A Snowflake at Midnight

by Anne Renwick

  He offered her a faint smile, though he looked tired about the eyes. “Guilty.” He waved his hand toward the room. “I realize the hour is late, but we’ve been looking for you.”

  “Me?” Incredulity made her voice squeak. “Whatever for?”

  “We’ve a few questions concerning Dr. Bracken’s recent behavior.”

  Dr. Bracken’s dramatic cry as he’d rushed to his colleague’s fallen form sprang to mind. She’d chalked it up to attention-seeking behavior, but if Dr. Wilson’s death had been determined to be foul play and they were seeking out the chemist… and had linked her name to his.

  Her heart pounded. Aether, she’d abandoned her family with Dr. Bracken upon the doorstep. Holding flowers. A prospective suitor.

  A sick feeling stirred deep in her stomach. They couldn’t possibly think her an accomplice, could they?

  “Our relationship is a purely professional one.” Evie found her feet nailed to the floor.

  “Yet we’ve information to the contrary.” His voice was firm, and Mr. Black waved his hand toward the open door. “If you’ll both step inside, have a seat?”

  “Do we have a choice?” Ash asked, wary.

  “Not really, Mr. Lockwood. Time is of the essence.”

  Ash eyed the small interrogation room. It didn’t look nearly as terrifying as one might expect. An overly bright light hung overhead. There were three chairs. And a wooden table upon which stained papers were stacked. Behind it, chipped teacup at his elbow, sat none other than Lord Thornton.

  “Tormenting potential witnesses again, Black?” Lord Thornton asked in a deep booming voice, rising. His face was all sharp angles and planes, softened only by stray curls that twisted at the ends of his dark locks. Not a face that encouraged a person to relax.

  “Slipping in through the morgue entrance at the midnight hour, one with a rope slung about his shoulder while the lady carries a hand scythe?” Mr. Black lifted an eyebrow. “They’re up to something.”

  Lord Thornton sighed. “And yet you let her keep the weapon.”

  “They don’t look dangerous.” Mr. Black tipped his head. “Instead, they’ve the air of a tryst about them, wouldn’t you say?”

  Beside him, Evie’s face flushed.

  Ash did not care for the direction this interview was taking. “We were in Hyde Park,” he indicated the bundle of mistletoe that hung at his hip, “collecting mistletoe growing upon an oak tree, a necessary ingredient for a botanical cure.”

  “Is that—?” Mr. Black leaned forward. His eyebrows drew together as he stared. “It’s Rúkkersaméngri, the clockwork squirrel from The Druid Oak.”

  The creature had popped its head out of Ash’s pocket. He stuffed it back inside. “The very one.”

  “Well that explains the state of your face.” Mr. Black snorted. “And your need for sticking plaster.”

  Exasperated, Ash huffed. “Do you require a detailed explanation of our project, or will it suffice to say that I’m a botanist facing a tight timeline and that Miss Brown is a colleague in possession of valuable historic insight?”

  Lord Thornton’s lips twitched. “As our questions pertain to Dr. Bracken, we’ll consider the nature of your nighttime wanderings irrelevant.” He pulled out a chair. “Miss Brown. Mr. Lockwood. Please, sit. We’ll try to keep this short.” His voice held notes of frustration and impatience. “Were it not important, it would not keep me from my wife on such a night.”

  Evie lowered herself onto the edge of the seat.

  “Is this about Dr. Wilson’s death?” Ash ignored the earl’s invitation. He preferred to remain standing. “It was deliberate then, the explosion?”

  Without answering, Mr. Black directed his next statement to Evie. “We’re attempting to locate Dr. Bracken. I’ve information that suggests he is a suitor of yours.”

  Evie stiffened. “Certainly not.”

  “Yet I’m told he paid a visit to your home this evening, flowers in hand, and was welcomed inside where he remained for some time.” The agent’s eyes never left Evie’s face.

  Jealousy nipped at Ash’s heels, but he bit his tongue. He had no cause. Bracken moved among the gentry and had resources—financial and social—that Ash could never hope to offer her, but Evie had made her preference for him clear. He smirked. It warmed the heart to know the chemist was wanted for questioning in a possible murder case.

  Did they think Bracken responsible?

  Why else would they go to the trouble of tracking his movements on Christmas Eve?

