“What did they say? What did the inspector want to know?” he demanded, brow furrowed.
Having never been questioned by the police before, Saffron couldn’t say if his questions had been out of the ordinary, though they’d seemed basic enough. But Dr. Maxwell looked so on edge, she gave him a bracing smile. “Nothing of great importance, Professor.”
CHAPTER 4
They attended to business until lunch. Dr. Maxwell, who continued to be agitated, didn’t notice how often Saffron was distracted from her work. The events of the past days circled in her mind, stirring up unanswered questions. Who would poison a woman in the midst of a party? Was Mrs. Henry the intended victim? Why her?
Saffron wanted to ask Dr. Maxwell for his thoughts and maybe hear some reassurances too. Her list of people she could confide in was short, and he was near the top. But she also wanted to ask about his rejection from the expedition crew. It hurt that he hadn’t mentioned his interest in going to the Amazon, and had even gone so far as to apply to join the expedition without telling her, as if her future wouldn’t be affected.
But she held her tongue, and after lunch, Maxwell sent her off to the library to do some research, with the expectation that she would be there for the rest of the day.
In the main floor of the Wilkins Building, at the center of campus, was the library. The long hall was filled with soaring stacks standing sentinel over students hunched over rows of scarred tables. The librarians didn’t dare expose the books to the elements, so there was no chance of a cool spring breeze from the tall windows lining either side of the hall to blow away thescent of old tomes and anxious young men. The air was not still, however, but rife with the fluttering of turning pages and the coming and goings of scholars as they mined the stacks for knowledge.
Saffron didn’t bother approaching the botanical section, but instead ventured off through the lofty stacks into the medical section, looking for texts on poisons. It would be impossible to concentrate on work when the inspector’s questions and her own buzzed in her head like flies to a bloomingAmorphophallus titanum. She picked a promising looking book off the shelf. Flipping through its tightly written pages, however, she found it was arranged by a list of toxins by name rather than by symptom. She replaced it and pulled down several others, no doubt sullying her white blouse and gray skirt with dust.
Saffron sat at one of the long center tables, dredging through unfamiliar medical terms for five minutes before returning for a book of medical terminology. After looking at list upon list of poisons, Saffron began to wonder if Mrs. Henry had been given a manmade toxin, something readily available. Saffron was sure that, somewhere, the minions of Inspector Green would be scouring the shops near the homes of all the partygoers, looking to see who had bought rat poison recently.
The inspector said he couldn’t say, but something in how he’d spoken of the poison and glanced at his sergeant made Saffron think they didn’t know what the poison was. Surely he’d spoken with the doctors. If it was a common poison, then the doctors would recognize its symptoms and possibly identify it through a blood test of some kind. It was probably something obscure, then. Unfortunately, the faculty at the university had access to all kinds of toxic chemicals and plants. Had Inspector Green considered that? Yet another question.
Saffron contemplated all the plants in the university greenhouses. She knew all the plants growing there by heart, includingwhich were currently flowering and producing fruit. She wrote the list out, then crossed off the ones that would not have any seriously toxic effects if consumed, and put a question mark next to the ones she was unsure of. Inspector Green would have his hands full narrowing down the possibilities. If, indeed, the inspector thought that a plant was responsible.
Her eyes fell on the name of a plant from south-central Mexico, brought back decades ago by Dr. Maxwell. The vine was a sickly yellow color and zigzagged around trees as it grew, clinging tightly to its host. Maxwell had named it the xolotl vine, after the Aztec god of death and lightning, since the growth pattern resembled a fork of lightning and the toxin in its leaves struck as quickly. Saffron had the feeling that Maxwell enjoyed the notorious reputation of his plant, occasionally still telling secondhand stories of people dropping to the ground immediately upon consumption. He’d warned everyone to treat theSolandra xolotumwith the greatest caution and always wear gloves when tending to it. As a result, most people avoided it in the greenhouse, allowing it to take over a large section of a relatively empty greenhouse. Mr. Winters, the caretaker of the greenhouses, generally ignored it except for giving it water.
