A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce

by Jillian Stone

  “Mother, you realize the Metropolitan Police have men at every station?”

  “Small comfort after that report in the Telegraph this morning. Another shipment of explosives was confiscated.” Her mother dabbed her eyes with a pocket square, as the fumes from the mixture of soda ash and lye caused her eyes to water.

  “I should think that means Scotland Yard is on the job.” Fiona blew a wisp of hair out her eyes and concentrated on filling the last few molds. “Almost finished.”

  Fiona slipped the last of the pungent mixture of seawater, palm oil, sodium carbonate, and sodium hydroxide into the mold. The hard-milled soaps she made for her parents’ pharmacy were beginning to draw interest beyond a few specialty shops in Knightsbridge. Fortnum & Mason in Piccadilly had given her an order for her invigorating Lavender Oatmeal as well as her Spicy Carnation. She was filling orders nearly every week now. Her secret was the essential oils, made to order from a distiller in Provence, France. To that she added milk or Mediterranean seawater.

  She carefully stacked the molds in orderly rows to cure and set the cauldron aside to let the residual soap harden. I’ll scrape the pot in the morning, Fiona thought as she reached behind to untie her apron.

  “Here now, let me get that.” Her father’s gentle hands loosed the ties. “And where are you off to, young lady?”

  “The preparatory course for the pharmacy exam. I must run.” Fiona spun around and was taken aback. Father looked a bit off-color—pale, perhaps? No, there was a spot of pink in his cheeks. She breathed a sigh of relief. She worried about him—nearly as much as Mother did—and yet, there hadn’t been another recurrence in almost three years.

  “How did it go with Dr. Sheffield?”

  She caught a twinkle in his gray-green eyes. “I’ll tell you all about it at supper tonight.”

  Fiona started out the laboratory door and whirled around. “Oh, would you wrap the molds for me?”

  Her father lowered his chin and eyed her through bushy brows. “Run along, Fee. I’ve blanketed a mold or two in my day.”

  She rushed back to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Daddy.”

  ARCHIE’S GAZE MOVED across the yard and up the building’s facade. Blackened trails of scorched brick remained where flames had licked up through the window on the second floor. He and Finn had narrowly escaped out that upstairs window—prodding de Ruthyn’s ruffians ahead of them. “Keep your gun on those two. If they try to run, shoot first,” Finn had advised, eyeballing the two men. “You can always yell ‘halt’ later.”

  Archie wiped the sting of smoke from his eyes and coughed again to clear his lungs. Miraculously, he and Finn, along with the Harbor Patrol Fire Brigade, had managed to get everyone out. Even the whining, guilt-ridden Gareth had aided in the rescue. A number of den patrons had run off, while others lolled about in various stages of sobriety.

  At the moment, the closed courtyard was crawling with CID detectives and Metropolitan police. Absently, Archie looked on as de Ruthyn’s hired dockworkers were loaded into a police van.

  “Inspector Bruce, I’d like you to take a look at these.” Finn set down a satchel beside Archie. On his way out the window earlier, the special agent had picked up a bag filled with two cylindrical tins. “Smokeless gunpowder. German-made—very advanced. Take some for analysis. I mean to deliver the rest out to Enfield on Thursday.”

  Archie perked up. “The Royal Small Arms Factory?”

  “They’ve a gunpowder mill as well as a restricted area for arms testing.” Finn handed over a canister. “This gunpowder is three times as powerful as black powder. I assume it’s less volatile than guncotton, but handle it with care. I mean to test several of our field arms using the powder—see how our guns hold up to it. You’re welcome to come along if you can break away.”

  Archie opened his watch to read the time. “I’d enjoy a trip out to Enfield.” Then he remembered. “Drat, I’m teaching an afternoon class—four o’clock, Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons in Bloomsbury. Royal Pharmaceutical Society.” He sighed.

  Gareth called from the street. “Mr. Bruce, I’ve got a cab waiting.”

  “I’ll have you back in time for class, Professor,” Finn offered as Archie backed away. “Meet me at Charing Cross Station, Thursday morning. First train to Bush Hill Park leaves on the stroke of eight.”

