Chapter 5
The raucous storm the previous evening had cleared the way for brilliant blue skies, and the day promised to be pleasant. Saffron had dressed accordingly in a copen blue blouse and matching skirt. Saffron made her way down the narrow hall of the Chelsea flat she shared with Elizabeth.
At the doorway of the kitchen, Saffron looked with affection at the woman sipping coffee at their little kitchen table in a dramatic dressing gown of crimson, a pleasant breakfast laid out before her.
She and Elizabeth had always been the best of friends, growing up together in the heart of Bedford as neighbors.
Saffron had thought that they would spend their lives together, entwined by youthful hopes of a match with Wesley, Elizabeth’s brother.
Along with robbing the Hale family, and Saffron, of Wesley, the war had decimated the Hale family’s fortunes. When Elizabeth had been expected to do her part to refill their coffers with a convenient marriage to a ghastly old man, she had escaped to London with Saffron.
At first, it was a grand adventure, exploring the city together when Saffron wasn’t busy with lessons.
Saffron’s grandparents soon realized that her commitment to her studies was just as serious as their son’s had been, and they cut her off.
Even with the meager funds Saffron’s mother managed to give to Saffron, she and Elizabeth found themselves suddenly and desperately short on money.
In addition to finding employment, Elizabeth had taken to domestic responsibility with more than just the enthusiasm stoked by the need to prove to their families they didn’t need their support.
She seemed to have a real talent for cooking and household organization.
She had made it possible for Saffron to complete her degree without having to find employment that would distract her from her studies, and had staunchly supported her friend at every turn.
Glancing up from her morning paper, Elizabeth smiled. Her makeup was done, though her sandy bob was still held in place by pins. “Saff, dear, do you have anything important going on today?”
“No, just going on with Dr. Maxwell’s tasks.” Saffron snatched up a piece of toast—perfectly crunchy and slathered in butter—as she went about fixing herself a cup of coffee. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re wearing earrings.”
She was wearing little pearl earrings, a birthday gift from her mother. “So?”
Elizabeth scoffed. “Darling, you never mind what you wear unless there is a grandparent to defend against or a man to intrigue!” She gasped, red varnished nails glinting as she pressed a hand to her throat dramatically. “Don’t tell me we’re expecting your grandparents!”
Saffron shuddered. “I would never spring that on you without at least a week’s notice. We’d need time to gird our loins.” They may have cut her off financially, but they’d come around to making an effort to be a part of Saffron’s life. A strict, overwhelming part.
“Right then, who is the man?”
Saffron laughed and brushed her fingers off over the sink. “I never said there was a man.”
Elizabeth followed her out of the kitchen and down the hall, her dressing gown swishing around her generous curves. “Surely not that fellow you told me about! He studies bacteria, darling. What sort of job is that?”
“I must be going.” Saffron smiled her most winning smile as she snatched up her coat and hat, ducking out the door before Elizabeth could press her further.
She pinned her hat over her coiled bun as she hopped down the stairs to the sidewalk below. With spring emerging fully now that it was mid-April, she decided to enjoy the lengthy walk from the tiny flat in Chelsea, rather than immediately hop on the bus.
She amused herself by contemplating the poetry of the emerging blooms, pear trees swollen with lacy white blooms and tulips parting their red mouths, but decided in the end to leave that field of endeavor to Elizabeth.
In addition to working as a receptionist for a minor government minister whom they referred to as “the lord,” Elizabeth published poetry under a pseudonym, which, given her rather racy subject matter, Saffron agreed was wise.
Elizabeth loved hearing Saffron’s indulgent descriptions of plants.
Saffron once had a professor tell her off for using too many adjectives in a paper, and took it to heart that she was first a scientist, then an enthusiast.
After cutting through Hyde Park, she stepped onto a two-tiered red bus that took her through the tangled streets of Mayfair and into Fitzrovia.
When she reached the Euston Square stop, she stepped off the bus and paused, as she always did, before the obelisk in the center of the square.
