A rusty, squeaky whine came from outside Fiona’s window. She rolled away and sat up straight. “That’s the mews gate. Mother and Father are home.”
At bit dazed, he followed her downstairs and back inside her parents’ study. Fiona flopped into a chair and Archie took up exactly where they’d left off. “The names of elements sixty-six and eighteen, Miss Rose?”
Chapter Eight
Archie vaulted over a luggage cart and ran through the train station to catch the seven thirty-five train to Bush Hill Park. At the end of the platform, Agent Gunn opened a compartment door and waved. Archie jumped aboard, stepping around two rifle cases on the floor. Stashing his attaché case under the seat, he spied the companion gunpowder canister poking out of a satchel.
“I heard you had a bit of excitement at Whitehall yesterday.” Finn stretched out crossing booted legs at the ankle. There really was something genuinely imposing about the man.
Archie settled in opposite Finn. “Shrapnel shell. Just like the one in your satchel, there.”
Finn stared. “Are you telling me this is a live shell?”
Archie nodded. “And volatile—do handle with care. The one in my lab quite literally flew past Alfred’s nose. The concussion sent us both flying.”
The agent tilted his head. “Quite a nasty scratch there along your chin. Tell me everything—from the time Alfred takes his morning relief at the lamppost, until you pick yourself up off the pavers.”
Archie stared wide-eyed. “How do you know—?”
“The hound’s pissing habits? Whether you know it or not, we all keep an eye on you and Alfred. You’re both very important to Special Branch.”
“You could very likely do without me. Not sure if you could get along without Alfred.” Archie grinned. “I hadn’t thought we’d made much of an impression with the undercover men.”
Finn’s gaze was deadly serious. “Trust me. We can’t afford to lose either of you.”
Archie outlined the events of yesterday morning and filled in details as Finn asked questions. “What kinds of profiles, scenarios are you looking at—inside or out?” the agent queried.
Archie exhaled a breath. “Both, at the moment.”
Finn resettled himself into a corner of the compartment. “Inside first. Any suspicions? Anyone acting a bit off their regular game—something you’ve noticed, but never acted on?”
Archie stared at the satchel with the shell in it. “There may be a couple of suspects. No one I wish to name right now.”
“Names are safe with me, and you need to tell someone, Archie, in case one of them gets to you or the hound.” The slightly amused operative scratched his chin. “It will help us in your homicide investigation.”
Archie nodded, even grinned. “You make your point, Finn.”
The agent shifted uncomfortably. “All right, since you refuse to cooperate, shall we discuss the possibility of an outside perpetrator? You have to be looking at Grey de Ruthyn.”
“At the top of the list.” Archie mentioned other suspects, but they both kept coming back to the sly arms trafficker. “You almost captured him at the opium den, Finn.”
“Almost is not going to get him arrested. The man’s a peer, Simon Grey, Baron Grey de Ruthyn. We’ve got to catch him in a flagrans delictum—red-handed—to bring up charges.”
Archie raised a brow. “And how goes the case?”
“You’ve seen the man in action—a sly fox that one. He lives quietly, travels incognito, even his women are carefully selected. And he has never allowed his picture to be taken—that we know of. Even when he is out and about he wears that brimmed coachman’s hat—think about it. You got a fairly good look at him, but what did you see, exactly?
“That leap out the window and onto the roof makes him a spry, athletic man, dark hair . . . possibly. Not sure about the eyes . . .” Archie shook his head. “I see what you mean. . . .”
Finn shrugged. “For obvious reasons, I’m behind the scenes now. Melville’s got Flynn Rhys posted across from a known trafficker’s stash in Shadwell Basin, Wapping.”
He leaned forward. “How is Mr. Rhys’s leg these days?”
“The cast stays on another six weeks. Flynn’s fit to be tied—but then when isn’t he?” The agent gazed briefly out the train window. “He’s cooped up in a flat overlooking a warehouse—nothing to do day and night but observe the comings and goings.”
“And how is he holding up?”
Finn snorted a laugh.
