A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce (4 page)

“My word, this is impressive.” He followed her through the near-empty store as the wall clock chimed six times—closing time for most of the shops in the district.

“Mother fancies herself a retail display specialist. Each week, she makes a study of Harrod’s windows and often models our displays on theirs.”

He briefly perused a glass-fronted cabinet. There wasn’t a speck of dust in or on the display case. Under the glass, he observed a clever arrangement of soaps, intricately wrapped in pastel tissues. “I imagine one pays half again as much for a plaster from Rose and Company than another pharmacy,” he remarked.

“Double.” Fiona tossed a smile over her shoulder. “But then, Father’s plasters don’t blister the skin.”

At the back of the shop, a middle-aged woman with the same dark ash-blond hair as Fiona’s returned a square-shaped drawer into a cabinet filled with square-shaped drawers.

“Is that you, Fiona? Remind your father to order more star anise, would you, dear? And—” A pleasant-looking woman turned around and stepped back with a start. “So sorry, I thought it was just my daughter. May I help you?”

“The gentleman is not a customer—per se.” Fiona leaned over the counter. “Where’s Father?”

“Washing up, dear.” Mother lifted her pince-nez to her nose, for a better look.

“This is my teacher, Mr. Archibald Bruce.” Fiona stepped to one side. “Mr. Bruce, my mother, Mrs. Evelyn Rose.”

“Mrs. Rose.” He reached out and received her mother’s ladylike limp hand. Fiona shuddered.

“Mr. Bruce is my instructor for the next six weeks.” Fiona smiled as sweetly as she could. “I’ve invited him to supper.”

“Supper! Yes, indeed.” Mother’s gaze darted about the pharmacy. “It would be our pleasure, Mr. Bruce. Fiona, why don’t you show Mr. Bruce upstairs, while I finish up here?”

Fiona led him into the back of the shop and up the stairs to a landing that opened onto a pleasant parlor. She took her book bag and set it on the stair leading up to what he assumed were the sleeping quarters. “You can leave those here.” She pointed to the vestibule. He stacked his texts, his seating chart, and, lastly, his hat on the entry table.

“Please, make yourself comfortable, Mr. Bruce.” She clasped her hands in front of her and nodded toward the reception area. Archie wandered about the darkened room, stopping at a wall sconce. “Mind if I light this?”

“Not at all, sir.”

He struck a safety match. “Shall we dispense with the formalities, outside the classroom?” He turned the key and the lamp hissed to life and light. “Call me Archie or Arch—whichever you prefer.”

Fiona smiled her impish smile. “Not Archibald?”

He shook out the match. “Only Granny calls me Archibald.” He gestured to a large settee facing the hearth. “Sit with me—?”

She took a seat in a corner of the divan and angled toward him. “You must call me Fiona or Fee—if you’d like.”

“Not Aphrodite?” He flirted with her shamelessly. He had not trifled like this—with a young woman—in a very long time. She positively brought out the devil in him. It had been all work for well over a year, starting up the lab. Perhaps it was time for a bit of play.

A pretty blush swept over her cheeks. “No one calls me that—ever.”

“I suppose Aphrodite should be saved for a special occasion.” And the occasion he was thinking of could not be shared in mixed company. Archie inhaled a breath. He was not exactly sure what was going on between them, but it was wonderfully exhilarating and oddly familiar. As if he had sat in this parlor, pleasantly aroused by Fiona Rose, all his life.

She cleared her throat. “Do you take something before supper? A relaxer? Father enjoys a bit of sherry—”

“And I’ll need one after dealing with Reggie Fitzpatrick,” Mr. Rose boomed. A balding gentleman of affable expression entered the room. “I do hope your afternoon was more enjoyable than my own.”

Archie shot up from the sofa and Fiona hastily made introductions. Her father had the same gray-green eyes, which sparkled with good humor under bushy brows. Archie waited for Mr. Rose to settle into the wing chair opposite. “Fiona has been telling me something of your work in rubber adhesives,” he said.