  “I told my sister to tell him I was ill, to turn him away, then I slipped away via the kitchen door.” Evie’s face burned a furious red. “Dr. Bracken is a colleague who oversteps his bounds, making uninvited and unwelcome advances.”

  Mr. Black leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Ones distasteful enough to send you fleeing your residence, on Christmas Eve, no less.”

  “While that may be, I had another motivation to return to work.” She lifted her chin. “My father is ill, yet he plans to leave on an extended voyage in three days. The botanical cure we seek to prepare is for him.”

  Mr. Black twisted his lips and gave Ash a sideways glance, as if he weren’t convinced her answer fully explained their presence at the Lister Institute at such a late hour.

  But it appeared that, in his line of work as a Queen’s agent, Mr. Black was accustomed to such odd comings and goings, for he let the matter drop. “You’ve not seen Dr. Bracken since departing your home?” he asked.

  “I have not.” Pulling back her shoulders, Evie shifted and prepared to rise.

  But Lord Thornton slid a piece of paper across the table. “Can you enlighten us as to your connection with Dr. Wilson?” The handwriting scrawled across the page was a tangle of chemical formulas involving numerous elemental symbols.

  “Of course.” Evie took a deep breath. “We are—were—composing a joint monograph concerning the roles of specific metals in medieval herbal remedies. In the first modern translation, Oswald Cockayne interprets them as magical or superstitious elements. Instead, Dr. Wilson and I argue that they are key components of the formula. Copper and silver, for example, have known antimicrobial properties.”

  Mr. Black looked to Lord Thornton. At the gentleman’s nod, Mr. Black visibly relaxed.

  Ash cleared his throat. “Any chance you might enlighten us as to why you suspect Dr. Bracken is involved in his colleague’s death?”

  “Any reason we ought not share?” Lord Thornton asked Mr. Black.

  Mr. Black lifted a shoulder. “None. Given Dr. Bracken is hauling about an emerald ring, perhaps they’re best forewarned.”

  “He intended to propose?” Evie’s jaw dropped. “Tonight?”

  “A ring?” A slow burn began to build in Ash’s stomach. His own offering was much more modest. His voice rose in challenge. “How can you possibly have such information?”

  “Dr. Bracken and Dr. Wilson are both candidates for the Hatton Chair of Chemistry,” Lord Thornton replied. “As Dr. Wilson was one of ours—”

  “An agent?” Evie asked.

  Lord Thornton nodded. “With a specialty in nitroglycerin.”

  “That’s an explosive!” she exclaimed.

  “It is.”

  Confused, Ash countered, “But Dr. Wilson was studying the effectiveness of hawthorn, a member of the rose family, for relieving symptoms of angina, chest pain.” Ash was acquainted with the man from his visits to the greenhouse to collect plant material for his work.

  Lord Thornton nodded. “He was comparing its efficacy to that of nitroglycerine, a known vasodilator. A convenient cover for his production of the substance for more… volatile uses. Therefore, while accidental detonation was not an impossibility, Dr. Wilson would not have recklessly transported such a large quantity of an unstable substance on his person.”

  Mr. Black crossed his arms. “Handled roughly—bumped, banged or shaken—as one might expect of a crowd exiting Lister Institute for the holidays, it could easily de
tonate.”

  “And someone who knew of his research,” Ash added two and two, “might take advantage of that fact. You believe Dr. Bracken slipped a vial into, say, his coat pocket.”

  “Aether.” Evie lifted a shaking hand to her mouth. “All to eliminate competition for an academic position?”

  “Dr. Wilson’s work had made great strides,” Mr. Black grumbled. “Dr. Bracken’s research, on the other hand, was a miserable failure. His extract from the oleander plant, while effective, was acutely toxic.”

  “Oleandrin,” Lord Thornton said. “Cardiotoxic, hepatotoxic and nephrotoxic.”

  “Heart, liver and kidney failure,” Mr. Black added as a footnote, then pulled a face. “So many dead laboratory rats.”

  Lord Thornton rubbed the back of his neck. “Which leads us to suspect—”

  “Dr. Bracken.” Ash leaned forward and tapped two fingers upon the table. “As a member of the Chemistry department, he had the means, the knowledge and the opportunity. With a vial in place, all he needed to do was wait. When that blast shook the floor, he was standing not three feet away from me. The man smiled. Smiled!”