“Poor miserable chap—I shall arrange to pay him a visit,” Archie said. Over a month ago, Flynn Rhys’s body had been pulled out from under a pile of rubble beneath the St. Katharine docks. He’d been working a kidnapping case with another agent, Rafe Lewis. The explosion could have killed him and Detective Lewis both. The man was lucky to escape with a broken leg.
Archie settled back into the upholstered tufts of his seat. The trip to Enfield would take less than twenty minutes. Already the terrain was greening some, market produce growers mostly and a few villages here and there. It didn’t take long for his thoughts to return to Fiona and the intimacies they had shared last night. She was younger than he had thought—but it also made sense. He smiled to himself. In some ways she was refreshingly lighthearted, the fey Miss Fee—almost mischievous at times. And she could also slant those luminous gray-green eyes and smile in a way that instantly caused a great deal of hardness.
In Edinburgh, after the night of the ball, Fiona had vanished, never to be found. He had made numerous inquiries but gotten nowhere. Eventually, he had tucked his encounter with the capricious creature into a corner of memory, and over the years, she had become more dream than real to him. Until two days ago. And what a marvel these past two days had been! At times, he felt a bit lightheaded—other times, blindsided. She was in his thoughts regularly now, as if they’d never been apart. He might have lost Fiona Rose once, but that would never happen again.
Finn tipped his hat over his eyes. “Wake me when we get there.”
The factory sent an escort to meet them at the Underground station. The middle-aged man with a ruff of red whisker introduced himself. “Winslow Purdy at your service.” Archie and Finn loaded rifles and gunpowder into the back of a dogcart.
“Watch the potholes. We’ve got a live shrapnel bomb tucked under the seats,” Finn warned the driver, as he climbed up into the cart and took a seat across from Mr. Purdy.
Archie sat up with the driver but angled himself to speak to their guide. “Might Sir Frederick Abel be here in Enfield, by any chance?”
“Why, he arrived at the mill just yesterday,” their guide exclaimed. “I’m told he’ll be at Waltham Abbey, the Royal Gunpowder Mill, for the rest of the week.”
“Sir Frederick is ordnance chemist to the War Office. I understand he is making headway in the area of smokeless gunpowder.” Archie turned to the special agent and toggled both brows. “Interested?”
Finn stared. “Very.”
Archie returned to their escort. “Mr. Purdy, might I suggest we forgo the tour of the Royal Arms Factory and head straight for Waltham Abbey?”
FIONA SMILED AT the mild-mannered, somewhat effusive gentleman. “Do you personally test all the products you offer for sale, Mr. Cole?”
The toiletries purchaser for Harvey Nichols bobbed his head with enthusiasm. “Whenever possible, Miss Rose.” He sat down beside her and carefully unwrapped the delicate pleated tissue of her latest sample. He brought the soap to within an inch of his nose and inhaled with a sigh. “Oh, my word.”
“Orange Blossom,” Fiona offered, “with hints of ginger and green papaya. Ginger increases the skin’s radiance and decreases inflammation, while the astringent properties in green papaya are a natural exfoliant for the skin.”
He closed his eyes and passed the soap under his nose, again. “You must allow me a prediction. Fiona Rose of Rose and Company shall one day be known as Britain’s most beloved soap maker. Flawlessly hard-milled, exquisitely scented, and
forgive me if I am too bold, but your soaps are wonderfully sensual. Roger and Gallet have nothing on you, Miss Rose.”
“I wanted you to be the very first to try Orange Blossom.” Fiona pulled on gloves and stood up. “Sorry to run, but I have class today and still have chores to finish up at home.”
“I’ll send an order over in the morning. Let’s start with four dozen. I know, I know—twice as many as I usually start with, but I have a feeling about Orange Blossom. This one could become as popular as Spicy Carnation.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Cole.” Fiona flew down the stairs, completely elated. Perhaps she might actually be able to make a go of soaps, lotions, and other toiletries. At the mezzanine level, she dipped into a small but very exclusive department featuring silk unmentionables from Paris.