“Happy to report there may be a small contract in the offing with Bishop and Sons, medical manufacturers of surgical cloth and various other items. They hope to start shipping a new line of rubber-coated cloth by early next year.”

Fiona beamed. “That’s wonderful, Father.”

“Should be a steady source of income for years to come.” As the older man spoke, Archie noticed a drop in one eyelid and a slight speech impediment. “Pour your tired old father a glass of the Tio Pepe, if you would, Fee.”

Fiona opened a cabinet in a breakfront and removed a bottle. “Would you like a glass, Mr. Bruce—I mean, Archie?”

“Nothing for me.”

She handed the sherry to her father. “Archie is interested in malleable adhesives.”

Mr. Rose looked up at her and over to him. “Is that right?”

She removed his calling card from a skirt pocket and placed it in her father’s hand. “Archie is the director of the . . . crime laboratory.” She leaned close and lowered his spectacles from his head to his nose. She turned to Archie. “Is that what you call it?”

He smiled at the sweet interaction with her father, as well as the sway of bustle, as she pivoted to make eye contact. “Crime lab is an excellent way of putting it, yes.”

Her father took a sip of sherry and narrowed his eyes. “All right, Mr. Bruce, what did my daughter do this time to warrant Scotland Yard after us?” His piercing gaze moved from Archie, to Fiona, then back to Archie. The long silence was dreadful, before he winked.

Fiona giggled.

Mr. Rose crinkled his eyes.

Archie couldn’t suppress a grin.

SUPPER WAS A casual affair indeed. The Roses employed a Mrs. Gallagher, who, as it turned out, was both a spotless housekeeper and quite a wonderful cook. He devoured his meal and had two helpings of blackberry pie. After dinner, Mr. Rose invited him down to his lab, behind the pharmacy. No lawn or posies in this garden, as the laboratory took up most of the space, along with a physic garden filled with aromatic herbs grown for medicinal purposes.

“Fiona used to raise a sizable patch of lavender and carnations every summer, but her soaps became so popular, she began purchasing the essential oils from a distillery in France.”

Archie joined Mr. Rose at the edge of the garden. “It appears you have a thriving family business here.”

The man’s gaze traveled down a neat row of chervil. “I had a stroke three years ago. Fairly minor, as it turns out, but enough to frighten Mrs. Rose. She’s been pushing Fiona ever since to take the major and become licensed. I’m afraid it’s caused a bit of a distance between the two of them.”

Fiona’s father gestured toward the shed. “Another commercial contract, and I might be able to leave my wife and daughter some financial security.” He removed the padlock on the large shed that served as the chemist’s lab. “Now, as I understand it, you need to find a way to transfer fingerprints back to your laboratory.”

“Yes, sir.” Archie ducked inside the door. “Once I have the protocols and procedures in place, we can collect prints from the crime scene for possible future matches—repeat offenders, to start with.”

Fiona’s father stopped in his tracks and turned back. “Seems to me you’re going to change the way crime is solved in this country—shake things up a bit.”

The man evaluated him closely and Archie met his gaze. “If I can help a detective by either confirming his intuition or telling him to look elsewhere—” He shrugged. “At the very least it could save the department a good deal of time and trouble.”

Mr. Rose pulled down a rack of small jars from a shelf above his desk. “Rubber adhesives, Mr. Bruce. Shall we put them to the test?”

Chapter Four

F
iona pushed a footstool up to the pantry cupboard to put the dinner plates away. “Mr. Bruce seems like a pleasant young man.” Mrs. Gallagher smiled, wearing that nosy, curious look of hers.

She smiled down on their housekeeper. “A good deal more than pleasant, Mrs. Gallagher. He was honored as the most brilliant student at university the year he graduated.”

“You knew him at University of Edinburgh? Why ever didn’t you say so, dear?” Mother stood in the pantry, adding her own prying look to Mrs. Gallagher’s.

