Chapter 48

Sutcliffe rounded on Mary and asked with such vicious vehemence that even Elizabeth winced, "What the devil are you talking about?"

She didn't flinch at him shouting in her face, but her eyes filled with tears. "I … I did it. I made them ill. I contaminated their workstations." She bit her lip, and a tear rolled down her cheek. "I was so tired of Wells and—and Burnwell—"

"What?" Burnwell stepped forward, face darkening. "What did you do to me?"

Mary glared at him through watery eyes. "You and Wells flouted our health and safety protocols constantly! You all do!" She waved a white-gloved hand helplessly. "We work with dangerous substances and specimens, and none of you bother to protect yourselves—or others. You could breathe in spores of dangerous fungi, or have them cling to your person, and just walk out with them, spreading them all around!"

Burnwell took a few angry steps forward. "So you infected us with something? To teach us a bloody lesson?"

"No," Mary said, retreating until she was steps away from Elizabeth. "No, I didn't! It was the pyrethrins. I dabbed the oil on the counters and on your tools."

Elizabeth interrupted her. "What are pyrethrins?"

Mary gave her a confused look. "The chemicals we're studying, from the pyrethrum daisies. I thought if Burnwell and Wells were dizzy, maybe had headaches, they might realize how dangerous it was to go without their protective equipment." She looked from person to person with growing distress. "I didn't mean to seriously harm anyone! I knew nobody here had a serious allergy to it! But I don't understand how it killed Dr. Petrov or Mr. Wells!"

"Petrov was already ill," growled Sutcliffe. "He was ill before he left Russia, for Christ's sake. His kidneys were failing and nobody knew why. Introducing more chemicals into his body would have worsened his condition and weakened him further."

The room went silent as Mary realized what she'd done. Her face drained of color. "My God. My God, I'm sorry. I didn't realize—"

"Shut up!" Sutcliffe turned to Elizabeth. "Now you see it was an accident. She meant nothing by it other than a foolish attempt to make people wear their damned masks and gloves. Put the bloody dish down!"

That certainly explained some things, like how Petrov had actually died. A glow of satisfaction suffused her. She had solved it after all.

This was a fascinating turn of events, indeed. One of the scientists had poisoned Petrov. She might as well keep prodding them to see what other confessions might come oozing out.

"What about Wells?" she demanded of the room. "Wells was not ill like Petrov, was he?"

Quinn jabbed a finger toward Mary. "We've all been ill thanks to that idiot!"

Mary let out a noise of protest, and Sutcliffe barked, "You all know the pyrethrins last only a few days before their potency fades. Even if she meant to teach Wells and Burnwell a lesson, the oil hasn't been out in the lab for weeks."

"That's true," the tall man said softly. "Wells died of something far more serious."

"Unless the bitch gave him a double dose," Burnwell snarled at Mary.

"I didn't!" she protested. "I haven't done anything since Burnwell went away.'

"Wells had a wound on his hand. A large cut to his palm," Elizabeth said. "It was blackened and absolutely vile to behold, I'm told. It was a fungal infection, Mucor something-or-other."

The old botanist in the back of the room spoke in a wheezing voice. "If it was blackened, it could have been necrosis. That's a serious infection, then."

Burnwell crossed his arms, glaring at Mary. "Gave Wells something you grew here, did you?"

"I would never infect him with something like that!" At Burnwell's incredulous snort, she turned wide, pleading eyes on Elizabeth. "You said it was Mucor? That's a common genus in the materials we work with, decaying food and soil. Wells never wore gloves, not when he worked in the laboratory or the greenhouse. He likely contracted it from the soil."

"Mucor indicus," Sutcliffe said gruffly. "The Everleigh girl asked about it. What does she have to do with this? She spying for the ministry?"

"No" was all the reply that Elizabeth gave, for although Mary was going on about what sounded very scientific and likely informative, the sole window in the room, just opposite where Elizabeth stood, was suddenly full of a very welcome sight: Saffron, filthy as anything, waving frantically at her. She was mouthing equally welcome words at her through the glass.

Sweet relief flooded Elizabeth, and she nearly dropped the glass dish in her hands. The population of the room had gone quiet, more than one craning their necks toward the window, clearly wondering what she was staring at.

"I beg your pardon," Elizabeth said perfunctorily. "A poor time for wool-gathering."

"You have the answers to your damned questions," Sutcliffe bit out. "Put the petri dish down!"

"If Wells had stolen from the lab and infected himself in the process," Elizabeth said, ignoring Sutcliffe's demand, "he likely worried he'd contracted something from the specimens he stole, and worried he'd have to explain how he came into contact with it, I suppose."

But then why did Colin and Alfie say the mysterious collaborator killed Wells, if he'd died from the fungal infection? Regardless, it seemed it was time for her to go. Elizabeth set down the dish.

The entire room exhaled.

