Chapter 20

Nick was a good sport about her endless questions on the half-hour train ride to Harpenden. By the time they reached the correct stop, she'd learned that the lab was a compact operation with a chief and assistant of mycology, entomology, horticulture, and botany, as well as a small staff for administrative and maintenance purposes. Petrov had been the chief of Horticulture. The man who was missing, Jeffery Wells, had been his assistant. Nick also told her that there was a sister lab, housed on an estate not five miles away, which also specialized in studies related to agriculture.

He continued to look at her with delighted surprise with every question she asked. Now he'd shown her the other side of himself, the intense, serious side, Saffron imagined this overly friendly demeanor was nothing more than a mask. "You needn't pretend everything out of my mouth is brilliant, you know," she told him. "I understand what's going on."

"What's going on?" he repeated with an innocent blink.

"I've agreed to help you. You needn't feign interest in me," she said. "Elizabeth thinks you're some sort of spy, you know."

"Does she?" he asked mildly.

"You are clearly not just an employee of the Agricultural Ministry. I'm not convinced you're dealing in international sabotage, but I'm also not convinced your usual duties give you much chance to investigate the deaths of employees."

"You'd be surprised," he said, and she couldn't tell if the humor in his voice was false.

They left the train and emerged onto the platform, a simple concrete slab before a tiny station house that reminded Saffron of the out-of-the-way places she'd visited with Lee. The weather was a far cry from the sticky warmth of summer, however. The day was cool and the sun kept hiding behind clouds, leaving her shivering.

On the map, Harpenden seemed inconsequential, merely an agrarian town some thirty miles from London. But a hotel and three different public houses greeted her upon exiting the station. The lively main road was lined with businesses, and down the road to either side she could see houses.

"This way," Nick said, offering her his elbow.

They began to the east, passing pedestrians, red brick houses and shops, tall trees and hedges whose autumnal colors had begun to bleed away to brown. They came to a long stretch of road that was bordered by thick trees. Saffron tried to peer through them.

"Does this belong to Rothamsted?" she asked, referring to the other laboratory in the area.

"No, Rothamsted is the other direction," Nick replied. "Quite a lot of land, they have. Far more than the Plant Pathology Lab."

"Jodrell Lab at Kew Gardens became the Plant Pathology Lab when it was moved from Kew to Harpenden," Saffron said. Nick had told her as much on the train, and she hadn't mentioned she was already familiar with the Jodrell Lab. "Where did Rothamsted come from?"

"Some wealthy man decided to make his scientific hobby into something more. He already owned the house, and rather than let the old place molder, he invited other scientists to work there. Did well enough for a few decades, but by the turn of the century, it was on its way out. They brought in a new director and he turned things around. Made it over, expanded their program of study, gave some new people a chance." He slanted Saffron a look. "Their head of Botany is a woman, you know, Dr. Winifred Brenchley."

Saffron swallowed an excited gasp. "She graduated from University College. She studied alongside my father. I've read so many of her papers—"

"And now she runs the Rothamsted botany lab," Nick said. "Ever thought about leaving the university to do something like that?"

"I … No, I've never considered it." Her plans had always been to stay at the university, the place her father had loved so much, and perhaps eventually teach as her father had.

"You may want to," he said lightly. "From what I hear, the university hasn't exactly been welcoming. Not all places are like that."

It had been hard, without a doubt, to find her place at the U. Even now, years after arriving and months into being a proper researcher, she felt out of place more often than not. What would it be like to work in a place like Rothamsted, being led by a woman?

Next to her, Nick gave her a conspiratorial grin. "You're what, twenty-three? I hope you don't believe that just because you started at UCL means you must stay there."

"You were already entrenched in the military at twenty-three," Saffron said, not wishing to think too hard about her current circumstances, then wrinkled her nose at her poor choice of words. "And you've stayed within the government all this time."

He shrugged. "Alexander was twenty-three when he was injured at Fromelles. I'm sure he's told you a little about how that changed his plans for his life." His lips tilted into a smile as if he knew how frustrating it was for him to casually indicate he had such deep knowledge of Alexander's life. "And you can't tell me you believe Elizabeth will be a receptionist forever. Twenty-three is too young to decide who one will be for the rest of one's life."

They subsided into silence, eased only by their footsteps on the brick path along the road and the occasional whisk and whirl of a passing bicyclist.

When another street came into view, Nick directed them south. The curving brick wall lining the road was partially obscured by vines both brown and green. Nick's demeanor seemed to focus; his spine straightened and his pace increased fractionally. Saffron recalled their purpose, and her growing sense of dread made the crisp air sharper in her lungs.

They passed two neighborhoods on opposing sides of the street, then, at last, reached Poets Court.

A collection of homes dotted a clearing in the trees with little poetic about them. The plain red brick and whitewashed houses, the gardens already slumbering for the winter, were rather bleak beneath a watery white sky.

