“Thornhill takes more personal oversight of the place than most superintendents. He takes his one day off per week, but he has his fingers in every ward, knows a bit about every patient. It is more than a position for him—it’s a personal mission.” Mitchell poured their tea and stirred, dropping a bit of sugar into each cup.

Harford lowered his voice, leaning closer. “Do you consider him an honest man?”

“I’ve never known him not to be.” Well, almost never. What of the use of those isolation wards, when he’d vowed they would always sit empty? And there was an oddness about Bridget Hurley’s absence that never was properly explained. It was as if she’d vanished, and the disappearing act was somehow orchestrated and covered up by Thornhill. “At least, I haven’t any proof he isn’t. Why do you ask?”

Harford sucked in a breath and spoke in low, intentional words. “Well, I don’t trust the man one whit. But my hands are tied—I have proof of nothing.”

Turner’s eyebrows shot up. “And why the suspicion of Thornhill?”

“I have my reasons. Most of which concern his treatment of your Miss Mourdant. I’ve been told she has been transferred overnight to a new establishment near London . . . for her own good. What do you think of that?”

Hair on the back of his neck prickled under his collar. Another glance at the aid. She bustled about, seeming oblivious to their talk. Heat again threatened to strangle Turner, and he looked Harford in the eye. Had Vivienne made it to his cabin? He couldn’t tell from the man’s face what he knew. Or had Thornhill caught her and sent her away as he’d claimed?

Mitchell broke the gaze. He couldn’t get past the image of Thornhill’s smiling family in newsprint. “I don’t believe Thornhill is the villain you seem to think he is. He desires to do good, and he’s lived through more than I’ve given him credit for. Perhaps he’s been right more times than I thought too.” This last part was quiet, almost to himself.

Harford’s look was steady. “There’s no villain so terrifying as one who’s right. Whose logic is accurate, whose intentions are noble. But take note, it takes only one drop of poison to pollute an entire glass of water.”

Poison—such as hatred. Fear. No one had more reason for those than Thornhill.

The question was this: Was Thornhill more perceptive than most . . . or simply more jaded?

Mitchell lifted his gaze. “If you should happen upon Miss Mourdant again—when your research takes you to other institutions, that is—you may tell her she has a friend here. I will always do what I can for her, and she may depend on that.”