A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce (2 page)

Archie was back upstairs in a blink. He nudged the door open and took a quick glance about. Nothing much had changed. He sucked in a breath, and on the exhale slipped soundlessly through the door. He pressed the door shut and skulked along, hidden by the mattress and bed frame.

Reaching up, he loosed the ties around the agent’s feet, then moved further up the side of the bed. For a man captured and bound, Phineas Gunn appeared calm and steely-eyed—or maybe these operatives just hid their fear better than the average bloke. Archie raised an index finger, indicating a short wait. A trickle of sweat slid down the side of the Yard man’s cheek. The sight cheered, only because Archie was sure his pounding heart could be heard across the room, which he knew was impossible. Christ, he was a man of science, but his wits had abandoned him.

There, down below—the first shouts—and a thunderous rumble from the den beneath them. A stampede of dazed patrons rushed the exits. All three men were up on their feet and at the windows. Archie reached up and untied Finn’s hands. With the bindings still hanging off one wrist, the agent sprang off the bed and upended the mattress, charging two of the guards using the thick padding as cover.

The dapper gent in the suit pulled out his pistol and took aim.

Without thinking, Archie jumped onto the bedsprings and flung himself across the room. The gun fired as he tackled an outstretched arm and knocked the weapon aside. His shoulder hit the floor and he crashed into the wall. Grabbing the revolver, he turned it on the thwarted gentleman, who leapt from window to ledge, then onto the roof of another building.

Archie glanced back, aware of the fisticuffs going on behind him. He scrambled onto his feet as Finn shoved a large bloke into a doorframe. The dazed man slid to the ground and collapsed. “I guess you won’t be needing this.” Archie waved the firearm in hand. Even so, he kept the pistol on both fallen men. Finn hadn’t quite knocked them out—but they were stunned well and good.

He had never seen a man move as fast and as forcefully as Phineas Gunn. Between gasps of air, the agent managed a query. “Where, may I ask, did you come from?”

Archie explained. “By chance, I was traveling from the shipyard to Whitehall, happened to glance out my window, and recognized one of our operatives—with a gun at his back.” A bit sheepish, he grinned. “You don’t get to have all the fun, Finn.”

Archie had forgotten how boldly intrepid this undercover agent was. Hands on his hips, Finn continued to breathe heavily. “You likely saved my life. That was quite a move, flying at de Ruthyn like that.”

Briefly, Finn stuck his head out the window. “No sign of him.” He crossed the room and opened the door. Thick clouds of smoke billowed in from the hallway.

“Th— that was de Ruthyn?” Archie stammered.

Finn coughed, squinting at him. “I believe so—though one never knows. Who set the fire below?”

“My assistant.” Archie shook his head. “It’s just wet pillows stuffed in a stove.”

Finn waved his way through black smoke only to retreat, quickly. “It’s like hell’s inferno down there.”

Chapter Two

F
iona Rose tipped the cauldron and poured the soft pink mixture into the last of the rectangular molds.

“Fiona, why are you still working?” her mother called through the open door of the laboratory.

“The soap is exactly the right consistency and temperature. I must finish or ruin the batch.”

Her mother stuck her head further in the door. “You have less than an hour to get yourself across town to Bloomsbury. I do wish you’d take your studies more seriously and dabble less with this soap making. Oh dear, I suppose you’ll have to take the train, now.” Ever since Father’s stroke and the Fenian bombings, Mother fretted about everything. Today it was the Underground.

“Mother, you realize the Metropolitan Police have men at every station?”

“Small comfort after that report in the
Telegraph
this morning. Another shipment of explosives was confiscated.” Her mother dabbed her eyes with a pocket square, as the fumes from the mixture of soda ash and lye caused her eyes to water.

“I should think that means Scotland Yard is on the job.” Fiona blew a wisp of hair out her eyes and concentrated on filling the last few molds. “Almost finished.”

Fiona slipped the last of the pungent mixture of seawater, palm oil, sodium carbonate, and sodium hydroxide into the mold. The hard-milled soaps she made for her parents’ pharmacy were beginning to draw interest beyond a few specialty shops in Knightsbridge. Fortnum & Mason in Piccadilly had given her an order for her invigorating Lavender Oatmeal as well as her Spicy Carnation. She was filling orders nearly every week now. Her secret was the essential oils, made to order from a distiller in Provence, France. To that she added milk or Mediterranean seawater.

She carefully stacked the molds in orderly rows to cure and set the cauldron aside to let the residual soap harden.
I’ll scrape the pot in the morning,
Fiona thought as she reached behind to untie her apron.

“Here now, let me get that.” Her father’s gentle hands loosed the ties. “And where are you off to, young lady?”

“The preparatory course for the pharmacy exam. I must run.” Fiona spun around and was taken aback. Father looked a bit off-color—pale, perhaps? No, there was a spot of pink in his cheeks. She breathed a sigh of relief. She worried about him—nearly as much as Mother did—and yet, there hadn’t been another recurrence in almost three years.