Nick approached the house directly ahead, skirting the circular drive and stepping up to the door. Saffron darted a look around, but the court was empty. She wasn't sure why, but she'd expected something of an uproar. But perhaps the neighbors in Harpenden were not so nosy as in London.

They slipped inside the house and Saffron immediately stepped back out. Her unconscious retreat was irresistible in the face of such an unholy reek.

"This was what I was afraid of," Nick muttered. He delved into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small bottle of something. "Give me your handkerchief."

Saffron did, one hand clamped over her nose. Nick tipped the bottle onto her handkerchief and handed it back. "Keep that to your nose."

It was scent, spicy and blissfully strong enough to prevent the worst of the stink from invading her nostrils. Nick waved her inside.

The open front door cut a swath in the gloom. After a moment to allow her eyes to adjust, Saffron followed Nick down the hall to the back of the house. The kitchen was silent, cold, and messy. Discarded dishes and cups cluttered the counter and sink.

Nick surveyed the room, then checked the back door. It was locked. He turned and nodded back the way they'd come. "Up the stairs."

Saffron reflected that she really did not want to go up the stairs. But she'd agreed to help both Nick and Adrian. This was a part of that promise.

At the top of the stairs, there was just one room, and the door was ajar.

Saffron attempted to take a deep breath to steady herself, but the smell was worse up there and she gagged, barely catching herself from vomiting on the landing. Nick turned to her in question.

"It's just the smell," she forced out.

"I'll open a window," he muttered and went into the room.

When she heard the slide of a window opening, she followed.

The bedroom was plain, with a battered wardrobe in one corner and an old-fashioned writing desk next to it below the open window. The curtains were parted and the window open, letting in a brisk breeze and just enough light to see the rest of the room. Saffron slowly turned toward the bed, next to which Nick stood.

His somber face said it all, looking down at the man in the bed. "It's as I feared. Jeffery Wells is dead."

Jeffery Wells lay in his bed, pale eyes open and bloodshot. His ginger hair was a mess around his head, and his middle-aged face was gray and contorted as if he was, even in death, experiencing pain.

The scent of death and illness overpowered her. A rush of dizziness overtook her and she swayed, catching herself against the bed frame.

"Don't touch anything," Nick said sharply. "Even with gloves."

Saffron stepped back, clutching her hand to her chest like it'd been burned. Her thoughts caught up to the situation. "Where are the police?"

"They haven't been informed yet," Nick said. "Are you able to come closer?"

Saffron swallowed down her revulsion and took a small step forward, then another. She'd been in a room with a dead body before. The brief glimpse of that woman haunted her dreams. She had no doubt Jeffery Wells would show up, as well.

She kept her eyes firmly off the stains in the bedclothes that were no doubt causing the wretched smell. An old-fashioned wash basin on the bedside table answered for the rest of it. It was full of old sick. Saffron moved as far from it as possible, coming to stand next to Nick.

"Look here," Nick said, carefully pointing to Wells's hand.

Wells had cupped his hand to his chest just as Saffron had moments before. A horrific gash, crusted and black, seemed to peel away from his flesh in layers

"Dear God," she whispered, daring to inch closer to lean over Wells. "What on earth happened to him?"

"I'm guessing it's the same thing that got Petrov," Nick replied. "Petrov was also sick on the train."

Adrian hadn't mentioned that, but most people wouldn't discuss the unsavory things the human body did while in distress.

"Petrov didn't have any injuries like this," Saffron said.

Nick turned to look at her in surprise. "How do you know that?"

She had little emotional capacity left for embarrassment or guilt, and she doubted Nick would object to her snooping, considering he'd invited her along for this. "I looked at the coroner's report in Detective Inspector Green's office. It said he died from kidney failure, and possibly liver failure as well. I don't suppose we'll know what killed Mr. Wells until his own autopsy, but Petrov did not have a black gash on him anywhere. It would have been noted." She turned away from Wells. "I don't believe Petrov was poisoned all at once, if at all. I think it would have been a chronic poisoning, like spouses do to each other. They add a bit of arsenic to the sugar basin, and let their spouses drop poison into their tea each day until it finally kills them."

"You are unexpectedly macabre, Saffron Everleigh," Nick said with a hint of teasing.

"I am a scientist who looks at the evidence, Nicholas Hale. It's not my fault the evidence is so ghastly."

Saffron left Nick to examine the body more thoroughly, promising to inform her of any further grisly details. She went to search Wells's things.

She hadn't expected, necessarily, to find the same herbs as Petrov had in his flat, but it would have been convenient. As it was, Wells had only the usual headache powders and digestive tonics in his medicine cabinet.

Nick found her in the kitchen, looking through piles of receipts Wells had shoved into a drawer. She'd learned nothing from them other than Wells had bought a pack of cigarettes every few days and frequented the Dancing Sparrow, one of the pubs in Harpenden's main square.