  “Not, alas, an admission of guilt,” Lord Thornton said.

  “Nor is his melodramatic performance at the crime scene,” Mr. Black said, taking up the tale. “Nonetheless, I instructed agents to shadow his movements. After a brief stop in the library, Dr. Bracken returned home. His mother was most forthcoming. She and her son are, in her own words, very close.” He rolled his eyes. “Dr. Bracken changed his attire, then retrieved an heirloom ring from the safe.” Mr. Black’s mouth twitched as he shifted his gaze to Evie. “Mrs. Bracken is utterly convinced of your acceptance.”

  Evie’s lip curled.

  “Though he was traced to your doorstep, Miss Brown, the direction of the crank hack he hired after he left was lost in the evening traffic. It may well be that he’s drowning his sorrows in a pub.”

  Mr. Black looked unconvinced. Ash too had his doubts.

  “Be careful, Miss Brown.” Lord Thornton glanced from her to Ash. “If our summation is correct, Dr. Bracken also views you as competition. One man is already in the morgue.”

  “Most of him,” Mr. Black quipped.

  Ash cringed at the dark humor.

  “We don’t wish to add your corpse, Mr. Lockwood,” Lord Thornton said. “Or another patient to the hospital ward where the victims are no longer in full possession of their extremities.”

  Mr. Black stepped away from the door. “We won’t keep you any longer, but take care. Dr. Bracken appears to have a ruthless streak and,” his dark gaze shifted to Evie, “a strong desire to make you his wife. Should you encounter him before we are able to locate him, send word immediately.”

  “Of course.” Rattled, Evie rose. “About our late-night entry…”

  The corner of Mr. Black’s mouth curved upward. “I’ll ensure the guard loses that paper. This interview never happened.”

  Chapter Nine

  No need to return immediately to the library. So long as Evie managed to tidy up before dawn, no one would be the wiser. Besides, first things first. They ought to prepare the mistletoe. It needed to be crushed, then steeped for a full day.

  As such, they wasted no time dashing up the stairs to the greenhouse.

  “Unbelievable,” Evie commented, as they stopped before its door. The interview with two Queen’s agents still weighed on her mind. “To think Dr. Bracken capable of murder.”

  “Enough about him.” Ash pressed a hand to the gel pad and waited for the galvanometer to authorize his entry. “I refuse to let thoughts of him ruin the Christmas surprise I have in store for you.”

  “No need to growl about it.” Puzzled, Evie nudged his arm playfully. Was there a kernel of jealousy behind his irritation? Was it wrong of her to savor such a response, if only a little? “There’s only one library patron who’s caught my eye.”

  He smiled. “And there’s only one woman I wish to lead down my garden path.”

  Her pulse jumped, and she shoved all thoughts of the mad chemist from her mind. Thoughts of him ought not be allowed to seep into the precious few hours she and Ash could call their own. Not when they had the whole of the greenhouse—and each other—to explore.

  Click. A light blinked green.

  Ash gripped the iron wheel and gave it a twist. Gears turned and the thick, metal bar slid aside with only the slightest grinding protest. More value was placed upon the herbs, shrubs and trees grown to assist and support research conducted in the laboratories below than the books and journals stored in Lister Library.

  Irritation flattened her lips. A simple iron key occupied space in her coat pocket beside a tin whistle. Both about equally effective in keeping an intruder from accessing Lister Library.

  Not so at the Bodleian. Since 1602 when the library first opened its doors to scholars, great value had been placed upon the manuscripts within its walls, going so far as to chain the books to their shelves and deny anyone—even King Charles the First—the ability to remove a book from the premises.

  Ash yanked open the door and waved her inside.

  She crossed the threshold, a magical portal into a world that felt a million miles removed from the snowy winter night of London. Snowflakes touched down upon the greenhouse roof, instantly melting to trickle away in streams. Inside the glass and iron bubble, the air was humid and warm. Plants from every corner of the globe filled the space, flourishing under the careful care of devoted botanists and horticulturalists. Someone—Ash?—had suspended odd, ruffled plants, ones that glowed with a faint green bioluminescence, along a pathway that led deeper into the foliage, a sight so utterly charming and romantic that her heart gave a great thud.

  Cultivated, yet wild and free. A decided contrast to the structured order of her library.

