A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce Read Free Page A

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