Chapter 3
As Saffron arrived at the university Monday morning, she wondered for the hundredth time what had become of Mrs. Henry.
She’d spent the weekend recounting the story for her flatmate, Elizabeth, and trying not to consider just how ghastly the whole affair had been.
A fair few of the inhabitants of the North Wing had attended the party, and no doubt information and rumors would be circulating in equal measure.
The long stretch of campus buildings stood tall against the cloudy sky.
The north and south halls bracketing the dominating Wilkins Building formed the Quad, where, in addition to the greenhouses a street away, Saffron’s entire world had been contained during her time as a student.
The simple gray facades of the buildings had once been imposing, unfriendly to her eyes—a reminder of all she had to live up to as Thomas Everleigh’s daughter.
But now the campus of University College London felt familiar, comfortable.
She did belong there, which she proved by being hired by the botany department as a research assistant.
Soon she would make herself a more permanent fixture at the university.
Saffron entered the North Wing through the unadorned black door off the Quad and walked up the stairs to the second floor.
Murky sunlight came through the windows, not quite illuminating all the corners of the clean and quiet hall.
She paused outside the door to Dr. Maxwell’s office.
The glazed glass panel was dark. The professor wasn’t yet inside, not surprising considering it was barely eight o’clock.
Saffron sighed. She really did need her own key to his office, as this was not the first time she had been locked out.
Rocking on her heels, Saffron looked up and down the empty hallway. Maybe she could see if Mr. Ashton had arrived yet, to get a head start on whatever work she needed to do to help him prepare for Maxwell’s study.
Her low heels clicked on the polished white and black tile, the sound especially sharp in the quiet building.
Mr. Ashton was on this floor, as he’d said, but she didn’t know which office was his.
Conveniently, she turned the corner to find the man in question balancing a stack of books with one arm and attempting to unlock his office door with the other.
“Here, let me,” Saffron said, moving to open the door for him.
Mr. Ashton shifted his grip on the books. “Thank you.” He stepped back from the doorway to allow her to open the door. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here this early.”
He left the door open as he crossed to the desk and carefully deposited the stack of books on top, straightening the spines precisely.
“I usually come in early,” Saffron said, leaving it unspoken that it was to ensure she didn’t stay at the university late any more. She didn’t want to be alone in the building when certain lecherous department heads might linger.
Mr. Ashton’s office was the same design as Dr. Maxwell’s, rectangular with a window overlooking the Quad.
His desk, the same warm oak as lined the walls, was gleaming and bare but for his spotless blotter and an articulating lamp without a speck of dust on its bronze shade.
The books along the shelf next to it were perfectly aligned.
A small couch with faded gray upholstery had been backed up to the unadorned white wall opposite the desk.
“You have a rather spartan sense of style, Mr. Ashton,” she remarked.
“I find it makes it easier to find what I need.” He straightened his blotter and the stack of books again before settling into his chair and looking at her expectantly.
He was tidy in a gray suit and sober blue tie.
Only his dark hair continued to defy his perfect order, with a wave that pomade couldn’t seem to control.
“I came to see how I might assist you with the expedition preparations,” Saffron said.
“Unfortunately, I haven’t had the opportunity to take a look at the materials from Dr. Maxwell yet. I was kept busy with the police yesterday.”
“The police?” Saffron repeated in surprise.
“I assume that means you haven’t spoken to them yet. They’re looking into what happened to Mrs. Henry,” Mr. Ashton said.
“But why would the police be interested in an allergic reaction?” Saffron asked.
“It wasn’t an allergic reaction.” Mr. Ashton hesitated, then added, “Mrs. Henry is in a comatose state. They said it was poison.”
Saffron gasped. “Poison?”
“They think it was something in her drink. You know, the champagne. It was being passed all around, and someone could have easily put something in.”
Shocked, Saffron sunk into the chair opposite Mr. Ashton. Mrs. Henry seemed like a normal person. Perhaps a bit unpleasant, considering the conversation she’d overheard in the hallway, but not so bad as to warrant being poisoned. “But why would someone poison Mrs. Henry?”
Mr. Ashton spoke slowly, as if weighing each word. “The police asked me an hour’s worth of questions, mostly about Dr. Henry.”
“Do they think he poisoned his wife?”
At this, he looked back to his desk. “I couldn’t say.”
He didn’t seem inclined to say more about it, and assured her that he would let her know what he needed for the preparations.
Saffron walked slowly down the hall, which was beginning to buzz with scholars, hoping Dr. Maxwell had arrived and had more information about Mrs. Henry.
She found the white-haired professor scribbling on a piece of paper at his desk.
Putting her bag on her chair on the far side of the cluttered room, she smiled at him when he looked up.
“Good morning, Everleigh,” he murmured, his voice gruffer than usual.
“Good morning, Professor,” she replied and began removing her gloves and hat. “Have you had a chance to look over the notes I left?”
“No, just wrote a few things before I forget them. I don’t suppose”—he raised his bushy eyebrows at her—“you’ve seen the police poking about?”
“No, I haven’t,” Saffron replied. “Though I suppose they would come here to question the guests from the party.”
“I gather you’ve heard about Dr. Henry’s wife.”