  Archie took a canister of gunpowder for testing and headed for his waiting cab. He’d missed his meeting with Melville, as well as his luncheon at the Royal Society. Archie exhaled. Why on earth had he agreed to teach this semester? Because keeping his days and nights fully occupied felt less solitary, he answered himself.

  FIONA RUSHED DOWN the stairs of the Sloane Square station and was relieved to see a number of travelers still waiting on the platform. She pulled on the chain of her watch pin and checked the time. “Fiona Rose, what a delightful surprise.” She stiffened at the sound of the familiar voice, hoping desperately the train would arrive in the very next moment so she could avoid making pleasantries.

  “Fiona?” The voice was softer, and close.

  She clenched her jaw and pivoted. “Walter, fancy running into you in the Underground.”

  The impeccably dressed man in front of her adjusted his pince-nez. “You’re looking”—he continued his inspection—“always lovely, of course, though somewhat . . . harried.” He offered a thin, superior smile. “Am I correct?”

  Never a cuff link amiss or a hair out of place. As perfectly attired and meticulously groomed as Walter Montague was, the effect was lost on Fiona. “Starchy” she’d called him when Mother inquired. Walter was a regular customer of the pharmacy, as he suffered from a number of constant complaints and minor ailments, some of them real and some most certainly imaginary. Last spring, during a fitful time he was having with pollens, he had asked if he might call on her. She had turned him down as gently as possible, much to her mother’s chagrin.

  “I believe harried would describe it perfectly.” Fiona sighed. “I begin a preparatory class in Bloomsbury this afternoon, rather important as I mean to take the chemist exam in six weeks. I’m afraid I’m running late.” She craned her neck to peer down the tracks.

  Walter reached out and held her arm. “Careful, Fiona.”

  If she’d fallen flat on her face, she wouldn’t be in any danger of ending up on the tracks. The man was insufferable—even in short doses. Just imagine how suffocating he might be as a husband. As if he could read her mind, he brought the subject up again.

  “I am happy to report that with the turn of leaves this fall, my health has greatly improved. In fact, I’m feeling rather invigorated these days. Perhaps you would allow me to escort you to the park next week? We could make a picnic of it. I shall order a hamper from Fortnum’s.”

  The chug and hiss of the train was music to her ears. Fiona made an effort not to frown. “I’ve really got to knuckle down these next six weeks or I shall never pass the exam.” His gaze faltered a bit. “Sorry to disappoint, Walter, but I cannot afford a day of leisure until after the holidays.”

  “Come, come, Miss Rose, you must allow yourself a modicum of pleasure—” The train gasped to a stop and the doors rolled back. Immediately passengers debarked even as the assemblage on the platform pushed forward. Carried along in the surge and jostle, Fiona looked back. “Walter, you’ll miss the train.”

  “Sit in a closed car with all those germs in the air?” Walter mocked a shiver. “Good day, Fiona.” He tipped his hat and backed away.

  Settling herself in the passenger car, Fiona mulled over her encounter with Walter. He must have seen her enter the station and followed her down to the platform. And this wasn’t the first time she had run into him as though by chance. Last week, after delivering samples of her soaps to Harvey Nichols, she had nearly collided with Walter on the stairs between the haberdashery and linens.

  She exhaled an exasperated sigh. As Mother so kindly pointed out time and again, Walter Montague was an attractive young man who enjoyed a substantial
income. She rocked in her seat as the brakes released and the train left the station. It wasn’t the gentleman’s fault he suffered from weak lungs; a person couldn’t help having a fragile constitution. Fiona twisted up a pout. It was Walter’s fawning that truly put her off—most grating. And honestly, how could a girl carry on with a man who was more well-groomed than herself?

  ARCHIE WAS RUNNING late. Again. The hansom turned onto Great Russell Street and slowed, caught in a mangle of traffic. After his perilous dealings in Limehouse, he had returned to the lab for a hurried review of staff assignments and a brief recounting of the morning’s adventures. Even Gareth was able to chuckle a bit at his own dangerous blunder—in the opium haze, he had mistaken a jug of paraffin oil for water.

