A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce

by Jillian Stone

  Beyond poor Mr. Russell, Fiona was not quite sure how to react to the news. It would seem she was going to have to face this new teacher, pay his lectures rapt attention, and pass the major. She sighed a big internal sigh. When the gods wished to punish you, they often did so wickedly and with panache.

  She supposed things could be worse. In an odd sort of way, this added pressure would force her to study more rigorously than she would have otherwise. She certainly wasn’t going to let Hortensia or Owen get the better of her—the oral exams being the exception. Admittedly, the orals were her biggest weakness and the part of the major she feared most. A band of tightness across her chest underscored the thought.

  Fiona took a deep breath and willed herself to pay attention. Mr. Bruce seemed to be placing a great deal of emphasis on the mathematics of chemical equations. “The questions will likely range from the rudimentary to the advanced.” He turned to the chalk board. “For instance”—as he scratched N2(g) + 3H2(g) 2NH3(g) across the board, he queried the class—“the coefficients in an equation tell you what about the gases involved in that equation?”

  Owen’s hand shot up first. Their new instructor craned his neck to read the seating chart. “Mr. Spencer.”

  “Every gas takes up the same amount of room given a standard temperature pressure.”

  “Perfectly described.” Mr. Bruce nodded. “But let’s say this question was a part of the written exam. What word might your examiners be looking for in your answer?”

  Hortensia could hardly contain herself, waving her hand about in a flighty, flirty way. And the teacher smiled at her. “Yes, Miss . . . Smythe.”

  “It tells us the volume?”

  “Very good, Miss Smythe.”

  “Smythe with a y not an i, and an e at the end . . . sir.” Hortensia batted her eyelashes.

  “Yes. I believe it’s copied down correctly on the seating chart.” Did his eyes roll, or flutter ever so slightly? Fiona bit back a grin. Even so, the fact that Mr. Bruce had fallen for Hortensia’s coquettish hand flapping caused an unexpected sting of—how annoying! She was jealous.

  Chapter Three

  Archie turned back to the blackboard and scrawled off a sentence in Latin. “The dictum, Similia similibus solvuntur . . .” Placing his hands behind his back, Mr. Bruce moved out into the classroom. “Who would like to translate?” As he approached Fiona, she lowered her head. “Miss Rose?”

  She was prettier than he remembered. And he wondered . . . did she remember him? He drew up alongside the young lady. “Similia similibus solvuntur, Miss Rose?” She noticeably stiffened, which allowed him the opportunity to study his curious female student. One could not say she was the kind of blazing beauty of the stage or painter’s muse, but she was wonderfully pixieish, with a wide mouth that was expressive and—Archie gazed at her over the rim of his spectacles—sensuous.

  Owen Spencer whispered loud enough to be heard across the room. “Fiona gets a bit tongue-tied—” The lad stammered when she raised her head and glared at him. “That is, if she’s put on the spot, sir—”

  “Like dissolves like,” she blurted out, her eyes glistening with—what was it—humiliation mixed with anger? What a little hellion this one was. He bit back a grin.

  “An example please, Miss Rose—something rudimentary.”

  She swallowed. “The solvent for salt is water.”

  “Excellent.” He smiled, waiting just long enough for her gray-green eyes to spark to life. He returned to the chalkboard. “In the written exam be sure to incorporate the element symbols in your answer, as in ‘the solvent for salt (Na) is water (H2O).’”

  He spent the rest of the class going over each component of the major exam, occasionally tossing out a question—feeling out the general competency of the class. Archie checked his pocket watch. The two hours were nearly up. “Now then, are there any subjects in particular you’d like me to cover?” He scanned the room. “Nothing?”

  A hand rose in the back of the room.

  “Yes, Mr. . . . Crawford?”

  “Might you tell us something about your own laboratory, sir?”

  Taken aback, he laughed self-consciously. “I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself properly.” He tossed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “I am director of the crime laboratory for the Criminal Investigations Division of Scotland Yard. A year and a half ago, I was put in charge of developing a forensics program. We employ four chemists and seven technicians at Whitehall, while a smaller group operates a bomb disposal facility south of the Isle of Dogs.” Archie surveyed the number of mouths hanging open. “Any questions?” A waving ocean of arms and hands went up.

