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can help a detective by either confirming his intuition or telling him to look elsewhere—” He shrugged. “At the very least it could save the department a good deal of time and trouble.”
    Mr. Rose pulled down a rack of small jars from a shelf above his desk. “Rubber adhesives, Mr. Bruce. Shall we put them to the test?”

Chapter Four
    F iona pushed a footstool up to the pantry cupboard to put the dinner plates away. “Mr. Bruce seems like a pleasant young man.” Mrs. Gallagher smiled, wearing that nosy, curious look of hers.
    She smiled down on their housekeeper. “A good deal more than pleasant, Mrs. Gallagher. He was honored as the most brilliant student at university the year he graduated.”
    “You knew him at University of Edinburgh? Why ever didn’t you say so, dear?” Mother stood in the pantry, adding her own prying look to Mrs. Gallagher’s.
    Fiona stacked dishes as Mother handed them up. From the time Fiona was a little girl, she had helped their housekeeper with the supper dishes while Mother and Father retired to the study to go over the day’s receipts. Tonight, however, Mother had joined them in the washing up and putting away.
    “Because I’m quite sure he doesn’t remember me.” Fiona angled a serving platter at the back of the cupboard and contemplated how much to reveal to her mother. “We both left the university that year. He graduated with a double first in chemistry and physical science . . .” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “And I was called home to London.”
    Fiona turned to Mrs. Gallagher, who handed up the last of the cups and saucers. “And why wouldn’t he remember you, Fiona?” Mother’s hands were on her hips.
    “He hardly took his eyes off Fee all supper.” Mrs. Gallagher winked. “Except when he wolfed down two pieces of my pie.”
    Fiona closed up the cupboard and stepped off the stool. Frankly, she wasn’t sure what to say about her history with the man. She had formed an odd attachment to Archibald Bruce one evening at university. Something she had never quite forgotten—almost silly, really. She had kissed him at a graduation soiree, a masquerade party.
    Fiona pulled the string on her apron. Was it possible to ever forget that night in Edinburgh?
    She had come dressed as a little-known, eighteenth-century female mathematician, wearing a gown borrowed by a friend from the theater department. At one point during the evening she had retreated to a darkened gallery. Feeling a bit sozzled from drink, she sat and waited for the paintings to come into focus. Not much of a drinker, Fiona had imbibed a dram of whiskey and a pint, but earlier in the evening there had also been a glass or two of champagne.
    She squinted, and the portraits on the wall did their best to straighten up. More than anything, she had needed a brief respite—from him. She had stolen glances all evening, and she had even caught him looking at her. Her pulse had throbbed inside her chest, and a surge of tingles had made her wobbly-kneed. She closed her eyes and when she reopened them, the door to the gallery had opened. A shaft of light illuminated the man of the hour. Even with the simple black eye mask, she recognized him immediately. Longish hair, and there was something about that expressive mouth of his—something that promised more . . . tingles.
    He approached her slowly. “I’ve been wanting to ask all evening . . . who are you?”
    Foxy drunk and emboldened by her costume, she had answered him in a French accent. “I am Émilie du Châtelet, monsieur— et vous ?”
    She had stopped him in his tracks, and she remembered being rather pleased about it. “The beautiful and brilliant mathematician who translated Newton’s Principia, and the woman who conquered the heart of Voltaire.” He took a bit of time with his smile—but it was well worth the wait. Fiona had lifted her hand, but he had not kissed the air above dainty knuckles. He had held on and tugged her