The room went silent as Mary realized what she’d done. Her face drained of color. “My God. My God, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
“Shut up!” Sutcliffe turned to Elizabeth. “Now you see it was an accident. She meant nothing by it other than a foolish attempt to make people wear their damned masks and gloves. Put the bloody dish down!”
That certainly explained some things, like how Petrov had actually died. A glow of satisfaction suffused her. She had solved it after all.
This was a fascinating turn of events, indeed. One of the scientists had poisoned Petrov. She might as well keep prodding them to see what other confessions might come oozing out.
“What about Wells?” she demanded of the room. “Wells was not ill like Petrov, was he?”
Quinn jabbed a finger toward Mary. “We’ve all been ill thanks to that idiot!”
Mary let out a noise of protest, and Sutcliffe barked, “You all know the pyrethrins last only a few days before their potency fades. Even if she meant to teach Wells and Burnwell a lesson, the oil hasn’t been out in the lab for weeks.”
“That’s true,” the tall man said softly. “Wells died of something far more serious.”
“Unless the bitch gave him a double dose,” Burnwell snarled at Mary.
“I didn’t!” she protested. “I haven’t done anything since Burnwell went away.’
“Wells had a wound on his hand. A large cut to his palm,” Elizabeth said. “It was blackened and absolutely vile to behold, I’m told. It was a fungal infection,Mucorsomething-or-other.”
The old botanist in the back of the room spoke in a wheezing voice. “If it was blackened, it could have been necrosis. That’s a serious infection, then.”
Burnwell crossed his arms, glaring at Mary. “Gave Wells something you grew here, did you?”
“I would never infect him with something like that!” At Burnwell’s incredulous snort, she turned wide, pleading eyes on Elizabeth. “You said it wasMucor? That’s a common genus in the materials we work with, decaying food and soil. Wells never wore gloves, not when he worked in the laboratory or the greenhouse. He likely contracted it from the soil.”
“Mucor indicus,” Sutcliffe said gruffly. “The Everleigh girl asked about it. What does she have to do with this? She spying for the ministry?”
“No” was all the reply that Elizabeth gave, for although Mary was going on about what sounded very scientific and likely informative, the sole window in the room, just opposite where Elizabeth stood, was suddenly full of a very welcome sight: Saffron, filthy as anything, waving frantically at her. She was mouthing equally welcome words at her through the glass.
Sweet relief flooded Elizabeth, and she nearly dropped the glass dish in her hands. The population of the room had gone quiet, more than one craning their necks toward the window, clearly wondering what she was staring at.
“I beg your pardon,” Elizabeth said perfunctorily. “A poor time for wool-gathering.”
“You have the answers to your damned questions,” Sutcliffe bit out. “Put the petri dish down!”
“If Wells had stolen from the lab and infected himself in the process,” Elizabeth said, ignoring Sutcliffe’s demand, “he likely worried he’d contracted something from the specimens he stole, and worried he’d have to explain how he came into contact with it, I suppose.”
But then why did Colin and Alfie say the mysterious collaborator killed Wells, if he’d died from the fungal infection? Regardless, it seemed it was time for her to go. Elizabeth set down the dish.
The entire room exhaled.
“What about Mary?” asked Joseph gruffly.
“And what you do you mean, Wells stole from the laboratory?” asked Burnwell.
“Dr. Calderbrook!” Quinn cried, pointing at Mary. “Dismiss this lunatic at once.”
Elizabeth stole a glance at Dr. Calderbrook, who’d gone terribly pale and collapsed onto the stool next to the old botanist.
“No,” the tall man said. “We need the police.”
“Oh, the police will be here any minute,” Elizabeth said cheerfully. Saffron’s signal through the window had told her as much. She winked at Mary. “Good luck.”
It was somewhat surreal to walk into the flat that evening. It seemed like years since they’d last been at home, not hours, and Saffron felt like she barely recognized the place. But that might have been the head injury.
She was not concussed, according to the doctor who had examined her while she and Elizabeth gave their statements in the aftermath of the events at the Path Lab. Nick had shared enough of Saffron’s involvement with his superiors that they were taken to a private room at the local police station to report to someone from Nick’s “office” rather than the constable. She’d left out certain parts of the truth, just as she was sure Nick had left out certain parts of his dealings with her. She felt it was fair play, in the end.