  A bright-eyed young man asked first. “Are you after the dynamiters, sir?”

  “Always.”

  “Do you think there will be further attacks on the Underground?” another queried.

  “The anarchists will certainly try. What the public doesn’t hear much about are the plots we’ve managed to thwart. For obvious reasons, we do not reveal much to the press. There are lives at stake, undercover operatives that work for both Special Branch and the Admiralty. For the most part, we want the anarchists to go about their business, unaware of our surveillance.”

  Nearly half the class had their hands up. Archie checked his watch, nodding to a middle-aged student in the rear. “Time for a few more.”

  “Do you work on regular crimes? Robberies and murders and the like?”

  “Combating terrorism is our first priority, but we are often called in on more conventional cases.” Archie briefly discussed a suspicious suicide case the lab had confirmed to be a homicide. “Arsenic poisoning.”

  Several rows of large round eyes caused him to grin. “We are currently conducting research in the areas of smokeless gunpowder and fingerprint identification.” The entire class was on the edge of their seats. “With practice, it is a relatively simple procedure to dust for fingerprints. We have the powders, brushes, and the techniques to develop the prints.”

  Archie looked around at all the bright faces—including hers. “Perhaps we could have a demonstration some afternoon at the close of class?” His suggestion was answered by a number of enthusiastic nods. “In order to study and classify the developed prints, we need to find a way to transfer them to the lab for analysis. As you can well imagine, fingerprints are extremely delicate and easily destroyed. We’re experimenting with a number of techniques. If any of you have any ideas . . .” Nodding a bow, he closed the textbook he held in his hand. “I welcome your thoughts, future chemists.”

  He picked up a stick of chalk. “Pharmaceutical chemistry will be our first section of study, followed by materia medica and pharmacopoeia. We’ll finish up in the lab with practical chemistry. For Thursday you’ll want to brush up on empirical and molecular formulas and how to calculate mass and percentages. While I write your reading assignment on the board, I’d like you each to jot down what you believe are your best and worst subjects—your strengths and weaknesses. Leave the slips of paper with me on your way out.”

  ONE BY ONE, he opened their messages, scribbling notes under each name on the seating chart. Miss Rose was nearly the last one to turn in her self-evaluation. “Are you going to deliberately call on our areas of weakness?” She tilted her head and peered at the chart, those luminous eyes of hers large and wide.

  Without looking up, he answered her. “Often, Miss Rose. How better to overcome a weakness than to confront it?” He opened her note.

  I look forward to your refresher course, Mr. Bruce. I am particularly competent in the area of organic chemistry, but I believe I will fail the oral exam quite miserably, and I’m afraid there is really no help for that.

  —Fiona A. Rose.

  He frowned.

  “Mr. Bruce, you might try a rubber dressing, which you could press onto the dusted fingerprints, then lift them off of whatever surface they’re on.” He reread Fiona’s message, even as she continued to speak. “You might also consider using a camer
a fitted with a very short depth-of-field lens and one of the new high-speed films. You could develop the negatives and make prints with an available light enlarger.”

  He looked up in time to catch a glimpse of Miss Rose exiting the open door. He grabbed a few unread notes, stuffing them in his pocket. “Until Thursday, then,” she called over her shoulder. Archie swept textbooks and seating chart under his arm and dashed out of the classroom.

  FIONA CLIMBED INTO the hansom and smoothed her skirts. “Miss Rose, may I have a word, please?” Her instructor stood at the open door of the cab. “I did not mean to unduly frighten you with my ‘confronting your fears’ remark. I’d like to make it up to you, if you’d give me a chance.”

  The ends of her mouth twitched. “You did not frighten me, Mr. Bruce.”

  “I didn’t?” His liquid brown eyes flashed a hint of devilment or disappointment—either way it was quite disarming. “Well, then, I’m relieved to hear it.” He exhaled.

