A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (6 page)

He made eye contact with Fanny. “You all right?”

She nodded weakly. “No one below would ever suspect, would they?”

Rafe spirited Fanny downstairs and back inside the carriage. He turned back to the millworker. “Mr. Gordon. Might I ask you to poke around a bit—without drawing too much attention to yourself?”

“Ye’ll be wanting to know something about those blokes who readied the loft that day.”

Rafe scratched a wire address on the back of his card. “Seemingly insignificant bits of information have been known to help solve a case.” He pulled out a few bills.

“Save your government money.” Gordon peered into the carriage and tipped his hat to Fanny. “Ambrose Greyville-Nugent was a fair man who put many a bloke to work, including Jack Gordon.” The wiry foreman gave a wink and stepped away. “I’ll find out what I can, Inspector.”

FANNY SAT QUIETLY on her side of the coach and let the clip-clop of the team and the gentle rock of the carriage calm her nerves. Gradually, the scene at the mill faded some—everything but that last remark in the loft.
Over he goes.

She thought she might cry, but the tears didn’t come. The very thought of a murder plot against her father bothered her more than she could have possibly imagined. Who on earth would conceive of such a scheme? And for what cause?

A week ago, she had picked up the paper and read an account of his demise. The gruesome description had cruelly affected her. But today—when that horrible freakish accident turned out to be no accident at all? Something else had welled up inside her—something much closer to nerves of steel. No matter how discomforting Rafe’s presence was, she wanted the brutish monsters who had plotted her father’s murder caught and punished.

She returned Rafe’s curious stare with a very determined one of her own. “We must find these men who butchered my father, Rafe. They must be put to trial and hanged until their tongues turn purple.”

“Pity the poor blokes if you find them first.” Rafe wrinkled his brow and sucked in a bit of air—grinning all the while. “I must say that was crack police work, Fan.”

His grin had always been contagious. Still, she flattened the upturned corners of her mouth. “You think so, Detective Lewis?”

“I know so.” He checked his timepiece. “We have time for a break. A spot of tea and biscuits, then we’ll push on to University.”

“I’d rather just push on, if you don’t mind.”

“You always were a stout little soldier.” Rafe reached into his pocket and pulled out a pistol. “This is a Webley Mk1. Standard issue service revolver.” He emptied the bullets from the chamber and pressed it gently into her hand. “Do you have any experience with handguns?”

“I’m afraid not.” She raised both brows. “Are we on our way to see Arthur Poole?”

Beneath thick, lowered lashes his eyes gleamed—and
wheels turned. Very likely Rafe was evaluating what to tell her. No doubt he wished to shield her in some way.

“Mr. Poole complained of unwanted visitors—strangers lurking about. I thought we might have a look around.”

The pistol felt heavy, solid, and quite unexpectedly soothing in her hands. And like it or not, there was something comforting about this Yard man, sent from London to protect her. In so many ways, Rafe was intimately familiar to her—a handsome, dashing ghost from her past. She studied his chiseled jaw and the firm, wide-set mouth.

Abruptly, he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

She lowered her eyes and examined the gun. He was also a rogue and a reprobate.

The rascal covered her hand with his and showed her how to squeeze the trigger. An index finger slipped over hers and a tingle coursed through her body. Embarrassed slightly, she looked up to see if he knew—if he had felt her quiver at his touch.

Those dazzling green eyes of his sparkled with mischief. He knew.

How humiliating. Heat rushed to her cheeks. He opened her hand and kissed the pulse point of her wrist. “You have the same effect on me.”

She tried to withdraw, but he held on and dropped six bullets into her palm. “Insert them nose first—that’s right.”

After she loaded the gun, there were lessons in safety as well as how to sight and aim. She raised the gun and
held it with two hands, as instructed. “How is it you came to be married, Rafe?”

His gaze swiftly turned black. “Never. Ever. Point a gun at someone, unless you intend on using it.”

“And what if I do mean to use it?” Fanny bit her lip. After a good long stare down the barrel, she lowered the pistol.

