Chapter Nine

 

 

 

AS DUSK GATHERED ITS arms about the streets of Glasgow, Isa stepped inside her terraced house and dropped her bag on the floor. Dark and musty, the walls seemed to smirk, reminding her of all the dreams she’d brought to the city with her as a new bride, nearly every one of them thwarted or outright denied.

The townhouse was hers alone now. Located on a street near the docks, nearly all her neighbors were Finn‌—‌including her brother’s family‌—‌and most were tied in one way or another to the nearby boatyard. Finn had comprised the majority of her practice during her time in Glasgow, knocking on her door at all hours, a small room in the back of the house serving as an examination room.

She’d abandoned it all when Anton died, taking her practice onto her boat and out to sea.

Now that she was back, word would spread quickly. Though she wouldn’t turn away patients, she dreaded the arrival of the matchmakers with their lists. To date, every last man fit one of two categories. Either he needed a wife to care for existing children, or he was convinced he could give her children. All turned a blind eye to her career, all pretending‌—‌or perhaps believing‌—‌that it was something she would be happy to jettison.

Could she stand to live within these walls again? Possibly, but that would depend upon the answer to another question: would the University of Glasgow School of Medicine grant her admittance? To date, not one woman had matriculated. Odds were against her.

A written response to her last application had pointed out that the expectations placed upon their students were high. That the conflicts of a husband along with the possibility of children were distracting influences they couldn’t ignore.

Application denied.

Now that such circumstances no longer pertained‌—‌the required mourning period had passed‌—‌would her chances improve? Unlikely. But unless she wished to leave Scotland, her options were limited.

There was nothing to do but apply once more.

First things first. She would begin by tending the lights and dispelling the gloom. Setting down the Lucifer lamp she’d brought from the boat, Isa drew an eyedropper from the drawer of the hallway table. With a tug on the pulley rope, the overhead light fixture lowered.

Peering into its basin, she was relieved to find the gel matrix still adequately hydrated, though the bioluminescent bacteria had long since died. She transferred a measure of bacteria from her boat’s light into the hall lamp, adding a sprinkle of powdered agar and other nutrients. Hoisting it aloft, she wound the rocking mechanism and stood back. The gel oozed from one end of the long cylinder to the other, slowly mixing bacteria with food and oxygen, rewarding her with a few tiny, faint blue sparks.

Isa whisked through the house, rekindling Lucifer lamps and yanking dust sheets from furniture. In the cellar, she fed coal to the black, hulking iron beast of a furnace and set fire to its innards. Hauling the steam cook from her closet, she oiled joints, filled the water reservoir, and shoved a few lumps of coal into the burner. She inserted a simple punch card‌—‌tea and biscuits that could be made with the available stale supplies‌—‌and tossed in a match. With the flip of a switch, the steam cook creaked to life.

From the kitchen window, the metal-ringed eyes of a skeet pigeon blinked at her, and her heart leapt. The mechanical birds were forever dropping by with messages of medical emergencies, but no one‌—‌save Dr. McCullough‌—‌knew of her plans to return to Glasgow.

Throwing open the sash, she retrieved the message and read his note with wide-eyed interest, dismayed that it held so little detail. And not the slightest flirtatious remark. He merely requested permission to call upon her when she returned. She huffed in frustration and dropped the message on the table. What had she expected, another offer of a non-matrimonial dalliance?

She’d been unable to stop thinking about him. About that word he’d used. Lover. She’d barely slept a wink ever since. Then again, she had discouraged him, and if he’d learned something of import, it hardly belonged on a scrap of paper bound to the ankle of a skeet pigeon.

She turned on her heel. Time to decide. To test‌—‌or not to test‌—‌Dr. McCullough’s blood?

He had no knowledge of the Finn people and didn’t exhibit any Finn physical features. But, injured, he’d swum back to her boat though extremely cold waters. It was possible an unknown Finn ancestor lurked in his family tree, that‌—‌like her‌—‌he was both Finn and Scot.

She slid her hand into the deep pocket of her wool skirt and pulled forth the bloody cloth she’d used to dab at his head wound. She couldn’t. It was unethical and immoral to study his blood without his consent. What right did she have to pry into his ancestry merely to satisfy her own curiosity? She tossed the scrap into the waste and turned away.

Her steps slowed as she walked toward the study. Once she and Anton had worked side by side, studying Finn blood, documenting an unusual trait they termed factor Q. Those Finn possessing this‌—‌greater than ninety-five percent of the population‌—‌were especially sensitive to traditional anesthesia, a trigger that could induce the dive reflex.

Ignoring her protests, Anton had taken a number of Finn blood samples with him to work, to the Glaister Institute, insisting that factor Q could be better analyzed in his laboratory using a device he called an Ichor machine. She’d asked to accompany him, to study the results generated by the instrument. He’d refused both requests, always ready with an excuse, growing ever more secretive during the last few months of his life. Then her husband had died, severing the fragile connection she had to the Glaister Institute. If any documentation of his discoveries existed, it was tightly locked inside the bowls of the research facility.

One to which Dr. McCullough had access‌—‌a thought to contemplate later.

Before she would allow herself to anticipate his arrival on her doorstep, she had a task to accomplish: reapply to the School of Medicine. Forcing herself into the room, she reignited one last Lucifer lamp and, as it slowly rocked itself back to life, tugged away one more dust cloth, uncovering a massive oak desk.