"What about Mary?" asked Joseph gruffly.

"And what you do you mean, Wells stole from the laboratory?" asked Burnwell.

"Dr. Calderbrook!" Quinn cried, pointing at Mary. "Dismiss this lunatic at once."

Elizabeth stole a glance at Dr. Calderbrook, who'd gone terribly pale and collapsed onto the stool next to the old botanist.

"No," the tall man said. "We need the police."

"Oh, the police will be here any minute," Elizabeth said cheerfully. Saffron's signal through the window had told her as much. She winked at Mary. "Good luck."

It was somewhat surreal to walk into the flat that evening. It seemed like years since they'd last been at home, not hours, and Saffron felt like she barely recognized the place. But that might have been the head injury.

She was not concussed, according to the doctor who had examined her while she and Elizabeth gave their statements in the aftermath of the events at the Path Lab. Nick had shared enough of Saffron's involvement with his superiors that they were taken to a private room at the local police station to report to someone from Nick's "office" rather than the constable. She'd left out certain parts of the truth, just as she was sure Nick had left out certain parts of his dealings with her. She felt it was fair play, in the end.

Saffron breathed a great sigh of relief when she finally got into her bathroom to disrobe. She tugged out all the bits and pieces she'd accumulated through her adventure, dumped them into a basin on the tiled floor, and emptied a bottle of peroxide over the whole mess.

There was a trail of dirt on the bathroom floor by the time she settled into a steaming-hot bath. While Elizabeth had made a beeline for the wine bottle, the bath was the first thing Saffron wanted—the second, actually, but she didn't know when she would get to see Alexander.

Saffron and Elizabeth had been promised that Alexander and Nick would be rescued in short order. Without Colin to report back what had happened to Alfie, two of his thugs had shown up at Number 28. The police had promptly arrested and interrogated them, and between their reluctant confessions and what the London police and Nick's "office" already knew of Alfie Tennison, Saffron had to think that Alfie and his hostages would be found soon. She forced herself to believe it. Colin was under arrest in a hospital bed, and therefore Alfie couldn't know what had occurred. Alexander and Nick would be safe.

A knock on the front door had Saffron scrambling out of the bath. Her head and body throbbed, but she didn't care. She wrapped herself in her dressing gown and peered down the hall.

Elizabeth, wine bottle in hand, stood at the front door. She was speaking to a man in a police uniform. Elizabeth stepped aside, and the man, followed by another in uniform, came inside. Saffron quickly retreated. Elizabeth knocked on the bathroom door and said through the door, "Saff, the police have sent some fellows to wait with us until the rest of this is settled. Said not to mind them, they're just here to ensure Alfie doesn't catch wind and make good on his promises about the river."

From the loose way she spoke, Saffron guessed Elizabeth had already made good headway on the wine, and perhaps the cooking spirits too. She sighed, turning to the mirror to dry off properly. Her head was tender from Simpson banging the greenhouse door into her. Poor Simpson. For all his heroics, he seemed to have been rather forgotten in the shuffle after the police arrived at Number 28. She hoped he'd manage to get some recognition. After all, if not for his telephone calls to Inspector Green and the local police and arriving when he had, the story would have had a very different ending.

She dabbed some ointment on her bruise and thought about Elizabeth. She was likely to be the only one who came out of this physically unharmed. But mentally …

Elizabeth projected worldly confidence like a blazing summer sun, but she also had a tender heart capable of great love and craved it in return. Saffron wasn't sure what it would do to her to have had her boyfriend betray and use her so. She would have to keep a close eye on Elizabeth.

She put on comfortable, cozy clothing. She went through the ritual of combing and braiding her long hair but found it gave her little comfort. From the smells and sounds from the kitchen, she knew Elizabeth was cooking something. Saffron had no appetite herself, and she doubted Elizabeth did either. She was relying on her own comforting routines. Saffron wondered if she ought to leave her alone to brood. Still deciding, she stepped into the parlor to greet the police officer.

He turned from the window as she entered the room.

"Hello," Saffron said. "Have you had any news regarding Mr. Ashton or Mr. Hale?"

"I expect you'll see them soon, Miss Everleigh," he replied.

She exhaled. "That's good news."

His thin lips lifted in a half-smile. "It certainly is."

Curious, she asked, "Your accent is so hard to place. Are you English?"

"Certainly," he replied. "As English as a girl born and raised in Bedford."

He said it like it was a common turn of phrase, but it definitely was not. "I—yes, I suppose I am quite English." She wet her lips, unable to place the unease winding through her. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," the officer said. "But, please, call me Bill."

She was definitely uncomfortable now. Something in the nonchalance of his voice, the steadiness of his gaze. She forced a light laugh. "That's rather too informal for someone I've just met."

He canted his head to the side. That half-smile played at his lips again. "What makes you think that you and I haven't met before?"