“How did it go with Dr. Sheffield?”

She caught a twinkle in his gray-green eyes. “I’ll tell you all about it at supper tonight.”

Fiona started out the laboratory door and whirled around. “Oh, would you wrap the molds for me?”

Her father lowered his chin and eyed her through bushy brows. “Run along, Fee. I’ve blanketed a mold or two in my day.”

She rushed back to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Daddy.”

ARCHIE’S GAZE MOVED across the yard and up the building’s facade. Blackened trails of scorched brick remained where flames had licked up through the window on the second floor. He and Finn had narrowly escaped out that upstairs window—prodding de Ruthyn’s ruffians ahead of them. “Keep your gun on those two. If they try to run, shoot first,” Finn had advised, eyeballing the two men. “You can always yell ‘halt’ later.”

Archie wiped the sting of smoke from his eyes and coughed again to clear his lungs. Miraculously, he and Finn, along with the Harbor Patrol Fire Brigade, had managed to get everyone out. Even the whining, guilt-ridden Gareth had aided in the rescue. A number of den patrons had run off, while others lolled about in various stages of sobriety.

At the moment, the closed courtyard was crawling with CID detectives and Metropolitan police. Absently, Archie looked on as de Ruthyn’s hired dockworkers were loaded into a police van.

“Inspector Bruce, I’d like you to take a look at these.” Finn set down a satchel beside Archie. On his way out the window earlier, the special agent had picked up a bag filled with two cylindrical tins. “Smokeless gunpowder. German-made—very advanced. Take some for analysis. I mean to deliver the rest out to Enfield on Thursday.”

Archie perked up. “The Royal Small Arms Factory?”

“They’ve a gunpowder mill as well as a restricted area for arms testing.” Finn handed over a canister. “This gunpowder is three times as powerful as black powder. I assume it’s less volatile than guncotton, but handle it with care. I mean to test several of our field arms using the powder—see how our guns hold up to it. You’re welcome to come along if you can break away.”

Archie opened his watch to read the time. “I’d enjoy a trip out to Enfield.” Then he remembered. “Drat, I’m teaching an afternoon class—four o’clock, Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons in Bloomsbury. Royal Pharmaceutical Society.” He sighed.

Gareth called from the street. “Mr. Bruce, I’ve got a cab waiting.”

“I’ll have you back in time for class, Professor,” Finn offered as Archie backed away. “Meet me at Charing Cross Station, Thursday morning. First train to Bush Hill Park leaves on the stroke of eight.”

Archie took a canister of gunpowder for testing and headed for his waiting cab. He’d missed his meeting with Melville, as well as his luncheon at the Royal Society. Archie exhaled. Why on earth had he agreed to teach this semester? Because keeping his days and nights fully occupied felt less solitary, he answered himself.

FIONA RUSHED DOWN the stairs of the Sloane Square station and was relieved to see a number of travelers still waiting on the platform. She pulled on the chain of her watch pin and checked the time. “Fiona Rose, what a delightful surprise.” She stiffened at the sound of the familiar voice, hoping desperately the train would arrive in the very next moment so she could avoid making pleasantries.

“Fiona?” The voice was softer, and close.

She clenched her jaw and pivoted. “Walter, fancy running into you in the Underground.”

The impeccably dressed man in front of her adjusted his pince-nez. “You’re looking”—he continued his inspection—“always lovely, of course, though somewhat . . . harried.” He offered a thin, superior smile. “Am I correct?”

Never a cuff link amiss or a hair out of place. As perfectly attired and meticulously groomed as Walter Montague was, the effect was lost on Fiona. “Starchy” she’d called him when Mother inquired. Walter was a regular customer of the pharmacy, as he suffered from a number of constant complaints and minor ailments, some of them real and some most certainly imaginary. Last spring, during a fitful time he was having with pollens, he had asked if he might call on her. She had turned him down as gently as possible, much to her mother’s chagrin.

“I believe
harried
would describe it perfectly.” Fiona sighed. “I begin a preparatory class in Bloomsbury this afternoon, rather important as I mean to take the chemist exam in six weeks. I’m afraid I’m running late.” She craned her neck to peer down the tracks.

Walter reached out and held her arm. “Careful, Fiona.”

If she’d fallen flat on her face, she wouldn’t be in any danger of ending up on the tracks. The man was insufferable—even in short doses. Just imagine how suffocating he might be as a husband. As if he could read her mind, he brought the subject up again.

“I am happy to report that with the turn of leaves this fall, my health has greatly improved. In fact, I’m feeling rather invigorated these days. Perhaps you would allow me to escort you to the park next week? We could make a picnic of it. I shall order a hamper from Fortnum’s.”

The chug and hiss of the train was music to her ears. Fiona made an effort not to frown. “I’ve really got to knuckle down these next six weeks or I shall never pass the exam.” His gaze faltered a bit. “Sorry to disappoint, Walter, but I cannot afford a day of leisure until after the holidays.”

