behind a great hulking urn.”
Kendra frowned. “Why was she hiding? That’s a little strange.”
“Well, the lass is only nine, if I had ter guess. Her name’s Ruth, and she was hidin’ from her nanny.”
“Oh.” Kendra lifted her glass of wine as she thought about that. “Are there other children?”
“Not living ones,” Muldoon supplied.
The statement was blunt and brutal, but Kendra understood. It was a fact of life in this century that many children simply didn’t make it to adulthood. Her gaze drifted to Rebecca. The light from the candles was not kind, casting too many shadows across her pitted scars. It was a miracle that she had survived.
Sam said, “I spoke ter Sir Giles’s coachman. He said that he brought Sir Giles ter his offices in Westminster yesterday mornin’, and picked up his master later, about half past six, which was his custom. He left him off at his club, which was also his custom on several nights, including last evening.”
Kendra lifted her glass of wine. “The coachman didn’t pick Sir Giles up to return him home?”
“Sir Giles told him that he would hail a hackney.”
“Is that usual?” Kendra wondered, taking a slow sip of the blackcurrant wine. Like many of the homemade wines, Kendra found it to be surprisingly good. And potent. She set down the glass as the Bow Street Runner lifted his shoulders in a shrug.
“It seems ter be. The coachman said that his master never knew how late he’d be at his club. It was quicker for Sir Giles ter hail a hackney and send the coachman home for Lady Holbrooke’s use.”
“He’s a member of Whites, I believe,” put in Muldoon. He glanced at Sam. “Have you questioned the club’s butler?”
Sam’s eyebrows lowered, clearly not liking the reporter’s participation in their discussion. “Aye,” he finally answered, spearing a potato, and cutting it in half. He added a large pat of churned butter, smashing it into the potato with his fork. “But I only spoke ter the day porter. He saw Sir Giles briefly when he first arrived at the club. The night porter doesn’t begin his duties til half past six. I’ll go back this evening.”
Kendra looked across the table at Muldoon. Something had been niggling at the back of her mind. “You said Sir Giles already knew about his son’s debt—and his wenching. So what set off the argument?”
The reporter pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. “’Tis a detail that I have yet to ferret out.”
“Is Sir Giles a wealthy man?” she asked.
“Compared to most of the poor wretches of London, yes,” Muldoon replied, his jaw tightening. “Compared to Prinny, no. Then again, Prinny isn’t all that wealthy, if you tally it against the debt he’s incurred.”
“Careful, Mr. Muldoon. Your Whig politics are showing through,” Rebecca said, eyeing him over her wineglass.
He grinned at her. “It’s right up front for all to see, Princess.”
Rebecca’s eyes narrowed.
“Mr. Muldoon, I would advise you to tread lightly,” the Duke cautioned.
“Forgive my sense of humor, Your Grace,” the reporter offered quickly, and shifted his gaze back to Kendra. “Sir Giles can afford a nice residence in Berkeley Square. I believe his pockets are quite plump.”
“And yet his son is in debt?” Kendra said. “Is he in line to inherit?”
Alec said, “The firstborn, and only son? I would imagine so. Although Sir Giles’s title is a matter of courtesy, and has no estates or wealth that is entailed.”
“So you’re saying Sir Giles could disinherit his son?”
“Yes.”
“Money is always a motive for murder,” Kendra murmured, but frowned.
Alec was regarding her, and he knew her too well. “However?”
She twirled her wineglass, watching the firelight strike ruby sparks off the spinning liquid. “However . . . killing for greed tends to be more straightfor
ward. Strangulation makes sense.” Stabbing, shooting, bludgeoning, drowning, burning—she’d seen it all when it came to crimes motivated by avarice. “But cutting out the tongue? Why do that when your purpose is financial gain?”
She didn’t mention the invisible ink symbols. She wasn’t ready to share that information with Muldoon. Still, the same question remained. If the motive for murder was greed, why spend the time to draw crosses on the dead man’s flesh that were invisible to the naked eye?
No one answered her. There really was no answer. Not yet, anyway.
Kendra looked at Sam. “Did Lady Holbrooke mention if her husband had received any threats recently? Or did he have any enemies that she knew of?”
“She couldn’t recall any, but she might’ve been in shock.”
It was probably too late to call upon the new widow, Kendra supposed, glancing at the dainty ormolu clock on the fireplace mantel. It was approaching nine o’clock. In her era, that wouldn’t matter. But here, propriety overruled a murder investigation. Lady Holbrooke would be entering her year-and-a-day mourning period. Tomorrow morning, though, Kendra had every intention of visiting her, the rules be damned.
She turned to Muldoon. “Can you think of anyone else besides his son who might have wanted Sir Giles dead? He was in government.” As far as Kendra was concerned, that could be a motive right there. Politics, perfidy, and murder swam in the same dirty pool.
The Irishman sipped his wine. “Plenty of people wished him to Jericho in the opposition party. I don’t recall anyone issuing specific threats, though. And to do the deed? In such a peculiar way?” He shook his head. “No.”
Kendra frowned. She knew enough about the politics of this era to know that Tories leaned conservative and Whigs leaned liberal. “Do you know what he might have been working on that would have caused someone to murder him? Like that?”
“Again, it may have upset the Whigs, while it pleased the Tories. But that’s typical. I’ll look into it.”
She asked, “What can you tell us about Sir Giles’s background?”
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