  She moistened her lips. There she was doing it again—a nervous habit whenever she was forced to make eye contact with someone who disturbed her. In this case, a young gentleman who made her stomach flutter.

  “I might know a technique or two for overcoming your fear of the oral exams. I suffered from something similar at university.” Mr. Bruce removed his spectacles, hanging an armature over a coat pocket. “But more importantly, I would like to discuss both your fingerprint transfer ideas—at length if that is possible. Might I take you to dinner, tonight?”

  Fiona studied her handsome instructor. Oh, yes, he had gone from merely attractive to the most desirable man alive in little more than two hours. And how exactly had that happened? Could it be residual, latent attraction—left over from three years ago? “I’m afraid I’m expected home for supper, but we could share this cab if you’d like. Which way are you headed?”

  He smiled a slow, close-mouthed smile—one where just the ends of his mouth turned up. “Chelsea, and you?”

  “I’m right on your way, Mr. Bruce—Knightsbridge.”

  He gave instructions to the driver and climbed into the cramped confines of the hansom. Fiona lifted her book bag onto her lap and he sat down beside her. “Nicely chummy-chuffy,” he murmured in a soft voice.

  She turned to him, tried to speak, then quickly turned away. “I’m sorry, it’s just that your proximity is so, so . . . proximate.” She flashed a shy smile.

  “Proximate. Is that a word, Miss Rose?” His eyes danced with light from the low rays of the sun, as the hansom traveled down Great Russell Street.

  “I have a tendency to make words up—there now, you are warned.” She forced herself to look at him. “And I shan’t apologize for it.”

  He was pensive for a moment. “Proximate might not be a word, but I believe proximitous is.”

  “Prox-im-i-tous,” she sounded out the syllables. “Use it in a sentence, please.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that your proximity is so . . . proximitous.”

  How could one ignore those teasing, luminous dark eyes, flecked with copper? Her soft snort joined his laughter. “Are you encouraging me, Mr. Bruce?”

  “Always, Miss Rose.” He smiled, causing a secondary bit of heart flutter.

  She inhaled a deep breath and returned his smile. “Shall I tell you more about this rubber dressing?”

  He nodded eagerly. “I am fascinated by the inventive aspects of the scientific mind. Ingenious connections and the like. First off—what made you think of it?”

  Fiona rolled her eyes. “Not so ingenious. My father is a chemist. For many years now he has worked closely with a few of the physicians at Chelsea Hospital in the development of a variety of rubber surgical adhesives and dressings. I’m almost certain he could formulate something that would work for capturing fingerprints.”

  From Tottencourt Road to Piccadilly, he asked a number of questions and she answered as best she could. “Father keeps meticulous records. It’s possible he has a formula that could be easily modified for your purpose.”

  Her teacher stared at her. “I’d very much like to speak at length with your father—that is, Mr. Rose.”

  “Godfrey Rose. Both he and Mother are the proprietors of the pharmacy.” She tilted her head to glimpse the surroundings. “There we are, just ahead. Rose and Company. Corner of Brompton Square and Brompton Road.”

  The hansom pulled into the stone paved yard and rolled to a stop. She looked at him again and wanted to pinch herself. She had shared a cab with the most brilliant student at university. Who was now, by some fateful, magical stroke of luck, her instructor for the major. She exhaled a breath. “Do you have far to travel?”

  He tipped his hat toward the river. “I live a few blocks south of here. Number four Cheyne Walk. An ordinary flat but for a view of the Thames.” He climbed out first and helped her down. After a multiple pocket search, he produced a calling card. “Would you give this to your father? Ask him when I might pop in for a consult—at his convenience, of course.”

  She ran a gloved finger over the raised letters.

  INSPECTOR ARCHIBALD BRUCE

  DIRECTOR OF FORENSICS, SPECIAL BRANCH, SCOTLAND YARD

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself? Ever since his stroke, he rarely works late.” She looked up. “Have supper with us.”

  “I couldn’t . . . impose.” He shook his head and backed away.

  Fiona joined his head shake. “Nonsense, Mr. Bruce. There is always plenty at table. Besides, I believe Father would enjoy your company . . . as would I.”