Fiona stacked dishes as Mother handed them up. From the time Fiona was a little girl, she had helped their housekeeper with the supper dishes while Mother and Father retired to the study to go over the day’s receipts. Tonight, however, Mother had joined them in the washing up and putting away.

“Because I’m quite sure he doesn’t remember me.” Fiona angled a serving platter at the back of the cupboard and contemplated how much to reveal to her mother. “We both left the university that year. He graduated with a double first in chemistry and physical science . . .” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “And I was called home to London.”

Fiona turned to Mrs. Gallagher, who handed up the last of the cups and saucers. “And why wouldn’t he remember you, Fiona?” Mother’s hands were on her hips.

“He hardly took his eyes off Fee all supper.” Mrs. Gallagher winked. “Except when he wolfed down two pieces of my pie.”

Fiona closed up the cupboard and stepped off the stool. Frankly, she wasn’t sure what to say about her history with the man. She had formed an odd attachment to Archibald Bruce one evening at university. Something she had never quite forgotten—almost silly, really. She had kissed him at a graduation soiree, a masquerade party.

Fiona pulled the string on her apron. Was it possible to ever forget that night in Edinburgh?

She had come dressed as a little-known, eighteenth-century female mathematician, wearing a gown borrowed by a friend from the theater department. At one point during the evening she had retreated to a darkened gallery. Feeling a bit sozzled from drink, she sat and waited for the paintings to come into focus. Not much of a drinker, Fiona had imbibed a dram of whiskey and a pint, but earlier in the evening there had also been a glass or two of champagne.

She squinted, and the portraits on the wall did their best to straighten up. More than anything, she had needed a brief respite—from him. She had stolen glances all evening, and she had even caught him looking at her. Her pulse had throbbed inside her chest, and a surge of tingles had made her wobbly-kneed. She closed her eyes and when she reopened them, the door to the gallery had opened. A shaft of light illuminated the man of the hour. Even with the simple black eye mask, she recognized him immediately. Longish hair, and there was something about that expressive mouth of his—something that promised more . . . tingles.

He approached her slowly. “I’ve been wanting to ask all evening . . . who are you?”

Foxy drunk and emboldened by her costume, she had answered him in a French accent. “I am Émilie du Châtelet, monsieur—
et vous
?”

She had stopped him in his tracks, and she remembered being rather pleased about it. “The beautiful and brilliant mathematician who translated Newton’s
Principia,
and the woman who conquered the heart of Voltaire.” He took a bit of time with his smile—but it was well worth the wait. Fiona had lifted her hand, but he had not kissed the air above dainty knuckles. He had held on and tugged her closer. “Come to me.”

Had he actually whispered those words, or had she embellished the memory? She had revisited the moment so many times. . . .

Then Fiona, in the person of a brilliant French hussy, had done something so utterly wanton she might never live it down. She had kissed him and opened her mouth, inviting him to explore. The kiss had been tentative at first, but when he swirled his tongue into her mouth, she had answered him in kind. And their wicked game of chase, entangle, and retreat had quickly grown passionate.

He had paused once, just to look at her. Shaded by his mask, his gaze was a good deal more devilish than she might ever have imagined. And he kept his mouth close to hers, brushing his soft kisses across her lips. She, in turn, had playfully bitten his lower lip and held on—just long enough to scrape her teeth along sensitive inside flesh. He had groaned, and she thrilled at the sound of his primal need. She remembered feeling lustful, immodest, and immoral. And at the same time so very powerful, a daring woodland nymph out for a bit of midnight seduction.

“I want you, Madame du Châtelet,” he whispered. Pulling her close, he dipped his head and ran his tongue over the curvature of her corseted bosom. A shudder surged through her body and he slipped his arm around her waist to steady her.