"I saw nothing else worth noting on his body," Nick said. "He's been dead longer than a day, but less than three."

"How do you know that?"

"His body is cold but no longer stiff." At Saffron's baffled look, he added, "Rigor mortis lasts about twelve hours. He's no longer stiff but has not begun to bloat yet. The grate in his hearth was also cold, meaning the house has been cold for some time. Cold slows decomposition, if you'll recall. Not to mention there are no longer signs of blood pooling in the low points of his body. I am estimating he's been dead much longer than twelve hours but no more than seventy-two."

"How will you ensure the police won't notice he's been moved?" she asked. She'd kept her gloves on, as had Nick. But that didn't mean the police wouldn't notice if Wells had been rolled over for Nick to examine his back or legs.

"I have arrangements in place, don't worry," Nick said.

"That is not very assuring."

"Be assured," he said with a small smile, "that I have leave to be here."

"Wonderful," she muttered, setting the receipts back in the drawer. "What now?"

"Now, you return to London. I have some business here in Harpenden."

The truth was that she didn't want to be in this house any longer. She'd managed to soldier through seeing the body, but her own didn't feel right.

Nick walked her back to the train station and saw her to her train. Saffron sank into her seat, ignoring the squabbling children in the next row over. She ought to feel some relief. Nick had confirmed it had been in the last seventy-two hours that Jeffery Wells had died. Adrian couldn't be responsible unless he'd snuck away. That was possible, but she did not believe him a murderer. She held on to that belief on the journey back to London. It didn't prevent her from reliving all she'd seen of Jeffery Wells's terrible end, however.

Saffron emerged from St. Pancras Station in a daze. The train had felt like some sort of purgatory, where she was neither a part of the world nor separate from it. She'd been unable to think of anything but Wells and Petrov, Adrian and Alexander. The idea of sitting in her quiet office or returning to her flat with nothing but silence to accompany her was unthinkable. She couldn't go to the police station, though her conscience screamed for her to do so and tell Inspector Green everything. Nick hadn't required her to promise not to reveal matters to anyone, but as he helped her onto the train he said something about appreciating her discretion and that her cooperation had made a difference. She had no desire to betray his trust, even if she wished he hadn't given it to her in the first place.

She passed through the gate into the Quad, hardly realizing she'd made it back to campus. Her eyes lifted to the columns of the Wilkins Building. The library. It was safe there.

It was quiet in the gallery and the stacks of the library. It was as if the sun's disappearance behind the city's buildings had reduced the volume of the city itself. The rows of shelves stood like silent soldiers, steady and assuring.

Saffron sank into one of the worn wooden chairs without thinking. As she sat, she realized her legs were shaking. Distantly, she found her whole body was shaking. She was cold.

Cold like Wells.

She was glad she was nearly alone in the library. There would be fewer people to see her lose her tenuous hold on her self-control.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The scent of books and dust was nothing like the stink of death and decay. It did not stop the erratic pounding of her heart, but pressing her hands to her forehead helped the world from spinning quite so fast.

But the longer she sat there, the faster the images of the dead man flashed in her mind. The more detailed they became, from the yellowed whites of his eyes to the blackened flesh peeling away from his wound.

Saliva pooled in her mouth, the sure warning of impending vomit. She swallowed convulsively, her eyes flying open in panic. She couldn't vomit in the library.

A man stood over her.

She let out a shriek, shoving her chair back with a matching screech. She didn't realize it was Alexander until he knelt before her, shushing her gently.

She stared at him for a moment, the concern written into the lines of his face. Heedless of the place and the potential for an audience, she dove into his arms and pressed her face into his collar.

Warm skin scented with shaving lotion and starch. Warm arms, wrapped around her without question. Warm breath at the nape of her neck as he bent to embrace her fully. She closed her eyes and allowed Alexander to overpower her senses with no other thought than gratitude for his presence.

After a long moment, he pulled away. Arms still around her waist, his dark gaze searched hers. "What's the matter?"

"I saw a dead man," she whispered.

His hands twitched on her waist. "What happened?"

She told him. When she got to the part about Nick mentioning he had leave to examine the body, he stood and took a few paces away. She hadn't realized he'd been kneeling in front of her the entire explanation and looked about sheepishly. She saw no one, to her relief.

"He took you into a house where a man had died?" Alexander asked. His voice was quiet, but his tone was sharp.

"I agreed to go," Saffron said. "I wasn't expecting … what I saw, but Nick made it clear he suspected the worst."

His nostrils flared on a heavy exhale. He shook his head, then his eyes caught on something on the opposite side of the library. "The faculty meeting. I came to look for you. It started ten minutes ago."

Saffron turned to the clock on the other end of the room and bolted to her feet. "Blast!" It was Friday, and that was why the library was deserted. The students were off enjoying their weekends, and the staff belonging to the sciences were at the meeting. She followed him out of the library, out of the gallery, and down a hall. Why had she fallen apart just when she needed most to be put together?