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He’d met the man only once and while he’d found him capable, he couldn’t dismiss the fact that he was the one who’d reported Mr. Booker’s death to Adrian and Samantha.

After he’d gone off to find him. This had taken several minutes, during which it had been possible for Ashburry to kill the man first, then pretend to help Adrian get to the bottom of the matter.

“Likable fellow,” Wentworth said. “He and I often take luncheon together.”

“He’s not a surgeon though,” Adrian mused, “so he’s not as skilled as Melroy.”

“No one is. But Ashburry still knows his stuff. All the physicians working here do or they’d get the boot. Unlike other establishments, we’ve no room for undeserved arrogance. And if it turns out a physician or surgeon does not know his stuff, we make sure to get the word out.”

“Really?”

“Reports are issued quarterly and sent to all other hospitals, informing them of any advancements we’ve made. It also warns against hiring people we’ve marked as dangerous.”

A knock sounded and the door opened before Wentworth had time to say more. Mrs. Burns, with whom Adrian was familiar, appeared, her face flushed and her breaths ragged. “Forgive the interruption but there’s a woman with a partially severed finger. I need your help.”

Wentworth muttered a few hasty words as he leapt to his feet and rushed out the door, leaving Adrian alone in his office.

He’d known the physician for years. Wentworth had either treated or advised his servants and their family members whenever the need had arisen.

Adrian liked him, but that didn’t mean he should blindly trust the man.

Only a fool would do that.

So Adrian stood and nudged the door shut, then glanced toward Wentworth’s desk. If he was involved in the disappearance of Miss Griffin or in what had been done to Mr. Booker, there might be evidence of it here.

If this was the case, then Adrian meant to find it.

He leafed through the papers on the desk. They consisted of notes pertaining to various patients and their ailments. Observations Wentworth had made. As far as Adrian could tell, these cases puzzled the staff and appeared to require treatments not yet discovered.

From a scientific standpoint, this was the kind of research that should advance medicine.

The notes Wentworth had jotted down proved he was working on various solutions.

That he was attempting to come up with some way of helping these people.

A commendable quest to be sure and one which Adrian both agreed with and admired.

He took a seat and opened the drawer to his right.

A collection of stationery supplies was neatly stacked within, along with a book on anatomy.

He closed it and tried to open the drawer to his left, only to find it locked.

Huffing a breath, he considered forcing it with his blade but quickly abandoned the notion.

Doing so might damage the lock and let Wentworth know he’d been prying.

If only Samantha were here with her hairpins.

The thought had him glancing around, looking for something he might use to pick the lock without leaving a trace.

His gaze fell on a satchel propped against the side of the desk.

A brief assessment revealed it to be Wentworth’s medical kit, which included a neatly rolled up bundle of tools.

It included a long thin needle-like instrument Adrian recognized as a probe used for finding lead shot in a wound.

He grabbed the probe along with another spindly tool that was slightly curved at one end and knelt in front of the desk drawer. His lock picking experience wasn’t as extensive as Samantha’s, so he found himself fumbling while constantly darting a look toward the closed door.

Frustration built as the seconds dragged on. The room grew increasingly stuffy and heat gathered beneath his clothes until a clammy sensation hugged his skin. He paused, took a deep breath and forced calm into his veins, then made what he promised himself would be his final attempt.

The lock clicked into place and he pulled the drawer open.

Finally . Damn it all, but he wasn’t even sure this search had merit.

The first thing he saw suggested he’d been wrong to invade Wentworth’s privacy.

A bundle of promissory notes from Barclay and Tritton were stored at the front of the drawer next to a broken pocket watch and a box containing various herbs.

It wasn’t until Adrian pushed these items aside that he found a leather bound notebook that had been shoved toward the back of the drawer. He pulled it out and leafed through it. The item was packed with notes, all connected to one piece of research that stood out above the rest.

How to ensure a patient did not suffer during surgery.

Adrian scanned the words Wentworth had written – the historical evidence cited from various texts.

According to this, a Chinese surgeon by the name of Bian Que, who’d lived over one thousand years ago, had crafted a drink made from various herbs - a tonic capable of inducing sleep so patients felt no pain.

The recipe, however, had been a carefully guarded secret and was now lost to time.

Only elements of it remained, like some of the herbs used to make it.

The quantities of these would have to be rediscovered, along with the missing ingredients.

Trial and error was Wentworth’s only conclusion.

Additional entries toward the end of the notebook referenced experiments made on animals, most of which had perished.

Indeed, the results were so poor, Wentworth wrote of his dashed hopes.

The solution to pain alleviation during surgery, which had once seemed so simple, was proving a far greater challenge than he’d expected.

Still, he hoped to see the day when it would be ready for application in humans.

Adrian’s heart thudded against his ribs. Some of the herbs mentioned here had been discovered in both Miss Griffin’s and Mr. Booker’s stomachs during their autopsies.

Troubled by the information and what it implied, he snapped the notebook shut and returned it to the drawer, then made sure all the other items were exactly as he’d found them. Once the drawer was closed and locked, he returned the medical tools he’d used to Wentworth’s bag and left the office.

There was no dismissing the surgeon’s involvement in the crimes. The coincidence was simply too great. Despite the dangers he’d mentioned in his notebook, he must have gone ahead with human trials. It was the only explanation Adrian could think of, unless he’d shared his research with someone else.

He paused to consider such an option. Perhaps it was merely wishful thinking on his part because of how much he’d liked and respected the man.

He didn’t want to believe Wentworth would sacrifice people in the name of science. Whatever the case, Adrian had to discover the truth.

Fists clenched so hard his nails dug into his palms, he left St. George’s at a clipped pace. Mrs. Lester said something to him in parting, in response to which he spoke a blunt, “Good day.”

Rain was falling as he descended the hospital steps and approached his carriage. He gave his driver directions and climbed inside the cabin, concern and uncertainty sending his temper toward a sharp peak.

Loath as he was to admit it, there was a chance that the hunt for the surgeon who’d taken innocent lives was finally over.