The door slammed open. “I say, Archie, we’ve broken open another bottle. Help us—?” A number of inebriated young men ogled her. She supposed they had seen something of that last passionate assault on her person. She had suddenly felt exposed—and vulnerable. Sensing her alarm, Archie had stepped in front of her, protectively.

“Fiona, have you heard a word I’ve said?” The question startled her out of her reverie.

“Sorry, off woolgathering.” She avoided eye contact.

“I wager there’s a story between you and Mr. Bruce you’re not telling me,” her mother said, with a narrowed eye. Mother was often astonishingly clairvoyant when it came to Fiona’s personal thoughts and secrets. Somewhat dazed, she pulled her apron off. “I believe I’ll go check on Father—see how he and Archie are getting on.”

Fiona flew down the stairs, welcoming the cool evening air to her cheeks as well as her body. How could she possibly share those memories with anyone?

SHE POKED HER head in the lab.

“Ah, here you are, Fee. Mr. Bruce and I were just setting out to collect you,” Father said. He sat innocently beside the young man whose mouth had so devilishly explored her body three years ago. In fact, she could hardly bear to look her new instructor in the eye.

Fiona entered the laboratory and peered over her father’s shoulder. “Why do I fear I’m about to be made into a test subject? What is it now?”

Father looked up and smiled. “Warm in the kitchen, is it? Your cheeks are flushed.”

“M-mm, a good deal warmer inside.” Fiona mused aloud. “Lovely out here, though.” She looked from father to teacher. “Well? Might we soon have another contract with Scotland Yard?”

“Come have a look at this, Fiona.” Archie held up a sample the size of a small lump of clay. Fiona moved closer and he dropped the rubber compound into her hand. “This one’s a bit too malleable, perhaps—but certainly close enough to try out a fingerprint or two.”

“Sit down, Fiona,” Father urged. Fiona took a seat on the workbench between the two chemists. “Now, might you allow Mr. Bruce to borrow your thumb?” Father winked at her.

She looked from one to the other and shrugged. “I’m quite sure any thumb would do.”

“Ah, but you are the honoree of the hour, my dear,” Father cajoled, as the two men exchanged a nod.

Fiona arched a brow. “Rather a conspiratorial grin, if I do say so.”

“You made the connection between surgical bandages and fingerprints. This was your inspiration,” Archie insisted, and if she didn’t know better, she might even say he looked . . . impressed.

Somewhat tentatively, she held her thumb up. “Now what?”

Archie moved a clean glass beaker in front of her. “Press your thumb onto the glass—about here.” He pointed to the bulbous end of the vessel.

Fiona edged closer to the table. She pressed her thumb against the glass. “Like this?”

Archie nodded. “Press fairly hard.”

When she released her thumb, he swiveled the beaker. “One more.” He reached for her hand. “May I?”

He looked from father to daughter. Tentatively, he covered her thumb with his.

Blimey, a shot of electricity coursed through her body. Fiona inhaled a sharp breath. The current was not unlike Dr. Pulvermacher’s electrotherapy device for curing nervous disorders—though this tingling was a good deal stronger and very much like a magical night long ago at a masquerade ball.

He pressed her thumb onto the glass and rolled her finger from side to side. The look on his face was so earnest and thoroughly absorbed, she was loath to complain about the pressure on her thumb until she flinched. He looked up. “Sorry.” He eased up immediately. “More coverage gives us more points of comparison of the friction ridges—especially in latent prints.” He removed her finger and eased her hand away, but for some reason he didn’t let go. “Latent in this sense of hidden or invisible prints. I’m interested in developing a system of classification, beginning with three fingerprint patterns: the loop, whorl, and arch.”

He tilted the beaker and squinted. “Of course it will be some time before any of this will hold up reliably in the courts, but as I mentioned to your father, I mean to begin keeping fingerprint records at the lab—repeat offenders mostly and dangerous malefactors.”

Fiona tugged gently, reminding him he still held on to her hand. “Sorry, got a bit caught up.” He released her hand. “Forgive me.”

