A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce (10 page)

“Several good-sized men—dockworkers, likely. They’re standing beside a smallish van—something the size of an ice wagon.” Fiona sighed. “Not nearly as interesting as a scene in a brothel.”

Rhys snorted under his binoculars. “At the moment I would have to agree, Fiona.” He swept the street as he returned his focus to the storehouse. “Patient enough, these blokes. How long have they been waiting now?” Rhys asked as he scraped a last spoonful of chowder from his bowl.

With the fading of the light, the room had grown dim. Fiona glanced up at Archie, who had seemed a bit on edge since they’d entered the flat, as though something niggled at him.

Archie exhaled. “By any chance, Agent Gunn isn’t still working the Grey de Ruthyn case, is he?”

Rhys didn’t answer right away, as if he was weighing his answer. “He can’t let it go, says he has a—”

“Did anyone see that?” Fiona burst out, her question an excited whisper.

Rhys straightened. “Where do I look, Fiona?”

“Keep your eyes on the edge of the van. I’m looking along the bottom.” Fiona needed confirmation she’d seen what she thought she had seen. A minute crawled by and then another. There! The entire van jostled about, as though someone was moving around inside it.

Rhys whispered, “Dog’s bollocks—there’s someone in the van.”

“An armed guard perhaps?” Archie asked, wrapping an arm around Fiona.

“Maybe. Or hostages they’re looking to trade. Could be anything. If you were Grey de Ruthyn, illegal arms trafficker, wanted on the Continent and in Britain, how would you travel about the Docklands? In a fancy town coach or a grotty old ice van? There’s good reason we haven’t gotten him, yet.”

Archie stared at him. “They could be waiting for others—some sort of meeting, perhaps.”

Quiet for a moment, Rhys set down the binoculars. “I’m starting to get a feeling about this. I take it you have a carriage waiting?”

Archie nodded. “A fair distance—near Commercial Road.”

“You must get her out of here.” Rhys motioned them both out the door.

Archie pulled Fiona to her feet, then balked. “But what about you, Rhys?”

“Never mind about me, I have my Webley here.” He picked up his revolver and winked at Fiona. “I owe you many thanks—oysters, chowder, pleasant company . . . napkins—but I’m afraid you must be off.”

Archie turned to leave with Fiona in tow. “We’ll drive straight to Whitehall—”

The door of the flat slammed open in a thunderous burst, as if a cannon blew it open. Armed, shadowy figures, silhouetted by flickering gaslight, strode into the room. “Drop the gun, Detective Rhys, or we’ll have to shoot your lab director and his little student.” The feminine voice resolved into a face as the shape moved closer.

“Miss Mowbray,” Fiona gasped.

Chapter Ten

A
rchie struggled against his captor, who shoved him into a narrow passage between stacks of tea chests. The three of them had been taken captive and transported across the street to the run-down storehouse. He looked back over his shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of the thugs handling Fiona. “Don’t you dare touch her!” he shouted.

Fiona’s cry was muffled by a large hand and a gruff “Tell her to shut her gob, or I’ll stick somethin’ in her she’ll wish she never seen angry.” The brute tied her hands behind her back while another group of oafish thugs stood inside the storehouse and guffawed. The inside of the storehouse was filled with a mountain of tea and looming bales of cotton, stacked two stories tall.

Her captor pushed Fiona into a dark aisle between crates where she joined Archie and Detective Rhys, poor bloke.

“Is he alive?” she whispered. Archie tried to look hopeful, but Rhys lay on the floor, his leg cast thrust out at a disturbing angle. Blood gushed from the top of his head to his eye, where a bullet had grazed him.

“Detective Rhys, are you all right?” Fiona wrung her hands.

Archie leaned over the body. “Rhys, answer Fiona so she won’t worry.”

A low moan—more of a grunt—was enough to cause a sigh of relief. Fiona turned to him. “Why are they picking on us, Archie? What could we possibly know—?” Fiona stopped midspeech when he winked at her, then shook his head ever so slightly.

“Stop your chatter over there. Boss’ll be here any minute.”

Archie scanned the room and narrowed his gaze. “What do you want, Vivian?”

“I would be doing a good deal of soul-searching if I were you.” Vivian rolled her eyes in a coy fashion. “I would be asking myself—what’s one little secret to Queen Victoria?”

How long had the woman been working in collusion with Grey de Ruthyn? On the train, Finn had alluded to her affairs with an assortment of Whitehall’s finest. If she worked for Grey de Ruthyn—no confirmation as yet—then the man had a mole inside the Yard. No wonder he had so easily eluded them. On the other hand, if the Yard knew about her and had been feeding her false information . . . a dizzying panoply of espionage scenarios passed through his brain, forcing him to refocus.

“Treason is a serious decision for some of us, Vivian. As I said, what do you want?”

Vivian had drawn a little too close. Archie’s hands were tied, but he could still make a run at her—do some damage before the thugs got to him and beat his brains in. He met her gaze and held it. “Perhaps I need to rephrase the question.”