Rafe exhaled, ducking his head to look out the window. “Excellent, we’ve arrived at the Hall.” Gently, he pried her fingers off the handle and trigger, pocketing the weapon. “I promise you: before we part company, you will have ample opportunity to exact revenge upon me.”

“Please make sure of it.” Accepting his hand, she stepped down from the carriage onto the University grounds. Skirting McEwan Hall, they wound their way through a nearly deserted campus. It was already late afternoon and few students were about. The laboratory was housed between a hodgepodge of buildings on the third floor.

Fanny stepped inside. “Professor?” Floorboards creaked underfoot and there was the faint hiss of Bunsen burners and bubbling liquids in glass beakers. Late afternoon light filtered through windows veiled by dust. A row of workbenches ran the length of the cramped narrow space.

Rafe moved ahead, shielding her with his body. “Mr. Poole?”

Fanny surveyed the contents of the tables, each piled with odd-looking instruments. They came across an open ledger and a cup of tea beside it.

Rafe laid his hand on a chipped teapot close by. “Still warm.”

Fanny craned her neck to peer into a dark corner of the lab. “Professor, please answer!”

Rafe reached inside his jacket and got out his torch. “Glad I brought this.” He toggled the switch back and forth. “Bollocks.”

“What is that?”

Rafe grabbed hold of her hand. “An electrical torch powered by dry cell batteries.”

How was it that Rafe held a device she knew nothing about? Having been raised by an avid inventor and industrialist, Fanny was privy to all the latest inventions—sometimes many years before they were known to the general public. “That’s impossible. I would have heard about such an appliance!”

“Experimental. On loan to Scotland Yard for field-testing.” Rafe grinned. “No need to be snarlish.” He banged the brass object in the palm of his hand. “As you can see, it’s not the most reliable of gadgets.”

Something crawled along the floor. “Rafe?” Fanny nodded toward the dark end of the lab. A cloud of gaseous material billowed down a few steps and swirled toward them.

The light from the torch sprang to life, causing them both to jump.

Stepping gingerly through the low blanket of mist, they approached the end of the room. Rafe swept the beam of light across a giant metal cylinder topped by a hatch wheel. Clouds of white vapor billowed out from
under a dome-shaped lid and down the sides of the chamber. A number of tubes coiled about the unit were covered with frost.

“Have you any idea what this could be?”

Fanny shook her head. “It appears to be a refrigeration unit of some kind.” She squinted at the apparatus. “I suppose the professor could be making liquid nitrogen.”

Rafe blinked. “Liquid what?”

“If you compress the gases in the air enough, you end up with nitrogen, which at extremely cold temperatures turns to liquid.”

Rafe stared. “For what purpose?”

“A myriad of industrial uses, including shrink welding, Detective Lewis.”

She and Rafe spun around at the same time. “Mr. Lazar!” Fanny coughed as she introduced Rafe to Professor Poole’s research partner.

“We have an appointment with Professor Poole. Might you—” A fit of coughing interrupted Rafe’s speech.

“Step back, both of you.” Lazar ducked around them. “As liquid nitrogen evaporates, it reduces the amount of oxygen in the air—in confined spaces it can act as an asphyxiant.”

Fanny’s gaze darted along a counter filled with lab equipment. One after another, Bunsen burner flames flickered and died. Rafe continued to cough as he pulled her away.

Lazar climbed a low ladder beside the tank and turned the hatch wheel. “Either the seals have failed, or someone has tampered—”

The hatch burst open in an explosion of frozen vapor. The sudden blast and displaced air knocked Rafe and Fanny to the ground. Glass beakers and measuring devices slid off tables and crashed on the floor. Lazar lay crumpled in a heap not far away.

Fanny screamed. Her legs and feet scrambled against floorboards, pushing her away from the horrible sight in the tank.

The head and shoulders of a frozen body bobbed up and down at the top of the massive cylinder. Diaphanous clouds of vapor billowed out of the apparatus, which continued to hiss and wheeze. The dead man’s eyes bulged from their sockets, with irises that glowed silver-white. The head sprouted red hair frosted pink from ice, and a sardonic grin was frozen in place. There could be no doubt about the identity of the ghoulish corpse.