“Come, come, Miss Rose, you must allow yourself a modicum of pleasure—” The train gasped to a stop and the doors rolled back. Immediately passengers debarked even as the assemblage on the platform pushed forward. Carried along in the surge and jostle, Fiona looked back. “Walter, you’ll miss the train.”

“Sit in a closed car with all those germs in the air?” Walter mocked a shiver. “Good day, Fiona.” He tipped his hat and backed away.

Settling herself in the passenger car, Fiona mulled over her encounter with Walter. He must have seen her enter the station and followed her down to the platform. And this wasn’t the first time she had run into him as though by chance. Last week, after delivering samples of her soaps to Harvey Nichols, she had nearly collided with Walter on the stairs between the haberdashery and linens.

She exhaled an exasperated sigh. As Mother so kindly pointed out time and again, Walter Montague was an attractive young man who enjoyed a substantial income. She rocked in her seat as the brakes released and the train left the station. It wasn’t the gentleman’s fault he suffered from weak lungs; a person couldn’t help having a fragile constitution. Fiona twisted up a pout. It was Walter’s fawning that truly put her off—most grating. And honestly, how could a girl carry on with a man who was more well-groomed than herself?

ARCHIE WAS RUNNING late. Again. The hansom turned onto Great Russell Street and slowed, caught in a mangle of traffic. After his perilous dealings in Limehouse, he had returned to the lab for a hurried review of staff assignments and a brief recounting of the morning’s adventures. Even Gareth was able to chuckle a bit at his own dangerous blunder—in the opium haze, he had mistaken a jug of paraffin oil for water.

Archie craned his neck to see what the snarl-up was about. Hooking a finger into his fob pocket, he pulled out his timepiece. A quarter to two—but that was impossible. “Bollocks,” he muttered. He’d forgotten to wind his watch. It appeared his reputation for a disheveled appearance and chronic lateness was well deserved today, after missing a meeting with Melville and the Royal Society luncheon. And bugger all, to top it off, he was going to be late for class.

The cab had yet to move half a block. Archie opened the trapdoor in the roof and handed the driver a few coppers. “I’ll get out here.” He dodged a dogcart and made it to the sidewalk, jogging the rest of the way to 17 Bloomsbury Square. If he recalled correctly, the college was located on the second floor of the Royal Pharmaceutical Society, along with the school’s practical laboratory, which was the envy of every chemist in Britain.

He took the steps two at a time and entered a suite of offices at the top of the stairs. “Can I help you, young man?”

Archie swung around. A bright-eyed, middle-aged gentleman with a shock of steel-gray hair and whiskers poked his head out one of the doors. “I’m here to conduct a preparatory course for the chemist examination . . . Archibald Bruce.”

“Ah, Mr. Bruce. I was beginning to get concerned.” The man exited his office and handed over a number of items, including several texts, a seating chart, and a lecturer’s baton. “Theophilus Redwood, headmaster.” He stuck out his hand.

Archie shifted the stack of materials under his arm and shook hands. “Professor Redwood.”

“Now then, let’s get you into your classroom, shall we?” The headmaster led him through a series of interconnecting rooms. “On behalf of the society, I can’t thank you enough for pitching in on such short notice.” The lanky-framed gentleman peered over at him. “My colleagues tell me you’re making quite a reputation for yourself over at Scotland Yard.”

“Special Branch.”

“Ah yes, those chaps that are after the anarchists—dynamiters and the like.”

“And the like, yes, sir.” His words and the scuff of their footsteps echoed in the empty corridor. “The crime laboratory is soon to become one of the most important tools we have in the identification and conviction of criminals.”

“I read your paper on the latest advances in fingerprint identification, Mr. Bruce. Exciting work—on the cutting edge, one might say.”

“Chemists trained in forensics will be very much in demand one day.”

“Why do I suspect you are out to recruit some of my best students?” Redwood halted abruptly and squinted at a door. He patted his inside coat pocket. “I’ve forgotten my specs. Can you read the letter for me?”

Archie grinned. He was back in academia again. Quite a change from dealing with detectives all day long. “G-two.”

“Excellent. This is your classroom, Mr. Bruce.” Redwood turned the knob. “I understand you taught for a term or two at Oxford?”

“Trinity College, applied chemistry.”

“If this were a preparatory course for the minor exam, I’d advise you to lower your expectations. But as your pupils are preparing for the major . . .” Redwood leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “Bugger them with both barrels, Mr. Bruce.” The man winked.

“Yes, sir.” Archie straightened his cravat, adjusted his supplies, and walked through the doorway.

AM I GOING
to be slightly late or terribly late?
Fiona pondered as she emerged from the Underground station and wove a path through a throng of British Museum visitors. Clutching her book bag to her chest, she ran the next few blocks to Bloomsbury Square.

Little more than half an hour ago, she had been happily immersed in pouring her latest batch of carnation soaps. Mother had chased her out of the lab with her usual scold. What with major exams just weeks away, there was no sense in provoking an argument with the titular head of Rose & Company—chemists to the Knightsbridge elite.