Several days ago, she had spied a darling corset with matching stockings and garters in the palest shade of lavender. Now she prayed it was still there. She turned the corner and there it was, still on the display. Embroidered violets dotted the bodice at regular intervals and the most delicate matching ribbon had been stitched in and out of eyelet lace along both edges. Beneath the corset, a camisole and pantalettes were so sheer, they were positively scandalous. As Fiona approached the display case, she became aware of movement behind her—just a hint of shadow at the edge of her vision. Good Lord, she hoped it wasn’t Walter. The fastidious man did frequent the shops on Sloane Street, but the very idea of him lurking in the intimate apparel department of Harvey Nichols was disturbing.
Fiona spun around. Nothing.
She backtracked and peered down half a flight of stairs. Why did she feel as though something or someone was just beyond the bend in the stairs? Tentatively, she descended the first step. “May I help you, miss?”
The voice from behind caused her to jump and nearly fall. Fiona caught hold of the banister and turned. A fresh-faced shopgirl stood behind her, smiling. “Is there something I can help you with, miss?”
Fiona pointed to the lavender corset. “I’ll take that—stockings, garters, pantalettes—the entire assemblage.”
As she walked home, the fresh air invigorated, but the strange feeling of being watched was back. Fiona dashed across Brompton Road and into the square.
“Pssst, Miss Rose.”
Fiona stopped and squinted at the tree slightly off the path. She could just make out the brim of a bowler hat. Fiona stepped into the foliage and peeped around the old plane tree. “Walter? Whatever are you doing lurking about the garden?”
Walter jerked upright. “I’m not lurking, Fiona—I’m surveilling. According to Miss Green, there have been strangers spotted about Brompton Square. In fact, you have been sighted with one of these outsiders—twice.”
Fiona frowned. “My word, aren’t you and Ida the prying peepers.”
Walter leaned on his umbrella handle. “Might I inquire as to who is occupying so much of your time, Fiona?”
She might have flushed some—her cheeks felt a bit hot. “Not that it is any of your business, but the gentleman happens to be my tutor.” She backed out of the shrubbery. “Please inform Ida that if I catch her spying and tattling on me again, I will discontinue my Rose Freckle Lotion.” Fiona sighed. “Sorry to be mean about it, but she’s got some cheek, spying on me like that—you and she both. Rather a low point for you, Walter.”
Starting down the path, Fiona stopped and turned. “Just last week, the gardeners cleared a patch of stinging nettle out of that thicket. Do be careful.” The sound of Walter beating back bushes with his umbrella caused her to bite her lip and smother a chortle.
Fiona hurried inside Rose & Company, which was bursting with customers. She quickly tied on an apron and retrieved Mrs. Hartley’s prescription and Miss Lucy Campbell’s throat lozenges. She liked working in the shop when it was busy; it kept her mind off the coming afternoon and evening. After class, she had agreed to accompany Archie to a lecture at the Royal Society and he had mentioned dinner afterward. “Shall I put that on account, Mrs. Hartley?” Fiona thought about her own package stuffed under the counter and smiled.
ARCHIE AND FINN backed a fair distance away while several technicians defused the cylinder. “Shrapnel shells are essentially antipersonnel artillery munitions,” Sir Frederick Abel explained. “The shell is fired, which sets off a timer, which triggers the first charge, which then travels the length of the shell to a much larger charge at the rear, which explodes and disperses the shrapnel.”
Finn’s eye roll amused Archie. The agent knew more about weaponry, firearms anyway, than any man on the force. As soon as the shell cap was detached, they moved in for a better look. “See here, this is an igniferous fuse, note the U-shaped powder channel. When the detonator in the tip ignites the powder, the length of time it takes to burn represents the length of the time delay.”
Archie nodded. “In the case of the exploded shell in my lab—could the shock of, say, the shell falling onto the floor set it off?”
Sir Frederick, a large man of husky build, smoothed his mustache absently. “Depending on the height of the drop, if the shell tip hit the ground at a ninety-degree angle, or close to it”—the man shrugged—“I’d have to say very likely.”
While Sir Frederick ran tests on the gunpowder inside the shell, Archie accompanied Finn out to Waltham Abbey’s ordnance testing field to fire the confiscated weapons and ammunition. Finn systematically sighted targets further away. “Blimey, these weapons have an impressive range.”