“I heard it wasn’t an allergy after all. Alexander Ashton told me.”
Dr. Maxwell frowned. “Everleigh—”
A sharp knock at the door interrupted him. Maxwell stood up with a grunt, but Saffron was there quicker.
There were two men at the door, a middle-aged man of perhaps forty and a younger man in a navy policeman’s uniform, who couldn’t be much older than Saffron.
The older man was as bland and somber as his dark Hamburg hat.
The uniformed officer, with wide blue eyes and blond hair peeking out from under his domed custodian helmet, looked as though he were play-acting at being a police officer.
“Detective Inspector Green, Criminal Investigation Department,” the older man said. “This is Sergeant Simpson.” He gestured back to the young man. “Is Dr. Alan Maxwell available?”
From behind his desk, Maxwell’s face went slightly pale beneath his snowy beard. Saffron stepped aside for the policemen to enter. Maxwell’s hand trembled as he offered it to Inspector Green. “Inspector, this is Miss Saffron Everleigh, my assistant.”
The inspector nodded to Saffron. Sergeant Simpson remained by the door and took out a notebook and pencil.
Inspector Green turned to the professor. “Dr. Maxwell, we are here to follow up on our questions from yesterday regarding the poisoning of Mrs. Cynthia Henry.”
Maxwell glanced at her. “Perhaps we should excuse Miss Everleigh?”
The inspector’s impassive brown eyes flicked to her. “Miss Everleigh, were you also in attendance at the party at the Leister residence?”
“Yes, I was,” she said, determined not to be intimidated by the inspector’s cool manner.
“If you wouldn’t mind stepping out for a few minutes while we speak with Dr. Maxwell, Simpson will retrieve you when we are ready to speak with you.”
Unsettled, Saffron went into the hall.
She paced the cool tiled steps of the stairwell, paying no mind the students passing by.
Her mind was occupied once more with Mrs. Henry and the fact that Saffron had also drunk the champagne passed around at the party.
It could have been her on the floor, rather than Mrs. Henry, if the poisoner had mixed up the glasses or bottles.
She shuddered. She’d possibly spoken with the person responsible, sat next to them at the dinner table—a table that had been full of her colleagues.
Did that mean the poisoner was at the university now?
She flinched when the voice of the younger police officer calling her name interrupted her morbid train of thought. She hastened back to the office, where Dr. Maxwell stood anxiously at the door. As Saffron approached, he offered to stay with her.
“Thank you, Professor, but I’ll be all right.” She patted his arm and smiled reassuringly.
The inspector took Dr. Maxwell’s desk, Saffron sat in the chair before him, and Simpson did his best to be unobtrusive by the door. His hands were shaking slightly, which Saffron diagnosed as either a lack of breakfast or an abundance of nerves.
After recording her full name and address, the inspector began. “Miss Everleigh, what is your role here at the university?”
Saffron drew herself up and said, “I assist the professor in his research. I am also a botanist.”
“You were at the party Saturday evening, but your name was not on the guest list Sir Edward provided.”
“The invitation was extended to the whole botany department at the last minute, on Thursday,” Saffron said. That was the reason why Dr. Maxwell had cut his family visit short, so he could attend. She’d have expected him to grumble more about it, actually.
Inspector Green asked, “When did you arrive?”
Saffron described the various events of the evening, the inspector pausing here and there to ask a clarifying question.
“You say you excused yourself from the party just after the men entered the drawing room, and remained out of the room until the toast. That would have been about twenty minutes. What were you doing?”
Resenting the embarrassment she felt at admitting it, she said, “I was seeing to my personal needs. And then I ran into Alexander Ashton, and we had a conversation in the hallway.”
“I see. What were you talking about?”
“Well, we …” There was no point in dancing around the fact that she’d eavesdropped, especially since it was probably important to the investigation. Not to mention he’d likely already heard of it from Mr. Ashton. “We accidentally overheard Mrs. Henry and Lady Agatha, actually.”
Saffron briefly described the conversation between Lady Agatha and Mrs. Henry.
She finished by explaining how she had been quite close to Mrs. Henry when she fell.
The inspector didn’t respond immediately.
Saffron glanced over at Simpson, who was watching Inspector Green avidly as the inspector wrote his own notes.
“I was so shocked to hear that it was in fact poison, and not an allergic reaction as the doctor said,” Saffron said, wondering how much information the inspector would reveal.
“I accidentally consumed a poisonous plant when I was a child and had a very different reaction. Still, every toxin has its effects, I suppose.”
“Yes, they can have diverse effects on the body.”
“What sort of poison was it?”
The inspector didn’t look up from his notes. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”
“Do you think that Mrs. Henry was the intended victim of the poisoning?”
Inspector Green shot her a sharp look. “Why do you ask?”
Her off-handed question must have touched on something relevant. “It’s just that the champagne, which might have contained the poison, was passed around left and right. The intended victim would have simply passed it on and never known the glass was meant for them.”
Standing, Inspector Green said, “Could be, Miss Everleigh. We have several other guests we need to question. We’ll be nearby if you think of anything else.”
He and Simpson left. Dr. Maxwell returned a moment later.
“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.”