  Archie craned his neck to see what the snarl-up was about. Hooking a finger into his fob pocket, he pulled out his timepiece. A quarter to two—but that was impossible. “Bollocks,” he muttered. He’d forgotten to wind his watch. It appeared his reputation for a disheveled appearance and chronic lateness was well deserved today, after missing a meeting with Melville and the Royal Society luncheon. And bugger all, to top it off, he was going to be late for class.

  The cab had yet to move half a block. Archie opened the trapdoor in the roof and handed the driver a few coppers. “I’ll get out here.” He dodged a dogcart and made it to the sidewalk, jogging the rest of the way to 17 Bloomsbury Square. If he recalled correctly, the college was located on the second floor of the Royal Pharmaceutical Society, along with the school’s practical laboratory, which was the envy of every chemist in Britain.

  He took the steps two at a time and entered a suite of offices at the top of the stairs. “Can I help you, young man?”

  Archie swung around. A bright-eyed, middle-aged gentleman with a shock of steel-gray hair and whiskers poked his head out one of the doors. “I’m here to conduct a preparatory course for the chemist examination . . . Archibald Bruce.”

  “Ah, Mr. Bruce. I was beginning to get concerned.” The man exited his office and handed over a number of items, including several texts, a seating chart, and a lecturer’s baton. “Theophilus Redwood, headmaster.” He stuck out his hand.

  Archie shifted the stack of materials under his arm and shook hands. “Professor Redwood.”

  “Now then, let’s get you into your classroom, shall we?” The headmaster led him through a series of interconnecting rooms. “On behalf of the society, I can’t thank you enough for pitching in on such short notice.” The lanky-framed gentleman peered over at him. “My colleagues tell me you’re making quite a reputation for yourself over at Scotland Yard.”

  “Special Branch.”

  “Ah yes, those chaps that are after the anarchists—dynamiters and the like.”

  “And the like, yes, sir.” His words and the scuff of their footsteps echoed in the empty corridor. “The crime laboratory is soon to become one of the most important tools we have in the identification and conviction of criminals.”

  “I read your paper on the latest advances in fingerprint identification, Mr. Bruce. Exciting work—on the cutting edge, one might say.”

  “Chemists trained in forensics will be very much in demand one day.”

  “Why do I suspect you are out to recruit some of my best students?” Redwood halted abruptly and squinted at a door. He patted his inside coat pocket. “I’ve forgotten my specs. Can you read the letter for me?”

  Archie grinned. He was back in academia again. Quite a change from dealing with detectives all day long. “G-two.”

  “Excellent. This is your classroom, Mr. Bruce.” Redwood turned the knob. “I understand you taught for a term or two at Oxford?”

  “Trinity College, applied chemistry.”

  “If this were a preparatory course for the minor exam, I’d advise you to lower your expectations. But as your pupils are preparing for the major . . .” Redwood leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “Bugger them with both barrels, Mr. Bruce.” The man winked.

  “Yes, sir.” Archie straightened his cravat, adjusted his supplies, and walked through the doorway.

  AM I GOING to be slightly late or terribly late? Fiona pondered as she emerged from the Underground station and wove a path through a throng of British Museum visitors. Clutching her book bag to her chest, she ran the next few blocks to Bloomsbury Square.

  Little more than half an hour ago, she had been happily immersed in pouring her latest batch of carnation soaps. Mother had chased her out of the lab with her usual scold. What with major exams just weeks away, there was no sense in provoking an argument with the titular head of Rose & Company—chemists to the Knightsbridge elite.

  The fact of the matter was, she did take her studies seriously, and she very much loved being a chemist, but for one large and looming doubt: did she wish to spend the rest of her life mixing cough medicines for Mrs. Shirley or suppositories for Colonel Allenby? She didn’t mean to disparage the work of her own dear father. Godfrey Rose, a chemist of reputation, was well known for his cures and well respected by the medical profession.

  And it was most gratifying to be able to ease a bit of rheumatism or cure a person’s dyspepsia. Father’s stroke—dear heart—had left Mother feeling rather vulnerable. Three years ago, she had pressed Fiona to quit the idea of university and go straight for her chemist’s license.

