Of Moscow Leonid might be, but nobleman he was not. The board members would know nothing of that, but it got their attention. His friend sauntered up the aisle in a finely cut suit that slimmed his pudgy waistline and stood next to Svetlana. What were these two up to?
“I Leonid Sheremetev.” Leonid’s boom knocked the white hairs back in their chairs. “This proof Mac no guilty. He true surgeon. He fix me after Reds shot in back alley.” Fishing inside his somewhat wrinkled shirt, he pulled out a piece of metal on a chain looped around his neck. “This here bullet.”
The extracted slug winked a dull silver as it spun delicately on its expensive gold chain above the thick turf of Leonid’s chest hair.
“Congratulations on your recovery, Mr. Sheremetev,” Dr. Stan said, “but I don’t believe a bullet will drop the charges leveled against His Grace.”
“Bullet no proof. I only show Mac fine handiwork.” Leonid’s lips flattened with derision as he tucked away the bullet and took the envelopes from Svetlana. He passed them to Wynn across the rail divider. “This proof like she say. Late or no, you take and read.”
Wynn scanned the letters. Hope trembled inside him. “It’s an updated autopsy report for Harkin. It claims he died from an undetected shell fragment lodged behind his right lung that became infected after my surgery. After he was cleared for release from hospital.” He passed the papers to Dr. Stan. “It wasn’t heart surgery complications that killed him.”
Dr. Stan stared at the letters in his hands, uncertainty flitting across his face. If he took the letters as evidence, it would go against the law of the board, but if he refused he would be sentencing a potentially innocent man.
“I . . . How ever did you obtain this?”
Svetlana smiled coolly as if she’d been waiting for him to inquire all along. “I had the very great pleasure of meeting Mrs. Roscoe while en route from Paris to England on board a troop ship shortly after I was married. She had been visiting her husband in France, a Colonel Richard Roscoe, whom you may know better as the new head of administration at St. Matthew’s Hospital, the very place where Lt. Harkin was recovering.
“We’ve kept in touch and she was quite distressed to hear of my husband’s current circumstances. After she discussed the matter with her own husband, Dr. Roscoe was instrumental in ordering a more thorough autopsy that fully clears Dr. MacCallan of malignant surgery due to an unrelated and unseen fragment of shell.” She pointed a gloved finger to the papers in his hands. “You may read the redacted and new report for yourself along with a personal note from Dr. Roscoe.”
“But how did . . . ”
“Women like to talk.” Svetlana shrugged a dainty shoulder. “Shall I wait outside in a more appropriate area while you come to the obvious conclusion?”
Dr. Stan waved a distracted hand as he frowned at the papers in his hands. “Best if you did, Your Royal, er, Princess, er, Madame.”
Wynn reached for her hand. “Svetlana, wait. What you’ve done . . . How can I ever tell you—”
“Say you love like she love you, Mac.” Leonid apparently thought it wise to insert himself into the narrative once more.
Wynn’s eyes didn’t leave his wife’s face. “Is that true?”
Beneath the veil, Svetlana’s eyes swept to Wynn’s. Pink stained her cheeks. Not in a restrained anger sort of way, but in
a no forthcoming denial sort of way. Was that why she had come? Because she loved him? His heart soared.
“Love make later. Now I tell about
“Are the Bolsheviks on their way now?”
Dr. Stan frowned as he looked up from reading the new letters. “Who are these Bolsheviks and what is a popka?”
“Bolsheviks, Reds, communists. Murder imperial Russian family. Govern Russia now. My papa do business with if lucrative.”