“How’s that?” Archie asked, curious.
“The higher the muzzle velocity, the flatter the trajectory and the less drift. A significant improvement in accuracy, especially at a distance. All of Europe will soon be using a form of this smokeless gunpowder, and their arms factories will be manufacturing weapons that hold up to the wear and tear of firing bullets at the higher velocity. Whatever this is, it’s not guncotton. It’s something much more refined.”
“And it’s in the hands of an international arms trafficker,” Archie grumbled.
Finn handed him a Webley Mk-1. “I recommend a bit of target practice. Someone may have tried to kill you or the hound yesterday, and as I said, the gentlemen of Scotland Yard like having you around.”
Archie managed a crooked grin as he loaded the pistol. “In that case, I shall endeavor to hit a target with some degree of accuracy.”
The morning improved, some, as did Archie’s acumen. Finn turned out to be a patient instructor who improved his student’s accuracy over the course of just a couple of hours. “In a firefight situation, when it comes down to me or him, with a handgun I always aim for the body.” The agent winked. “That way I might actually hit something.” Coming from a sharpshooter like Finn, the statement made an impression on Archie.
“And here I always thought I was just a miserable shot,” he said.
After the shooting lesson, they sat down to a rather heavy lunch with Sir Frederick, who concurred with Finn. “The gunpowder appears to be a refined form of smokeless explosive. I should have a complete breakdown by late afternoon. I’ll wire our findings as soon as we have something.” Archie turned to Finn. “Well then, we might as well return to town.”
“No tour of the Royal Arms Factory?” Finn asked.
“Perhaps another time.” Archie thanked Sir Frederick for setting aside his own work to analyze the gunpowder. “Nonsense, Mr. Bruce, we may very well learn something valuable here.”
Back on the train, Finn lounged into his seat, fixing his gaze on Archie. “You seem awfully anxious to get back to teach a class. Don’t tell me, there’s a pretty lass in this somewhere.”
Agent Gunn’s instincts never failed to impress. Archie almost glared but thought better of it, as he had a few delicate questions to ask the rippingly handsome man, who by all reports was pawed upon by every available young lady in London.
“I wonder if you might help with a rather delicate matter—a sexual matter, actually.” Archie felt heat rise up the side of his neck. “I say, thi
s is . . . bloody awkward.”
The agent grinned. “You’re not a lightfoot, lad, are you? Because I’m not going to let you bugger me.”
Now Archie did glare. “Bugger yourself, Finn. I just have a question about . . . well, pleasuring a woman.”
Finn broadened his grin, if that was possible. “And what is your question?”
“I want to go about this the right way. I don’t believe she has had a great deal of experience in these matters . . . nor have I, for that matter.”
“And what did you learn from your turn with Vivian Mowbray?”
Archie colored. “You know about Miss Mowbray?”
“How can I put this delicately?” Finn rolled his head back. “Let’s just say that a number of Whitehall’s finest have enjoyed the pleasure of her company.”
Archie exhaled a deep breath. “I broke it off quite early. Something didn’t feel . . . exactly right.”
“You have excellent instincts.” Agent Gunn straightened. “But you’ll need to be a bit more specific about these sexual matters if you’d like my advice, Archie.”
“Before I go on, I want you to assure me you will not breathe a word of this to anyone. I’m quite serious about this young lady—”
“My lips are sealed.” Finn rubbed his face in his hands. “All right, what do you know about a woman’s most delicate anatomy?” He removed a small journal and fountain pen from an inside pocket.
Archie stared. “I know where to put it, so to speak, and what to do when I get there, but I suspect there is more to it than a jolly good rogering.”
“Indeed, there is much more to lovemaking than rogering, though I wouldn’t knock a jolly good rogering, myself.” Finn unscrewed his pen cap. “They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Shall I illustrate?”
Archie leaned forward as Finn began his diagram. Within the confines of a long elegant oval shape, he sprinkled various symbols and shapes, which he quizzed Archie on. “Well done, Mr. Bruce.”
A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce Page 8