Chapter 47

No one moved.

All the eyes in the lab were on Elizabeth, or, more specifically, the dish in her hand.

"Sutcliffe?" The older man at the other end of the room spoke with a wheeze. "Is that something we need to worry about?"

Sutcliffe's established flush bordered on violet. "Yes," he spat. "Look here, you daft woman, put that down, before you—"

"I will not," Elizabeth said, raising the glass dish higher. "You heard me. I want answers."

"Petrov and Wells were ill," Burnwell said angrily. He'd gotten to his feet. "Sudden bouts of sickness."

"Then why is your laboratory being investigated?" Elizabeth asked. "Why am I here, threatening you all with mold?"

"That isn't mold." Mary spoke timidly, fingers twisting together. "It's a fungus, one that will—"

"Sorry, darling, but I don't give a damn." She needed to maintain control of the room and keep them distracted. Plus, she would love to be able to tell Nick at the end of all this that she had solved the murders after all. "I want to know what happened to Wells and Petrov, and I want to know what happened to the missing specimen."

"Nothing happened to them," Quinn said. "We've already told you—"

"It wasn't an accident," Elizabeth snapped. "Good Lord, I thought you lot were meant to be intelligent! Two of your colleagues die within weeks of each other and you all just shrug it off as bad luck?"

The room stilled again, the faces of the scientists showing they were thinking it over, and many of them were drawing the natural conclusion. Several looked alarmed.

"This entire situation is mad," said the older botanist, removing his spectacles to rub tiredly at his eyes.

The scientists all started to speak at once, their arguments and accusations layering on top of one another. Their voices bubbled up like milk left over the heat, and Elizabeth was likely to be the target when it finally boiled over. She cleared her throat, preparing to make another threat to get them all quiet again, but a small voice cut through the din.

"It was me."

The entire room turned as one to the person who spoke so miserably, their expressions as stunned as Elizabeth's own.

Recovering herself, Elizabeth demanded, "What do you mean, it was you?"

Misery in every line of her face, Mary said, "It was me. But I never meant to kill anyone, I swear!"

Saffron inched backward over the uneven dirt of the raised bed. "The people Alfie will sell this information to will do terrible things with it."

"And Alfie will do terrible things to your beloved Alexander if you don't give it to me," he hissed.

There was a flicker of movement beyond the condensation-blurred walls. Saffron resisted following it. It could be any number of people, including Colin's conspirators, coming to tell them that time was up. She couldn't afford to hope otherwise.

She reached down to the shovel, struggling to balance, clutching the case's handle in her hand as she knelt on the uneven ground. "The information contained within this case could destroy entire countries, Colin. Don't you care?"

Her fingers closed around the shovel's handle, and she rose, her eyes never leaving Colin's.

His eyes narrowed on the shovel. "Don't you dare."

With wide-eyed innocence, she said, "I have to put it back. The dirt too. Otherwise, someone will notice and start asking questions."

"People are already asking questions!" he cried. "That's the whole bloody reason for Nick Hale being here, isn't it? He caught wind of our scheme and came to put an end to it." A sneer stretched his face. "But he's been caught. Like a fat fly in a spider's web."

She looked to the wall of foggy glass, then to the door. If she made a run for it—

The bricks before the door caught her eye. They were uneven, just like the soil of plot 13. Joseph hadn't finished reinstalling them properly after tending to the broken pipe beneath. The one with the faulty fixture.

"I think I know where more information is hidden," she said with false enthusiasm. "This can't be it. Wells wouldn't have put it all together in one place. And this spot, over here"—she walked swiftly down the brick path parallel to Colin's—"these bricks have been disturbed!"

Taking care to keep the case and the shovel at her side, she got on her knees and began pulling bricks from the ground. Sweat trickled down her temples. Her fingernails tore as she dug the bricks away, until at last the grate was exposed. She lifted it and let out a soft exclamation as she peered down into the large gap filled with pipes.

"What is it?" Colin asked. He'd followed her and stood a few feet away.

"There's another case down there," she said, standing. "You'll have to get it, it's too far away for me."

He was already striding to the hole in the ground. "Move off over there."

Saffron bit her lip. That was not what she wanted. She had to stay where she was for this to work. "Er, but—"

"Over there," barked Colin. He kicked the shovel away from Saffron.

She backed up, picking up the case. Without the shovel, she'd have no way to make the pipe burst, providing her with the distraction she needed to run.

The gun was in Colin's left hand, the one he was bracing on the ground as he knelt and peered into the hole. Could she reach it?

A light knocking sound came from outside. Someone was there, knocking on the kitchen door of Number 28. Colin's colleagues wouldn't knock on the door.

"Help!" Saffron yelled, lunging toward the greenhouse door. "I need help, quickly!"

Colin let out a howl of rage. She turned to see him jerk up, his face contorting with anger. "Shut up, damn you!"

Footsteps thudded on the ground outside. Colin rose to his knees, his gun raised. Cold from the open greenhouse door met her sweaty back. Saffron was pitched forward as something hard hit her shoulder. Her head cracked against the door frame. Her knees hit the hard bricks. A gunshot rang out, followed by a hiss and a scream.

Dizzily, Saffron clambered to her feet. The humid air was strangely acrid. Sergeant Simpson was sprawled next to her, his gun a foot away. Colin was screaming and writhing, his body on the ground next to a column of steam from which came an ear-splitting whistle.

Scrambling up, Simpson gaped at Colin before seeming to recall Saffron. He rushed to her side, reaching for her when she took an uncertain step forward. "Miss Everleigh, are you all right? My cousin gave me your message, but it took ages to place all the telephone calls."

"I'm fine," Saffron said, reaching a hand to her head, where a sizable lump was already growing. "We've got to do something about Colin." He was still howling on the ground, his hands against his face, which Saffron could see was violently red.

Simpson ran his hand through his short blond hair, his cheeks nearly as red as Colin's. "By God, they're never going to let me live this down. I didn't mean to fire. The gun was in my hand, and when I tripped—"

Simpson had tripped over her, accidentally discharged his weapon at the pipe, and possibly given her a concussion and Colin Smith severe burns. But she couldn't argue with the results.

"I think you're right, Sergeant," Saffron said, spotting the case laying on the ground where she'd fallen. She stooped to pick it up, head throbbing, and pressed it into Sergeant Simpson's arms. "I don't think you're going to live this down. But I think it'll be for a much better reason than you expect."