Perching upon its chair, she sat down before a keyboard that resembled a mechanical sea urchin with round, lettered discs mounted upon its spines. A Malling-Hansen Writing Ball. Manipulating the spiked creature, she mounted a fresh sheet of paper upon its curved, semi-cylindrical paper frame before raising shaking hands above the alphabet.

What would she do if they denied her entrance?

What if they did? She’d simply apply again. And again. Schools in London and Paris had accepted women. Perhaps the tide would turn in Scotland.

With that, her fingers began to strike the keys…‌

~~~

They found the steam maid in a closet, her cipher cartridge charred and burned, the paper punch cards within incinerated. The whispers “murder by steambot” could be heard throughout the institute’s halls. Terror had overtaken the kitchens as the BURR team searched for tainted supplies.

With the board meeting at a macabre end, all submersible exit aquaspira exercises were ordered to cease…‌ and Lord Roideach’s petition to claim the Ichor machine was indefinitely postponed. Despite the death of a board member, Alec couldn’t suppress a spiteful smile when Roideach cast a narrow-eyed gaze in his direction.

Patting his pocket to ensure Davis’s blood sample was secure, Alec jabbed an elbow into Shaw’s ribcage and jerked his head in the direction of the door. Together, they took advantage of the confusion to slip away.

“You have your lock picks?” Alec asked, relieved Dr. Morgan’s adjustment‌—‌and the brace‌—‌allowed his bad leg to match Shaw’s stride.

“Always. What are we breaking into?”

“Records room,” Alec said.

If Dr. McQuiston had left behind any research notes, that’s where they would be stored. He’d yet to hear back from Logan about the unmarked punch cards. Between Lord Roideach’s rabid interest in the Ichor machine and a need to analyze Davis’s blood, Alec felt his actions justified. If there were any connections, he’d find them.

Perhaps because of the commotion, perhaps because of the intricate lock, not a soul guarded the door to the Records Room. Shaw had them inside in less than five seconds.

“Barely a challenge,” Shaw commented. “Might want to tip your brother to the fact. The security here needs a serious upgrade.”

If or when Logan bothered to reappear. Alec had tossed repeated skeet pigeons in the air and not heard a peep in return. His mistake. He should have found his own programming specialist. Shoving irritation aside, he scanned the room until he located the shelving labeled “L-N”.

Shaw followed. “Who are we looking for?”

“McQuiston,” Alec answered. “Former owner of the Ichor machine and hematopathologist. Anything Roideach takes an inordinate interest in is suspect. The man hasn’t had an original scientific thought in years. As such, I want to know what McQuiston was studying and how‌—‌exactly‌—‌he died.”

Was it wrong of him to hope he found something unpleasant? He blew out a breath. Ridiculous of him to feel jealous of a man who had been dead for an entire year. But there it was. True, she’d turned him down despite her obvious interest. So unless she crooked her finger, he would play the gentleman.

Not that he could mention the man’s stunning widow to his friend without inviting ribbing. And questions. Questions he wasn’t supposed to answer even if he knew what was going on. If he could find a single connection, one solid lead…‌

“Something about Davis’s blood isn’t right.” Shaw’s musing reminded him there was another mystery to solve.

“Not right?” Alec flicked a glance at his friend as they walked down a long aisle. Heavy wooden boxes filled with laboratory notebooks bowed the tall racks of shelving looming on either side of them. There. A box labeled “McQuiston.” Alec dragged the crate from the shelf and looked inside.

It was nearly empty. A lone personnel file lay within. His jaw clenched. Telling, this lack of laboratory notebooks. Someone didn’t want the dead man’s research exposed.

“Chemistry took a look at a sample and commented that not only did his blood have too many red blood cells, it seemed…‌ stickier. They were going to isolate components, but that night, all biopsies and samples‌—‌even Davis’s body‌—‌were confiscated.”

His head jerked up. “Confiscated? Why am I just hearing about this now?”

“Please.” Shaw rolled his eyes upward. “You were in no condition to handle anything other than yourself. The team thought it better to leave well enough alone.”

“Except now the board wants to deny anything went wrong beyond standard aquaspira failure. And I have private and controlled access to an Ichor machine.” Davis might have been a fool to act as a lab rat, and there was no denying that he’d put his team at risk, but he had been their friend. “If we let them get away with this, there’s no telling what kind of experimental liberties they’ll think they can take with the BURR team.”

“Exactly.” Shaw nodded. “Someone here did something they shouldn’t and has powerful friends willing to help hide it. He needs to be stopped.” He crossed his arms and gave Alec a pointed stare. “Glaister Institute is too fond of its secrets.”

Of which Alec was one. He pinched his lips together, but nodded. Much as he hated keeping information from his friend, he’d promised Logan. “I’ll do everything I can to figure it out.”

“Good.” Shaw pointed his chin at the file Alec held. “On with it then.”

Opening the file, Alec quickly scanned basic information, flipping through the pages. “Born in Stornoway. Graduated medical school with honors. Married shortly thereafter. Nothing particularly interesting…‌ wait…‌” Fingers tight on the file, he looked up and met Shaw’s gaze. “Mentored by one Lord Roideach prior to receiving his own laboratory.”

He could wait no longer for Mrs. McQuiston’s return. It was time to visit the widow’s home.