“’Tis where Dr. Munroe gives his instruction,” Sam said, glancing back at her.
Kendra nodded, and they continued down the shadowy hall to the right. They passed several more closed doors before Sam stopped in front of the last one and knocked. There was a muffled response, then the Bow Street Runner was pushing open the door, and gesturing them inside.
“Good evening, Dr. Munroe. I—”
“A moment, if you please, Mr. Kelly.” The doctor didn’t look up at the Runner’s greeting. Instead, he continued to scribble furiously at his desk.
He wasn’t alone. A thin young man with wispy blond hair and a weak chin had been seated in front of the desk but now stood politely at their entrance.
As they waited, Kendra studied the cluttered office. Its walls were lined with shelves that held an assortment of books, instruments, several brass microscopes, and large glass jars. Some of the jars were empty. And some were filled with a murky liquid that offered glimpses of pale floating objects. She allowed her gaze to drift to the full skeleton that had been strung together and hung on a T-stand in the corner, its wired jaw slightly agape as if was offering a crooked smile to the room’s occupants.
“Now then, Mr. Kelly, I’ve only— Your Grace! Miss Donovan!” The note of exasperation in Dr. Munroe’s voice vanished as soon as he realized the Bow Street Runner hadn’t come alone. He threw down his quill pen and surged to his feet, coming around the desk with a smile, his hands outstretched to take Kendra’s. “Miss Donovan, I am delighted to see you in such exceptional health.”
He was a big, distinguished-looking man in his early fifties, with a thick silver mane he wore in a ponytail. In contrast, his eyebrows were dark, set above shrewd gray eyes that viewed the world from behind round spectacles, which were pinched into place on a hawkish nose.
Kendra smiled back at him. She remembered only too well how he’d ministered to her after she’d nearly been killed fighting a madman. “I have you to thank for that, Dr. Munroe. Your poultices worked.”
“Splendid.” He let go of her hands, his gaze moving to the Duke and Sam. “But I suspect this is not a social call. You are here to discuss Lady Dover’s murder?”
“More than discuss—I want to view the body,” Kendra told him bluntly.
Munroe raised his eyebrows at the Duke. “Would that be wise, sir? We are not at Aldridge Castle.”
Kendra stiffened, annoyed that the doctor seemed more concerned by the propriety of her viewing the body than in making use of her skills. And he wasn’t even asking her; he was asking the Duke, like she was a child.
“Why wouldn’t it be wise?” she demanded to know.
Aldridge laid a calming hand on her arm. “I understand your concern, Dr. Munroe, but my nephew is under suspicion for Lady Dover’s murder.”
“I am aware of that, sir.”
“I believe Miss Donovan’s help in this matter will be invaluable. Of course, I would not wish for any undue prejudice against my ward. I would not want word to spread about her involvement in this matter, other than the fact that she is assisting me.”
“Your ward? Oh.” Munroe gave Kendra a startled look. “I see. I shall not mention it.”
“You have always been discreet, Dr. Munroe. However . . .” Aldridge looked pointedly at the young man.
“Forgive my manners—this is my apprentice, Mr. Barts,” Munroe introduced. “Mr. Barts, this is the Duke of Aldridge and Miss Donovan . . . His Grace’s ward. You know Mr. Kelly.”
“Your Grace, Miss Donovan.” Barts gave an awkward bow.
“Well, Mr. Barts?” the Duke prodded. “Can I rely on your discretion in this matter?”
Barts stared at him. “This matter, sir?”
“My ward will be accompanying us into the dissection room. I would not want Miss Donovan’s name besmirched in any way.”
The apprentice glanced at Kendra, wide-eyed, then jerked his gaze away almost instantly. “I understand, sir. I shall not speak of it, sir.”
“There is no cause for alarm, Your Grace,” Munroe assured. “We anatomists know how to keep secrets. The ill-informed are always trying to halt the progress of science and will pounce on any morsel of gossip to use against us. Is that not so, Mr. Barts?”
Barts nodded vigorously. “Yes. Quite so.”
Munroe moved toward the door. “The matter is decided then. If you will follow me?”
They retraced their footsteps back down the hall, and then followed the corridor to the left of the foyer, which ended in a long flight of steps that plunged downward. It made sense that the bodies were kept in the basement, Kendra reflected, where it was naturally colder. Still, there would be no way bodies could stack up here to await dissection like in modern morgues. Without the embalming process or refrigeration, the corpse would break down rapidly—a couple of days at most, before bodily gases began to rip open the flesh, rendering any examination useless. And the odor would become unbearable.
“Did Mr. Kelly explain to you what was done to Lady Dover’s face?” inquired Dr. Munroe.
Kendra nodded. “He told me that she’d been cut. And it was peculiar.”
“Most peculiar,” Sam agreed as they entered a dark room that carried the stench of decay.
“I’ll be interested to see what you have to say about this particular act of barbarism,” Dr. Munroe commented, as he and Barts spent the next few minutes lighting wall sconces and candles. The mottled light revealed cupboards and shelves, more old-fashioned microscopes, and jars like in Dr. Munroe’s office, filled with cloudy liquid, with pale, amoeba-like shapes that seemed to stare back at Kendra through the opaque mixture.
She shivered from the chill in the underground room—or so she told herself. She wasn’t normally squeamish, but found herself turning her attention to the more mundane items around the room to remain grounded: wooden buckets filled with red-tinged water; sponges; metal tools; a bundle of clothing; a pair of shoes. It was better than the icehouse that had become their makeshift morgue at Aldridge Castle, she supposed, but not by much. Kendra never thought she’d miss the sterile autopsy rooms of the twenty-first century, with their harsh florescent lights and smell of chemicals, but she did.
Especially the chemicals. Nothing could eliminate the stink of death, but the chemicals helped distract from it. Here, the odor of death was overpowering. She could taste it, like an acrid troche caught in the back of her throat.
There were three empty tables. Above each table was an iron contraption that resembled a wagon wheel, attached to the ceiling by a heavy iron chain. On the outside of the wheel were hooks. Munroe and Mr. Barts began attaching lanterns to the hooks, creating a circle of light directly over the table.
“My own invention,” Munroe explained. “It eliminates the risk of contaminating the body with dripping candle wax.”
“Ingenious.”