He was gone before she could tell him she’d wait outside.
She ventured into the hall, unable to stop her curiosity. The walls were bare but for coat hooks, and the floor was spotless but worn hardwood.
“Come in, come in,” Adrian called. “The kitchen is warm.”
Hesitantly, she stepped down the hall. The flat was set up similarly to her own, with doors likely for bedrooms lining the hall and a parlor off to one side. The state of that room, from what she saw passing by, shocked her. Alexander was tidy to the point of obsession, and it looked as if the room had been caught in a whirlwind. The furniture was covered in books, newspapers, magazines, and to her surprise, bottles of wine and spirits.
That was Adrian’s doing, then. Alexander must have hated his brother’s mess and likely his liquor too.
Adrian found her in the hall, a collarless shirt now buttoned beneath his braces. He grinned and flung a hand out. “Please, this way.” He shepherded her into the tiny kitchen, which was indeed very warm. “If you please.” He pulled out a chair for her at the shabby kitchen table.
She sat, looking around. This room was equally bare of personality, though from the pots and pans on the stove Saffron guessed that cooking did happen there. She had never heard of bachelors cooking much.
“Forgive me for not entertaining you elsewhere,” Adrian said, settling across from her. “But the kitchen calls to me. The warmth, the smells of food. When I go home, I spend more time in the kitchen with my mother than anywhere else in the house.”
“My flatmate is much the same. She finds the kitchen to be the most agreeable place in the flat.”
“A smart girl,” he said. “You came for Alex, but it cannot be for business, otherwise you would have spoken to him at the university.” His thick brows lifted, and his smile turned suggestive.
“I came to ask him to speak with you, actually,” Saffron said, adding quickly, “Alexander asked me to assist with your situation with Mr. Petrov’s death. I’m sorry you’ve come under suspicion.”
Adrian’s smile slipped momentarily, but then his eyes went wide and he let out a laugh. “You are the poison girl!”
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“The one he met before his expedition! You are the one he told me about!”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “I … yes, we did meet before the expedition. And I do study poisonous plants.”
“Excellent!” Adrian’s curls shook with each shake of his head. “I am glad to know he is still, ah, speaking with you. Alex is so quiet, you know, I had no idea—”
“We are friends,” she said. “He asked if I could look into the case, since I know poisons and I’m familiar with Inspector Green.”
At the mention of the inspector, his expression darkened. “Ah, yes. The inspector is very …” He let out a humorless laugh. “He is not unlike my brother, in fact. Prefer to present a blank face, don’t they?”
“They do,” Saffron agreed. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Adrian knitted his fingers together atop the table and spoke with a tone that suggested he’d told this story too many times for his liking. “I work for Hawker as an engineer—”
“You build aeroplanes?” Saffron interrupted.
“Yes,” he said absently. “I went to school for it, then flew during the war. When I came out, I wanted to make something better than the flimsy things they sent us up in. Hawker is in Kingston upon Thames. My boss, he tells me I’m to go see Sir Gavin Montfried. He lives near Roundwood Park in Harlesden.”
Saffron nodded, picturing Inspector Green’s map in her mind.
“I took the train from Kingston to Willesden Junction, then I took a tram. I saw Sir Gavin, got the plans he was working on—he was wing commander to my boss and still likes to play with designs—and then I returned to Willesden Junction.” His words were quick, his accent making them emphatic and earnest. He shot her a furtive look, however, as he said, “Once there, I went to a pub. Drank some,and got to thinking I should go into town, see my brother, my mother.” He flashed a grin. “She misses me. Worries for me. For us both, you know. Alex is her baby.” He chuckled, shaking his head.
Warmth for the affection Adrian suggested between Alexander and their mother eased Saffron’s impatience. She really had never thought much about Alexander’s family, since he so rarely brought them up.
Adrian tapped his long fingers on the table. “After a few drinks, I got on the train to St. Pancras. I chose a seat in a compartment with only one other person. He was an old man, with gray hair and a face like cracked pavement.” Saffron quirked a brow, and Adrian waved a hand toward his own face. “Heavy, wrinkled. Looked like he’d never smiled. He was asleep, anyway. But when the train lurched, he woke. He said something polite to me, maybe ‘Good evening,’ then closed his eyes again. He stayed that way for ten minutes or so, then he let out a moan, like he was ill. I asked if he was all right, he mumbled something.” His lips flattened briefly as if irritated. “He said it in Russian, I know now. I didn’t know at the time he was a Russian.”
Curious, Saffron asked, “Why do you say that?”
He huffed a laugh. “The police asked me many times if I knew who he was, where he came from, what work he did, even where he lived. I suppose I am used to denying knowing anything about him. All I saw was an old man who looked ill. He went pale and began to shake, moaning nonstop. This was around”—he squinted—“Kilburn, maybe. I called for help. An older woman with a young boy poked her head in but went away. There was a fellow who said he’d call for an attendant, but I did not see him again. Another two people came and stayed there until we reached St. Pancras. Mrs. Sheffield and Mr. Crawford.”
“Who were they?”
“Mrs. Sheffield was an older lady, said she was the wife of a physician, but she only patted the old man’s brow with her kerchief. Mr. Crawford, he wore a bad suit and a bowler hat. He and I spoke about what was to be done, and he said he would go for the stationmaster or a doctor or something when we arrived at St. Pancras. But the police said they hadn’t heard about him.”