  His hesitated. “And Mrs. Rose?”

  “You’ve got two out of three, Mr. Bruce—you’ll have to take your chances with Mother.” She rolled her eyes, shuffling her feet impatiently. “It’s Tuesday. Which means shepherd’s pie with potatoes and turnips. There will likely be a filet of cod as well. And blackberry pie for dessert.” She tilted up the corners of her mouth. “I saw it cooling on the sill as I left for class.”

  “With clotted cream?” he asked.

  Fiona smiled. “I wouldn’t have my blackberry pie any other way.”

  He reached for her book bag and tugged gently. “Since you’re going to feed me.”

  ARCHIE SLUNG THE satchel over his shoulder and followed her into the attractive shop located on a quiet corner of the square. He glanced behind them and across the street. The pharmacy was no more than a block from Harrod’s.

  Rose & Company was no ordinary chemist’s shop. In fact, it was rather extraordinary in appearance. A pharmacological wonderland, one might say. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with drawers and shelves, and fronted by display cases—typical of course, except that the cabinetry was lacquered a soft black and decorated with brass knobs and gilt trim. And something aromatic and fresh filled the air. Archie sniffed. Rosemary, he thought.

  The shop windows featured glass jars filled with colored water signifying the body’s humors: blood, bile, and the like. Downright mundane—except the jars in Rose & Company were topped by exotic finials, and the colored waters—in violet and amber, crimson and azure—were much more sophisticated than anything the average chemist shop would display.

  “My word, this is impressive.” He followed her through the near-empty store as the wall clock chimed six times—closing time for most of the shops in the district.

  “Mother fancies herself a retail display specialist. Each week, she makes a study of Harrod’s windows and often models our displays on theirs.”

  He briefly perused a glass-fronted cabinet. There wasn’t a speck of dust in or on the display case. Under the glass, he observed a clever arrangement of soaps, intricately wrapped in pastel tissues. “I imagine one pays half again as much for a plaster from Rose and Company than another pharmacy,” he remarked.

  “Double.” Fiona tossed a smile over her shoulder. “But then, Father’s plasters don’t blister the skin.”

  At the back of the shop, a middle-aged woman with the same dark ash-blond hair as Fiona’s returned a square-sha
ped drawer into a cabinet filled with square-shaped drawers.

  “Is that you, Fiona? Remind your father to order more star anise, would you, dear? And—” A pleasant-looking woman turned around and stepped back with a start. “So sorry, I thought it was just my daughter. May I help you?”

  “The gentleman is not a customer—per se.” Fiona leaned over the counter. “Where’s Father?”

  “Washing up, dear.” Mother lifted her pince-nez to her nose, for a better look.

  “This is my teacher, Mr. Archibald Bruce.” Fiona stepped to one side. “Mr. Bruce, my mother, Mrs. Evelyn Rose.”

  “Mrs. Rose.” He reached out and received her mother’s ladylike limp hand. Fiona shuddered.

  “Mr. Bruce is my instructor for the next six weeks.” Fiona smiled as sweetly as she could. “I’ve invited him to supper.”

  “Supper! Yes, indeed.” Mother’s gaze darted about the pharmacy. “It would be our pleasure, Mr. Bruce. Fiona, why don’t you show Mr. Bruce upstairs, while I finish up here?”

  Fiona led him into the back of the shop and up the stairs to a landing that opened onto a pleasant parlor. She took her book bag and set it on the stair leading up to what he assumed were the sleeping quarters. “You can leave those here.” She pointed to the vestibule. He stacked his texts, his seating chart, and, lastly, his hat on the entry table.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable, Mr. Bruce.” She clasped her hands in front of her and nodded toward the reception area. Archie wandered about the darkened room, stopping at a wall sconce. “Mind if I light this?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  He struck a safety match. “Shall we dispense with the formalities, outside the classroom?” He turned the key and the lamp hissed to life and light. “Call me Archie or Arch—whichever you prefer.”

  Fiona smiled her impish smile. “Not Archibald?”