“Quite understandable. You are obviously very keen on the subject of fingerprints.” She caught the faintest smile from Father. And there it was again, a creeping bit of heat on her cheeks. Fiona took a deep breath and raised both brows. “Now what?”

“Since this rubber sample is a dark gray, shall we try a bit of sodium bicarbonate? Any pulverized compound light in color will do—even orris root powder.” Fiona got up from the workbench and returned with a canister of finely pulverized talc. “Will this do?”

Archie nodded with a smile. “Oh—and a fine-haired brush, if you have one.”

Father sat back and rubbed his chin. “Is my box of watercolors still above the cold closet?”

Fiona returned with a brush and they were soon, all three, bent over the table watching the Scotland Yard chemist at work. Archie swirled the brush with powder and tapped off the excess. “Talcum powder is quite practical in this application. Why is that, do you think?”

As a fine swirl of lines gradually developed, Fiona leaned close. “Talc is one of the softest minerals—listed as number one on the Mohs scale of mineral hardness—diamond being the hardest known mineral and a ten. Pulverized and made into a fine powder, it repels water, absorbs oil, and retains scents.”

Archie set down the brush and turned his head. “Can you tell me something about the mineral properties of talc, Miss Rose?” His eyes, a deep, unsettling shade of brown, mesmerized.

Fiona swallowed. “Well, talc is chemically inert. Composed of oxygen, magnesium, silicon, and water, the mineral is neither explosive nor flammable. These properties of talc are why . . .” Fiona caught the look on both male faces and stopped midsentence.

Resting his chin in his palm, Archie took up the brush with his other hand and applied powder to the second print. “It seems to me, you are quite capable of taking an oral exam—when you don’t know you’re being questioned.” He stopped his brushing to check her reaction.

Fiona narrowed her eyes. “You tricked me.”

“Beastly of me.” His attempt to appear contrite consisted of a flat . . . grin.

She pivoted to her father, whose exasperating smile offered her scant solace. Fiona returned to Archie, who held up a lump of tacky rubber. “Would you do us the honor, Miss Rose?”

She stuck out her lower lip, along with her hand.

“First you might flatten that out a bit,” Father suggested, which she did.

“Now, press it carefully against the print, and apply some pressure with your fingers,” Archie encouraged her.

Fiona pushed the tacky rubber substance to the glass and waited. “Now what?”

“Hold for what—perhaps a few seconds?” Archie looked to her father, who nodded.

Fiona counted backward slowly. “Three. Two. One.” Biting her lower lip in concentration, she lifted an edge—and then more. Archie and her father both leaned in close. Fiona peeled back the remaining latex. On the flattened side of the rubber, a miraculous labyrinth of tiny lines curled and swirled themselves into a white oval print.

“It’s perfect, Fiona,” Archie whispered.

Her father held up an enlarging glass. “There’s your loops and arches, Mr. Bruce, all neat and tidy—have a look.” Archie angled the glass so Fiona could see as well.

Father beamed.

Archie grinned.

Fiona smiled.

The wall clock chimed the half hour. “Drat, I’ve got to pick up Alfred at seven.”

“Alfred?” Fiona queried.

“Bomb-sniffing bloodhound. He’s due back from Portsmith on the evening train.” Archie looked to her father. “Next steps—what would you recommend, Mr. Rose?”

“I’ll want to go over my notes, prepare a few test batches. . . .” Her father turned to her. “Fiona, while Mr. Bruce and I discuss schedules and terms, might you fetch his things?”

Fiona knew when she was being dismissed. She also knew when Father was being sneaky. In that way, she and Daddy were a good deal alike—they weren’t very good at hiding their thoughts or their feelings. Fiona ran upstairs and collected Archie’s belongings. She caught a look at herself in the mirror over the vestibule table. The young woman in the mirror was slightly disheveled. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glowed with a kind of light she hardly recognized. She stepped back and took a second glance. “My word, almost . . .”