  But—that word again! Fiona moistened her lips, a nervous habit that would surely cause them to redden and become chafed. In all honesty, she just couldn’t picture herself pressing pills and boiling down syrups for the rest of her life. The very thought often brought on a bit of melancholia. But not this afternoon—at this exact moment she was preoccupied with the terrifying thought of missing an important first class. Raising her skirt, she ran up a flight of stairs and down the corridor. She hesitated at the door. Professor Russell was known to lock the door at five minutes past. Lifting her eyes in prayer, she turned the knob. Small victory, the door opened.

  Fiona pushed on the frame and peeked in. The classroom was large and filled with fresh-faced lads, a number of older students, and one or two ladies, including little Miss Perfect, Hortensia Smythe—“Smythe with a y not an i, and an e at the end. Don’t forget!”

  The professor was still calling roll. Perhaps there was a chance to slip into class. Stepping inside, she shut the door and held her breath. Predictably, Owen Spencer sat in the first row and watched her every move. When he raised both brows and nudged his deskmate, Fiona squinted a ferocious warning at him. Even from the corner of her eye, she was quite sure the instructor was not Professor Russell. The man behind the podium was a good deal taller with a head full of dark hair that most people would call . . . longish. And the voice was different, much younger.

  “Miss Fiona A. Rose?”

  Her foot froze midstep and caused a terrible wobble. Then her book bag slipped off her shoulder and hit the floor—with a thud. A loud thud. She watched in horror as her Chinese lacquered pencil box and composition books scattered across the floor.

  A smattering of scoffs and titters accompanied her plunge to her knees. She quickly scooped up the fallen items and shoved them back in her satchel. Keeping her head down, she reached for her pencil box only to find it in the hands of a pleasant-looking young man with dark eyes and a grimace—or was he attempting to suppress a grin?

  Nose to nose with her new instructor, Fiona could hardly ignore his soft brown eyes flecked with copper and long lashes that . . . blinked at her. She caught her breath. There was something familiar about him. She knew him from somewhere, or had she just seen him about the school?

  They stood up together. “And you are Miss . . . ?”

  “Fiona A. Rose.” She stammered. “Present, sir.”

  “Mm-hm.” His gaze lingered a bit too long. “And the A stands for . . . ?”

  “Fiona . . .” Her eyes darted about the room. “Aphrodite Rose, sir.” A rising flush crept up her neck.

  He leaned close and spoke softly. “I was prepared to let you
take a seat more or less unobserved, and then this unfortunate spill.” Fiona swallowed. There was something intimate about his mild upbraiding.

  “You’re not Mr. Russell,” she stammered.

  He handed over her pencil box with the chinois motif. “No, I am not.” He grinned—something on the severe side, admittedly, but a grin nevertheless and at her expense to be sure. “Please, take a seat here.” He gestured to the empty chair front and center, squelching her hopes of slinking into the back row.

  “But . . . I’d rather not.” Her desperate whine sounded more like a squeak.

  “I’d rather you did, Miss Rose. That way, I can keep an eye on you.” Amidst smirks and titters from the class, the young professor returned to his podium and finished roll call.

  Fiona settled into her seat and stared at the blur of letters and numbers that made up the periodic table on the wall. Was it possible she might feel less humiliated if she had received a proper reprimand from the professor? A warm flush rose from her neck to her cheeks. Somehow she very much doubted this sting of color was caused solely by embarrassment.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Archibald Bruce, and I am here to help you prepare for the major chemist examination.”

  She lifted her gaze and found him staring straight at her. She must have appeared shocked, or at least greatly surprised. When one’s mouth drops open and one’s eyes grow large and round, what else could it be? Too late now, he’d seen her expression. Fiona ignored her pounding heart and tried for a calm, attentive look.

  Archie Bruce! He obviously didn’t remember her—stroke of good fortune there. Good God! The last time she’d seen or spoken to him she’d done something—well, wholly improper and she would rather not think any more on the matter. She sucked in a deep breath and willed herself to concentrate. Would the heat on her cheeks never go away?

  “As you may or may not have heard,” their instructor continued, “Mr. Russell was hit by a runaway phaeton, and though a full recovery is expected, his injuries will likely prevent him from teaching this course for the duration.”