“Consider this, Inspector Bruce. Perhaps you haven’t asked the right question. You haven’t asked . . .” Vivian took a long, hard, up-and-down look at Fiona and then shifted her gaze to him. “What is your price?”

“Vivi drives a hard bargain, which is why I invite her to all my more difficult negotiations,” a deep voice growled. The shadow of a man stood inside the door of the storehouse. Behind him loomed a larger shape, no doubt a lookout and rear guard.

“Simon Grey, Baron Grey de Ruthyn. I believe that is your name, is it not, sir?” Archie stepped forward and squinted. Damn it, he needed his spectacles. The man wore a coachman’s hat pulled down low over his forehead. There were dark hollows where his eyes should be and a shadow under his nose. His most visible feature? A deep cleft in his chin.

“I want the formula sent to you from Waltham Abbey. Give it up, Inspector Bruce, and I will let you and the girl go.”

Archie didn’t hesitate. “I don’t have it on my person.”

“Untrue. Vivian saw the wire delivered as you left the office to teach your class.”

Archie stepped in front of Fiona to block her lovely but guileless face. No doubt she wore a look that screamed,
Oh my word, the wire is in my bosom!
He rethought his answer. “I
did
have the wire this afternoon, but I’m afraid I gave it to Agent Gunn as he left the flat this evening. You can check my pockets.” He took another step forward.

“That will be far enough.” The shadow shifted back and signaled to several of his larger trolls. “You’re a very bad liar, Mr. Bruce.”

“Now see here,” Archie complained, as he was hauled back into the corner he came from. “I gave it to Finn this very evening—I swear it.”

Fiona, however, was brought closer. The man in the shadows spoke. “Undress her.” Fiona screamed as one of the thugs ripped open her blouse.

“I will make sure every one of you rots in Newgate Gaol for this,” Archie roared with a kind of anger he rarely felt and never expressed. Held in a viselike grip, he struggled until he thought he might dislocate both arms. His ears began to ring and yet Finn’s voice came to him—something he had taught Archie out at the armory. “Whenever a man comes at you from behind, struggle forward for as long as you dare. Then reverse course and run him backward into the hardest object you can find.” In this case, Archie set his sights on a heavy pillar holding up the rafters of the storehouse.

Archie lunged forward and then swiftly reversed course, taking the oaf behind him by surprise. He sent the man crashing back into the post, knocking him out cold. Still the giant thug managed to drag him to the ground with him. Archie rolled off the unconscious man and scrambled to his feet. One of the two oafs holding onto Fiona let go of her and came after him. Archie led the man on a chase up and down a labyrinth of narrow passages between crates and bales. One consolation—he had managed to work one of his hands free. Archie peered out from behind a tea chest as he shed the rest of his bindings and tossed off the rope.

Grey de Ruthyn shouted directions at Vivian, who lunged at Fiona and tried to take hold. Fiona, dear girl, began to twist and pitch and yaw—making it impossible for Vivian to get a grip on her.

Archie looked back in time to see the man who was after him lunge, forcing him out from the cover of the stacks. “Settle down, Mr. Bruce, or I’ll have no choice but to shoot her.” Grey de Ruthyn pointed a gun at Fiona. Archie slowed immediately, but he continued to walk toward the open door. Another massive troll loomed up behind the shrouded leader. This one wasn’t as wide, but he was taller than the others—as tall as Agent Gunn. In fact, he looked a lot like Agent Gunn.

“Bloody hell. Hello, Finn.” Archie had caught just enough of the jawline and that mane of thick hair to know that Phineas Gunn was standing directly behind the gun smuggler. Archie sucked in a whispered breath and ran straight for Grey de Ruthyn, purposely putting himself between the leader and the gun pointed at Fiona.

As shots rang out, it was a thing to behold, seeing Finn in action. First he took down the leader with the butt of a rifle, then he fired at the thugs inside. He hit the man holding Fiona, who went down as she wrenched herself away.

Archie grabbed Fiona by the arm and swung her behind a giant bale of cotton. “Turn around, love.” He untied her hands and shrugged out of his coat. “Cover yourself with this. Work your way back to Rhys and stay with him.” Fiona nodded and backed off into the deeper shadows of the warehouse.

The only illumination was a skylight overhead. A few faint beams of moonlight pooled on the floor just in front of Archie.

He caught sight of Finn crouched behind a column of tea. Archie waved him over. “Where are they?” Finn asked, sidling up beside him.

“Vivian is on the other side of these crates and the rest have scattered far back into the shadows.”

“Can you take Vivian?” Finn asked.

Archie nodded. “Grey de Ruthyn dropped his gun. I think I can reach it.”

Finn gave him a wink. “Remember to aim for the body.”

Archie grinned. “Then I might actually hit something.”

Finn blasted a shot into the dark and ran through a beam of moonlight into the deep blackness of the warehouse.

Archie spied Grey de Ruthyn’s gun on the floor and lunged for the weapon. Vivian stepped into view and discharged her weapon as he slid across the floor. He picked up the pistol and without even thinking, Archie rolled onto his back and returned fire at Miss Mowbray, who spun around and followed Finn into the deep shadows.

