“You may want to,” he said lightly. “From what I hear, the university hasn’t exactly been welcoming. Not all places are like that.”
It had been hard, without a doubt, to find her place at the U. Even now, years after arriving and months into being a proper researcher, she felt out of place more often than not. What would it be like to work in a place like Rothamsted, being led by a woman?
Next to her, Nick gave her a conspiratorial grin. “You’re what, twenty-three? I hope you don’t believe that just because you started at UCL means you must stay there.”
“You were already entrenched in the military at twenty-three,” Saffron said, not wishing to think too hard about her current circumstances, then wrinkled her nose at her poor choice of words. “And you’ve stayed within the government all this time.”
He shrugged. “Alexander was twenty-three when he was injured at Fromelles. I’m sure he’s told you a little about how that changed his plans for his life.” His lips tilted into a smile as if he knew how frustrating it was for him to casually indicate he had such deep knowledge of Alexander’s life. “And you can’t tell me you believe Elizabeth will be a receptionist forever. Twenty-three is too young to decide who one will be for the rest of one’s life.”
They subsided into silence, eased only by their footsteps on the brick path along the road and the occasional whisk and whirl of a passing bicyclist.
When another street came into view, Nick directed them south. The curving brick wall lining the road was partially obscured by vines both brown and green. Nick’s demeanor seemed to focus; hisspine straightened and his pace increased fractionally. Saffron recalled their purpose, and her growing sense of dread made the crisp air sharper in her lungs.
They passed two neighborhoods on opposing sides of the street, then, at last, reached Poets Court.
A collection of homes dotted a clearing in the trees with little poetic about them. The plain red brick and whitewashed houses, the gardens already slumbering for the winter, were rather bleak beneath a watery white sky.
Nick approached the house directly ahead, skirting the circular drive and stepping up to the door. Saffron darted a look around, but the court was empty. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d expected something of an uproar. But perhaps the neighbors in Harpenden were not so nosy as in London.
They slipped inside the house and Saffron immediately stepped back out. Her unconscious retreat was irresistible in the face of such an unholy reek.
“This was what I was afraid of,” Nick muttered. He delved into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small bottle of something. “Give me your handkerchief.”
Saffron did, one hand clamped over her nose. Nick tipped the bottle onto her handkerchief and handed it back. “Keep that to your nose.”
It was scent, spicy and blissfully strong enough to prevent the worst of the stink from invading her nostrils. Nick waved her inside.
The open front door cut a swath in the gloom. After a moment to allow her eyes to adjust, Saffron followed Nick down the hall to the back of the house. The kitchen was silent, cold, and messy. Discarded dishes and cups cluttered the counter and sink.
Nick surveyed the room, then checked the back door. It was locked. He turned and nodded back the way they’d come. “Up the stairs.”
Saffron reflected that she really did not want to go up the stairs. But she’d agreed to help both Nick and Adrian. This was a part of that promise.
At the top of the stairs, there was just one room, and the door was ajar.
Saffron attempted to take a deep breath to steady herself, but the smell was worse up there and she gagged, barely catching herself from vomiting on the landing. Nick turned to her in question.
“It’s just the smell,” she forced out.
“I’ll open a window,” he muttered and went into the room.
When she heard the slide of a window opening, she followed.
The bedroom was plain, with a battered wardrobe in one corner and an old-fashioned writing desk next to it below the open window. The curtains were parted and the window open, letting in a brisk breeze and just enough light to see the rest of the room. Saffron slowly turned toward the bed, next to which Nick stood.
His somber face said it all, looking down at the man in the bed. “It’s as I feared. Jeffery Wells is dead.”
Jeffery Wells lay in his bed, pale eyes open and bloodshot. His ginger hair was a mess around his head, and his middle-aged face was gray and contorted as if he was, even in death, experiencing pain.
The scent of death and illness overpowered her. A rush of dizziness overtook her and she swayed, catching herself against the bed frame.
“Don’t touch anything,” Nick said sharply. “Even with gloves.”
Saffron stepped back, clutching her hand to her chest like it’d been burned. Her thoughts caught up to the situation. “Where are the police?”
“They haven’t been informed yet,” Nick said. “Are you able to come closer?”
Saffron swallowed down her revulsion and took a small step forward, then another. She’d been in a room with a dead body before. The brief glimpse of that woman haunted her dreams. She had no doubt Jeffery Wells would show up, as well.