  Click. The door closed behind them, sealing them inside.

  “Did you…” Dazed, Evie waved a hand, speechless at the display before her. This was far more than a mere tour. Ash offered no simple seduction, but a fairytale romance in which he’d arranged for her to step into a wonderland.

  Color rose high upon his cheeks as he shrugged the rope from his shoulder and tossed the iron sickle in a corner. “I rather thought I’d be bringing you here after spending the day with your family.”

  “It’s beautiful.” She tugged off her mittens, unwound his scarf and unbuttoned her coat, hanging it upon a hook among work aprons, distressed by the sudden upwelling of emotion that caught in her throat. Her heart wanted to stay right here, with Ash, in London, rather than chase after an uncertain academic career in a town far from the bustling city she loved.

  Her mind… would have to be quiet. She’d listen to its reasoning later. For now, she intended to enjoy anything and everything Ash had to offer.

  “We’ll wash the leaves, remove any soot and grime before steeping them in distilled water.” At ease in his environment, Ash shrugged off his own coat and, turning a knob to increase the rocking motion of the Lucifer lamp overhead, led her from the entryway into a small workroom containing a sink and a squat stove with a chimney pipe that zig-zagged its way upward to exit through the ceiling. He waved a hand. “Everything we need.”

  Various herbs, flowers and plants dangled in bunches from the rafters, drying. Filling an entire wall was a chest bearing a multitude of small drawers, the contents of each carefully labeled. Shelves were lined with bottles containing all manner of oils, fats and extracts. Scattered over the counters below was a collection of glassware and crockery. A space that was part stillroom, part laboratory.

  “Yew bark and elderberries?” she asked, planning ahead.

  “Taxus baccata, the yew bark, will be in one of those drawers.” He dropped the mistletoe into a large colander and rolled up his sleeves, a sight Evie found mesmerizing. “We’ll collect the elderberries later, set them to boil in lard before straining them.”

  Coarse hairs glinted darkly over thick, ropy forearms. As he washed and drai
ned the mistletoe, strong muscles flexed. Her hands ached with the need to touch—and she had every intention of doing exactly that—but not yet. The sooner the plant was set to steep, the better.

  She ought to offer her help, but a low electrical current hummed along her skin, and a coil of desire twisting tight deep inside her made it impossible to tear her eyes away.

  “Evie?” Her gaze jumped from his hands to his face. Though the words he spoke were calm and reasoned, his molten gaze sent her body temperature through the roof. “If you’ll fill that bottle,” he tipped his head, “halfway with distilled water?”

  “Of course,” she breathed, reaching overhead to lift down the large, stoppered bottle he’d indicated.

  “Focused on other things, were you?” Ash’s eyes flashed, a gentle tease as he ripped the leaves from the plant, tossing them into an overlarge granite mortar.

  Heat flashed over her skin, a burn the splash of water did little to cool. Aether, this greenhouse was too warm for woolen bodices and layered petticoats. Or waistcoats and cravats, garments Ash only half-heartedly donned when forced from this rooftop workspace and into the realm of gentlemen scientists, garments he’d not bothered to wear for their excursion into the park. She unfastened a button, loosening the collar that threatened to strangle her.

  Ash crushed the mistletoe beneath a large stone pestle, pausing only to let her snatch the bruised leaves from the basin to push them into the bottle. Solid muscles shifted beneath his linen shirt as he worked, ones he’d used to pull himself hand over hand up a rope and into a tree, assisted by equally solid thighs. He was stronger than most London men. A credit to a childhood spent in the countryside.

  “There’s a certain private tour I’ve been promised.” When had the cage of her corset become so restrictive? “I’m wondering what the greenhouse looks like beyond those beautiful glowing plants.”

  “Fungi.”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “The hanging plants? Mycelial bioluminescence produced by Panellus stipticus, the bitter oyster, a North American variety of the fungus responsible for legends of foxfire. When well-hydrated, it glows. Unless it’s been exposed to contaminants. There’s potential there, to replace the proverbial canary in the coal mine, should anyone choose to develop it. Meanwhile, it makes a lovely ornament, does it not?” He laughed. “Don’t pull a face, Evie. Enjoy them for what they are. A beautiful nighttime display of enzymatic activity that, as yet, defies explanation.”