“Bollocks, missed.” Archie stood up and searched the stacks until he found Fiona.

“Archie,” she cried, looking as if she might run out into the open just to check on him.

“I’m fine, Fiona. Stay behind these crates with Rhys.”

Hugging the stacks of warehouse goods, Archie moved into the depths of the warehouse. He hadn’t gotten far when Finn emerged from the darkness with Vivian in tow.

“Where’s the rest of them?”

“Out the back—there’s a rear door that leads to an alley.” Finn shrugged. “Got this one though, and she’s wounded. Nice shooting, Archie.”

He blinked at the growing blotch of red on Vivian’s sleeve. “Dog’s bollocks, Finn.” Archie beamed as they walked under a shaft of moonlight. “We got both of them!”

Vivian smirked. “You’ll never get Simon . . . he’s too smart for you.” She nodded toward the door. The slumped-over body was gone—vanished.

“HOW DID THIS horrid gunrunner—Grey de Ruthyn—know to look in my unmentionables, Mr. Gunn?” Fiona reached into her corset and pulled out the telegram. Archie quickly rebuttoned his coat around her.

“Do call me Finn, and I must say you two are adorable together—as are your underthings, Miss Rose.” Mr. Gunn sat across the carriage, grinning ear to ear. He nudged the pissing-mad Miss Mowbray on the seat beside him. “Wouldn’t you agree, Vivian? Is that arm bandage too tight? Or is the gag uncomfortable?”

They had already paid a visit to the hospital, where Detective Rhys and Miss Mowbray were treated and released. Rhys, though still a bit dazed, insisted on going home to his flat, while they escorted Miss Mowbray to the CID lockup.

Finn settled back in his seat for the ride to Whitehall. “To answer your question, Miss Rose, I don’t believe it was Grey de Ruthyn’s intention to have a look in your corset. I think it much more likely he was using you to get to Inspector Bruce.”

Archie stared at Vivian. “Was she a plant from the start, or was she turned?”

Finn glanced at the bound and gagged woman by his side. “Care to comment, Miss Mowbray?” He exhaled. “No? Ah well, looking forward to you and me in the interrogation room together.” He studied Archie. “Actually . . . wouldn’t you like to find out who set off the shrapnel shell?”

Archie rubbed his chin—one of his thinking-man gestures Fiona enjoyed. “I’m becoming more and more convinced the whole thing was accidental. Alfred and I bounding up the stairs rattled the office. Sir Frederick said it himself, all it would take is a fall to the floor.” Archie recreated the scenario: “The wall shakes, the canister tips over and hits the floor nose-down. The detonator sets off the fuse in the nose, which in turn sets off the shrapnel charge, which is what blew out the door and windows. The shell only flew another twenty feet, carried mostly by momentum.”

Fiona blinked. “But . . . what caused the doorknob to heat up before the blast?”

“A crude experiment of my own making, I’m afraid.” Archie grimaced. “The scorching hot knob was likely caused by a battery-powered security alarm whose wires overheated. The crossed wires likely fried the alarm, along with the doorknob. The shrapnel destroyed the alarm box, but I’m convinced the two incidents are unrelated. The doorknob might have been blistering hot for hours.”

Archie’s eyes narrowed on Finn. “It is possible Grey de Ruthyn never cared about the gunpowder per se, but the formula was another matter. One can sell a formula many times over. Much more valuable than two canisters of gunpowder.”

“Mystery solved, mole uncovered—weaselly arms trafficker still at large.” The agent rocked his head back and forth. “Not bad for a night’s work.”

Archie grinned. “Not bad at all.”

Finn leaned forward. “Here’s the plan. I shall drop off Miss Mowbray with the jailor. Then I shall escort you both to”—Finn eyed Vivian—“the safe house. Scotland Yard will want you both in protective custody for the next twenty-four hours. Gives us time to collect extraneous culprits and the like.”

Archie exhaled. “Is this really necessary, Finn?”

He stared at Archie as if he’d gone daft. “Think of it as a job . . . perquisite.”

The agent returned to Fiona. “I have no wish to alarm Mr. and Mrs. Rose, but we will post a number of Metropolitan police about the square for the next few days. And of course, there will be no mention of the kidnapping or gun battle. Nothing too scary.” Finn smiled.

“If my parents aren’t pleased”—Fiona sighed—“Ida Green certainly will be. She and another acquaintance of mine enjoy spying almost as much as you, Mr. Gunn—I mean Finn.” Fiona straightened a bit. “In fact, I did hear reports of strangers about the square. Do you suppose we were followed this evening?”

“It’s very possible Grey de Ruthyn had you both followed,” Finn answered.

Fiona opened her mouth to speak—closed it—then changed her mind and had to ask. “There is one thing that remains puzzling to me—how did you know? If you hadn’t come back for us, we might be . . .”

“As I left Wapping,” Finn interjected, “I noticed a van turn off Commercial Road. There have been rumors of guns being transported in ice vans. Thought I’d follow at a distance, and what do you know? Turned out to be coming straight for you lot.”