Saffron had a creeping feeling of discomfort. Everyone knew that xolotl was brought here and championed by Dr. Maxwell. From what she’d heard of it from others, they seemed to think it was wildly dangerous. And Mrs. Henry had dropped to the floor nearly the moment the champagne had touched her lips. Dr. Maxwell had been very nervous this morning …
No, Maxwell couldn’t have anything to do with the poisoning. What would he have against Mrs. Henry? Lurking within that question was a truth she didn’t want to acknowledge, making her heart pound as it formed in her mind. Dr. Henry could have been the target, and Dr. Maxwell certainly had something against him.
“Miss Everleigh.”
The voice made her jump, and its tone suggested this was not the first time her name had been spoken. She looked up into the dark eyes of Mr. Ashton, who was eying her curiously. His jacket was slung over his arm, the other holding a stack of books. His close-fitting charcoal-gray waistcoat and subdued blue tie were still perfectly tidy, though his white shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows.
“Do you have a moment to discuss Dr. Maxwell’s samples?” When she gave him a blank look, he added, “For the expedition.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, nodding absently. She shuffled her papers together and tucked them under her notebook in an attempt to straighten out her thoughts along with them. Clearing her throat, she asked, “What exactly did you need to know?”
“I heard from my department head this morning that Ericson has dropped out of the trip. His wife apparently took issue with him being absent when their child is to be born,” he said with a small smile. “So I was asked to replace him.”
A hint of envy threatened to dampen Saffron’s smile, but she said brightly, “Congratulations! How very exciting!”
“Thank you. I’ve been combing through Ericson’s papers and saw I have only a vague outline of Dr. Maxwell’s experimental design and a specimen list that looks only partially complete.” He set down a stack of books and put his jacket over the back of a chair, then withdrew a paper that he handed her. A large scar ran the length of his right arm, which had been obscured by his jacket. His tanned skin brought the scar into sharp relief. A few flecks of white marked his hand and his wrist, and beyond was a maze of mottled and puckered skin in shades of white, pink, and tan. Saffron wondered at him rolling his sleeves up in public. Most would attempt to hide such a flaw.
Hoping he didn’t notice her staring, Saffron quickly dropped her gaze to the paper. It was indeed a half-completed specimenlist in Dr. Maxwell’s scrawling handwriting. Irritation clipping her words, she said, “Dr. Maxwell has been rather dragging his feet about completing his design.”
Mr. Ashton’s dark brows shot upward. “We leave in two weeks. The project designs were due a week ago.”
She knew the deadlines all too well. They were the source of some of the only disagreements she and Maxwell had ever had in nearly five years of mentorship. Her heart ached a little to think of how he’d told her she couldn’t understand the pressure he was under, the stakes. Why he simply hadn’t asked for her help, she didn’t know. Withholding a sigh, Saffron said, “I understand, Mr. Ashton. Let’s start with the specimen list.”
They worked until the light faded from the tall arched windows. The green banker lamps atop the tables were soon the only sources of light. Silence, usually broken by the shuffle of pages turning and the murmur of voices, lay thick and heavy around them. When a librarian pushing a rattling cart of books cleared his throat pointedly at them, Alexander looked about, then glanced at his wristwatch. Six o’clock. How had two hours already passed?
“I didn’t realize the time,” he said, frowning at the windows showing gloomy, dark skies. Thunder rumbled faintly beyond. His nerves pricked at the sound, but he ignored them.
“And we’re not even halfway through,” Miss Everleigh said, though she didn’t appear put out by the long list of specimens they hadn’t yet covered.
Indeed, she hadn’t objected to the slow and thorough way Alexander required his research to be put together, though it was clear from the haphazard notes in her notebook and her frequent jumps between texts that she wasn’t used to a more disciplined approach. It made Alexander cringe internally, butshe was eager to help and certainly knew the list well, barely needing to reference any of the guides that were stacked on the table between them.
Alexander stood. He needed to get moving before the storm brewing outside set in. He could never trust himself entirely when thunder and lightning were involved. He unrolled his shirtsleeves, forcing himself to do it at a normal pace. Miss Everleigh had stared, as everyone always did the first time they saw his scarred arm, but that was no reason to rush and make it obvious that it bothered him. He didn’t do up his cufflinks—he didn’t care to struggle with them in front of her—and pulled on his jacket.
Miss Everleigh stood and gathered her things, and arms loaded with books, gave him a pretty smile. He felt his lips lifting to return it, and let himself smile back.