She gazed at the bronze figures that guarded the four corners of the tall stone monument.
She said a silent prayer for the lost souls from the war, for her father; her fallen sweetheart, Wesley; and for countless others, before finishing the brief walk to the university.
Saffron dodged the onslaught of students in the Quad and made her way to the second floor of the North Wing. Her momentum slipped when she saw Detective Inspector Green standing outside Dr. Maxwell’s door.
Gripping her handbag tightly, she asked, “May I help you, Inspector?”
The inspector looked at her steadily. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Maxwell. Do you know when he will be available?”
“I believe he will be attending a syllabus meeting in twenty minutes, in Dr. Berking’s office.”
“When will the meeting conclude?”
“They usually take forty minutes, perhaps an hour if the other professors are feeling chatty.” Saffron paused, eying the inspector. “May I pass along a message for you?”
“I have a few additional questions for him. I’ll return later.”
Curiously unnerved, Saffron watched the inspector disappear down the hall.
She entered the office and took in the mess.
In the few hours she’d spent in the library yesterday, Dr. Maxwell had managed to undo all the tidying she’d done while he was away.
The small, wood-paneled room held a large desk centered with its back to the window.
Saffron knew it was there, somewhere, beneath the haphazard stacks of books and sheaves of papers.
The bookshelves flanking the desk were full to bursting with thick volumes.
The filing cabinet was crowned with an enormous fern whose fronds obscured the out-of-date labels on the first two drawers.
The only clear space in the room was the wall opposite the desk, where a framed painting caught the morning light.
Saffron had painted Houlletia tigrina, the professor’s favorite species of orchid with bright watercolors and given it to him on the occasion of her graduation from University College last year.
It was an insufficient token of appreciation for each kind smile and each shared celebration or commiseration over the years.
How many times had she felt ready to give up and return to the stuffy society affairs she’d fled?
Maxwell would share a seemingly off-the-cuff reminiscence of his own student days, and she’d recover her nerve.
How many tears had fallen in this office, stemmed by Maxwell’s gentle reminders of Thomas Everleigh’s own struggles and triumphs?
A mere painting could never approach compensation for his guidance and support.
She still remembered the way Maxwell had worked to speak, his voice hoarse with feeling as he thanked her for the gift.
She’d burst into tears on her first day as his assistant when she saw he’d hung the painting in his office.
Sighing at the memory, she put her things down at her table and moved to the teetering pile of papers on Dr. Maxwell’s desk.
Her nose wrinkled as she found two cups of cold tea hidden by a series of files stacked precariously near the edge of the desk.
She narrowly avoided sloshing it over a report from 1863 on the “Cultivation of Chinchona in India.”
Nearly an hour passed before the room looked less like a windstorm had passed through and more like a place of study.
Saffron sat down at her little desk to begin her work.
It wasn’t just secretarial nonsense, but actual research and legwork for his current study.
The professor was increasingly fascinated by chlorophyll.
Recent work by Richard Willst?tter, a German scientist, had inspired him to investigate the subject further.
Saffron was to find any and all references available regarding plant pigmentation and sunlight, and so had been thumbing through all kinds of texts for months.
She had designed her own study based on what she’d found, something that would complement Dr. Maxwell’s research and enable her to continue working with him throughout her graduate studies.
The shine of her new position had rubbed off a bit recently.
Working with Dr. Maxwell was perfectly fine, though researching plant pigmentation didn’t particularly inspire her.
But she had never planned on being his assistant forever, and had wanted to earn a place in the department so she could do her own research as well as teach, like her father had.
The reception she’d received upon being hired was less than warm, and Berking’s actions the past few months had made her question her plans more than once.
He was a relatively young department head and had decades to torment her.
He would be inescapable, and she would require his approval for all her work.
Could she really bear to have her career in Berking’s hands?
Another sigh escaped Saffron’s lips. All this business with the police and the poisoning was making her morose.
Resolving to be in a better mood, Saffron set aside her concerns and cracked open Annals of Botany, Volume 34, to resume her note taking.