Death in an Ivory Tower (Dotsy Lamb Travel Mysteries) by Maria Hudgins Page B
Authors: Maria Hudgins
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while Lindsey introduced me as her mother’s best friend from America, and they responded with polite questions about what I was doing here. “I’m attending a conference at the university but if you’re asking why I’m here at your hospital, it’s because a professor at St. Ormond’s has told me about some fascinating work on diabetes that’s being done here. I’m diabetic so, of course, the research interests me. I’m hoping Dr.”—I couldn’t remember Lindsey’s married name and had no idea if she had returned to using her maiden name or not—“that is, Lindsey, will show me where the labs are.”
Lindsey looked a bit surprised and stared at her feet for a second as if revising her tour plans. “We’d better be going then,” she said. “The research wing is a right long hike from here.” She led me back to the first floor by elevator, then along a glassed-in corridor, around several personnel stations, and through a number of automatic doors. “This is it,” she said.
We stood in a brightly lit hall with a gleaming white floor. The rooms on either side were clear glass from waist height to ceiling so I could see into the labs. I love labs. There’s something about flasks with brightly colored liquids and rows of test tubes and stainless steel panels and dials with red needles that I find exciting. Neat. Orderly. Precise. But the lab on my right wasn’t quite so neat. The beakers closest to the window were filled with something that looked more like pond scum and spoiled milk. A clipboard hanging from a string held a chart scribbled with several colors of ink.
“On the right, we have our genetic research and diabetes research.”
I stepped closer to the glass and saw a couple of workers in white lab coats, but they were women. No Keith Bunsen anywhere in sight. While I peered in, studying as much of the room as I could, I noticed Lindsey eyeing the lab on the other side of the hall.
She touched my arm. “On this side we have neurology and nervous tissue studies.”
“Can we go in?”
“Not without clearance.” She looked through the sheet of glass fronting the neurology lab and waved, then pointed to herself and me. “We just got clearance.”
I followed her into a room that smelled of ozone, like the aftermath of an electrical storm. A wall of stacked cages ranged along one wall contained inverted water bottles and mice, one on its back legs with its little front feet hooked over the wire of its cage. They were curious, I supposed, to find out who the visitors were. Lindsey introduced me to a rather short but handsome man who reminded me of Hugh Grant, with a shock of thick hair expertly cut to look messy.
“St. Giles Bell,” Lindsey told me.
We shook hands. He had a charming smile.
What do you call a man when his first name is St. Giles?
Did he have a nickname? I said, “Nice to meet you, Dr. Bell.”
We exchanged small talk for a minute while Lindsey shuffled her feet and played with her ponytail. This was her new boyfriend, I felt certain. When I got a second chance to look around the room, I spotted a large shallow pan full of oysters in a thin brownish liquid. Oysters? I had to ask.
“My work on nervous disorders involves sodium channel blockers,” said St. Giles Bell, “and the best one I’ve found is called saxitoxin. It’s produced by certain marine algae and concentrated in the tissues of filter-feeding animals, like oysters. That’s the reason for the oysters. They are happily gorging themselves on a certain kind of algae that I have procured for them at great risk to my own well-being.”
“He means snorkeling in the North Sea,” Lindsey said, rolling her eyes.
“Well, hey. That water is cold. I could have suffered cardiac arrest.” He pressed his hand against his chest.
I found his self-effacing manner charming. The look on Lindsey’s face said she did, too. I said, “A toxin, did you say?”
“Right, and an extremely potent one. In fact, it’s a
Lindsey looked a bit surprised and stared at her feet for a second as if revising her tour plans. “We’d better be going then,” she said. “The research wing is a right long hike from here.” She led me back to the first floor by elevator, then along a glassed-in corridor, around several personnel stations, and through a number of automatic doors. “This is it,” she said.
We stood in a brightly lit hall with a gleaming white floor. The rooms on either side were clear glass from waist height to ceiling so I could see into the labs. I love labs. There’s something about flasks with brightly colored liquids and rows of test tubes and stainless steel panels and dials with red needles that I find exciting. Neat. Orderly. Precise. But the lab on my right wasn’t quite so neat. The beakers closest to the window were filled with something that looked more like pond scum and spoiled milk. A clipboard hanging from a string held a chart scribbled with several colors of ink.
“On the right, we have our genetic research and diabetes research.”
I stepped closer to the glass and saw a couple of workers in white lab coats, but they were women. No Keith Bunsen anywhere in sight. While I peered in, studying as much of the room as I could, I noticed Lindsey eyeing the lab on the other side of the hall.
She touched my arm. “On this side we have neurology and nervous tissue studies.”
“Can we go in?”
“Not without clearance.” She looked through the sheet of glass fronting the neurology lab and waved, then pointed to herself and me. “We just got clearance.”
I followed her into a room that smelled of ozone, like the aftermath of an electrical storm. A wall of stacked cages ranged along one wall contained inverted water bottles and mice, one on its back legs with its little front feet hooked over the wire of its cage. They were curious, I supposed, to find out who the visitors were. Lindsey introduced me to a rather short but handsome man who reminded me of Hugh Grant, with a shock of thick hair expertly cut to look messy.
“St. Giles Bell,” Lindsey told me.
We shook hands. He had a charming smile.
What do you call a man when his first name is St. Giles?
Did he have a nickname? I said, “Nice to meet you, Dr. Bell.”
We exchanged small talk for a minute while Lindsey shuffled her feet and played with her ponytail. This was her new boyfriend, I felt certain. When I got a second chance to look around the room, I spotted a large shallow pan full of oysters in a thin brownish liquid. Oysters? I had to ask.
“My work on nervous disorders involves sodium channel blockers,” said St. Giles Bell, “and the best one I’ve found is called saxitoxin. It’s produced by certain marine algae and concentrated in the tissues of filter-feeding animals, like oysters. That’s the reason for the oysters. They are happily gorging themselves on a certain kind of algae that I have procured for them at great risk to my own well-being.”
“He means snorkeling in the North Sea,” Lindsey said, rolling her eyes.
“Well, hey. That water is cold. I could have suffered cardiac arrest.” He pressed his hand against his chest.
I found his self-effacing manner charming. The look on Lindsey’s face said she did, too. I said, “A toxin, did you say?”
“Right, and an extremely potent one. In fact, it’s a
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