“Professor Poole.” Fanny struggled for breath. The deeper she inhaled, the less oxygen there was. She felt her cheeks. Cold as ice on a warm day. “We must get—outside—”

Strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her to her feet. Rafe guided her out of the lab and down the corridor. “Hold on to the banister—you’re light-headed. Make your way outside into the fresh air. I’m going back for Lazar.”

Fanny caught his arm. “Be careful, Rafe.”

Rafe squeezed her hand. “I’ll be down in a flash.”

On the way outside, she ran into several students who had heard the explosion. She pointed to the lab above.
Still gasping, she stepped onto the terrace and sucked in fresh air.

As she regained her strength, images of death deluged her thoughts. Some kind of monster, or group of fiends, had conspired against her father and now Professor Poole. A man couldn’t fall into a vat of gas right-side up—he must have been forced down into the subfreezing liquid gas.

Death and more death. A shiver ran down her spine as she circled the yard adjacent to the science hall. There were one or two business competitors, she supposed, who might have wished Ambrose Greyville-Nugent gone. Fanny chewed a bit of lower lip. Father had also enjoyed a string of women over the years. Many a paramour had set her sights on landing Ambrose Greyville-Nugent. Indeed, her father reigned supreme as the most sought-after widower in all of Edinburgh and had remained so for years. When he jilted those aspiring women, which he invariably did, one or two had become rather difficult. But murder?

Passing the hall entrance, she caught a glimpse of Rafe. He stood beside a recovering Professor Lazar in the foyer. They exchanged a wave and Fanny continued her turn about the grounds. Neatly trimmed hedges formed a Celtic knot in the center of the square. The intricate pathway took her past flower beds and a patch of lawn.

“Miss Francine?”

Fanny turned in the direction of the voice and squinted. She had not noticed that it was dusk, verging on twilight. A young man stood beside the gated entry
to the quad. She recognized their new driver—hired last week. At the same time, she heard a door swing open and the murmur of students inside the building. Rafe was out on the terrace and starting down the steps. “Not to worry, Rafe. You recognize Martin—our driver?”

Rafe hesitated, evaluating the young man beside her before turning back. “Very well, Fanny. At all times, you must stay where I can clearly see you. Disappear behind a tree, for even a moment, and I will not hesitate to intrude upon your constitutional.” With his eyes locked on her, he walked backward for a bit, then returned to the hall.

She turned to the driver. “What is it, Martin?”

“Lame horse, ma’am. With your permission, I’d like to take the team home and come back with the brougham.” The driver opened the gate and she passed into a narrow yard—more of an alleyway.

“Fetch us as soon as you can—” A terrible clunk and a groan came from behind, and she turned in time to see Martin collapse to the ground. Inching forward, she bent over the young man. What on earth? Something—a presence—loomed up from behind. A rough hand went around her face and clamped over her mouth. Another arm pulled her against a hulking frame and dragged her toward the shadows.

She fought back with all her might, kicking and dragging her feet. The toe of her shoe caught on the edge of the gate and slammed it shut. With a grunt, the large oaf who seized her muttered under his breath and squeezed harder. Wrenching her neck, Fanny glimpsed a transport
van at the end of the alley. The kind of paneled vehicle used for moving furniture and belongings. The back door was open. Dear God, they meant to put her inside.

She was being abducted.

She squirmed and wriggled and bit to no avail. The brute held on tight, crushing the air from her lungs. How foolish she had been not to take Rafe’s instructions seriously. Tossed onto the hard floorboards of the rig, she hit headfirst. Stars swept across her field of vision.

The painful creak of the campus gate crashed open and banged against a brick wall covered in ivy. “Fanny?” The call came from far away.

Thank God for a shout. “Rafe!” The large man in the scratchy jacket flung himself into the wagon and smothered her cry to a feeble gasp.

Chapter Five