Jeanette Stallings snarled.
“The danger lies in the careful placement of the needle,” Claire Delacroix continued calmly. “For the chemical that blocks all sensation of pain from rising to the brain, also cancels commands from the brain to the body. If the anesthetic is administered to the spinal cord above the heart and lungs, they shortly cease to function. There is no damage to the organs – they simply come to a halt. The anesthetic can be administered in larger or smaller doses, of course. Mixed with a solution of cocaine, it might take several minutes to work.”
To Abel Chase she said, “In a moment, I will fetch Captain Baxter and tell him that you are holding the killer for his disposition.”
Then she said, “You visited your father in his dressing room between the second and third acts of the vampire play. You offered him cocaine. You knew of his habit and you even volunteered to administer the dose for him. He would not have recognized you as his daughter as he had never met you other than as Jeanette Stallings. You injected the drug and left the room. Before the spinal anesthetic could work its deadly affects, Count Hunyadi locked the door behind you. He then sat at his dressing table and quietly expired.”
Still holding the hypodermic syringe before her, Claire Delacroix started for the door. Before she had taken two steps, Jeanette Stallings tore loose from the grasp of Abel Chase and threw herself bodily at the other woman.
Claire Delacroix flinched away, holding the needle beyond Jeanette Stallings’ outstretched hands. Abel Chase clutched Stallings to his chest.
“Don’t be a fool,” he hissed. “Delacroix, quickly, fetch Baxter and his men while I detain this misguided child.”
Once his associate had departed, Abel Chase released Mitzi Kadar, stationing himself with his back to the room’s sole exit.
Her eyes blazing, the Hungarian-born actress hissed, “Kill me now, if you must. Else let me have my needle and chemicals for one moment and I will end my life, myself!”
Without awaiting an answer, she hurled herself at Abel Chase, fingernails extended liked the claws of an angry tigress to rip the eyes from his head.
“No,” Chase negatived, catching her once again by both wrists. He had made a lightning-like assessment of the young woman, and formed his decision. “Listen to me, Mitzi. Your deed is not forgivable but it is understandable, a fine but vital distinction. You can be saved. You had better have me as a friend than an enemy.”
As suddenly as she had lunged at the amateur sleuth, Mitzi Kadar collapsed in a heap at his feet, her hands slipping from his grasp, her supple frame wracked with sobs. “I lived that he might die,” she gasped. “I do not care what happens to me now.”
Abel Chase placed a hand gently on her dark hair. “Poor child,” he murmured, “poor, poor child. I will do what I can to help you. I will do all that I can.”
ICE ELATION by Susanna Gregory
Susanna Gregory (b.1958) is the author of the historical mystery novels about Matthew Bartholomew, a teacher in medicine at Michaelhouse in Cambridge, in the fourteenth century. The series began with A Plague on Both Your Houses (1996). Previously she had worked in a coroner’s office, which gave invaluable insight into criminal behaviour. By profession she is a biologist with a special interest in Antarctic research, spending every winter (or summer in the southern hemisphere) in the Antarctic. And what better place for an impossible mystery, than a scientific station with no one else for miles around. Miss Gregory provides her own background to the story.
The point on the Antarctic Continent that is farthest from the coast in all directions is called the Pole of Inaccessibility. Since 1957, a Russian base has operated from near this remote spot, where scientists have been drilling through the 3,700 metre-thick ice – partly to reach the bedrock that lies below, and partly because the gasses contained in the compacted layers of ice that are excavated provide valuable information about past climate.
In 1995, a startling discovery was made. The ice does not lie directly on top of the bedrock at Vostok; instead, surveys have detected a body of water about the size of Lake Ontario, which has been sealed between ice and rock for at least half a million years, and possibly a lot longer. The scientists were faced with a dilemma: should they stop drilling, so that this “sterile” lake remains uncontaminated, or should they continue to dig and risk damaging a unique environment – and possibly risk it harming us? In September 1999, the decision was made to continue, using the Russian base and funds from American sources.
It will be some time before we know the secrets of Lake Vostok, and until then we can only speculate about what has laid undisturbed for aeons. This story does just that, and starts on one short, bleak day in late autumn, just as a team of eight scientists are about to break into the lake with a drill that is on its last legs…
“Hurry up,” ordered Paxton, shivering in the sharp wind that gusted across the ice cap. “I’m freezing.”
“I’m trying,” replied Hall, tugging furiously at the door to the drill-house. “But something’s jamming this closed.”
Paxton sighed, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together in a futile attempt to keep warm in the sub-zero temperatures. Even in the dim daylight of a late-autumn morning, Vostok Station was a frigid place: the coldest temperature ever recorded on Earth had been at Vostok.
In all directions, he could see nothing but ice. It was hard, flat, and featureless, except for the occasional ridge or trough where the wind had shaped it. For hundreds of miles, from the Pole of Inaccessibility to the sea, the ice lay across the Antarctic Continent like a thick blanket. Under the immense pressure of its own weight, it inched towards to the coast, where it formed floating shelves that eventually shattered into flat-topped icebergs the size of countries.
Vostok Station was a ramshackle collection of buildings; a deep layer of snow covered the roofs, so heavy that they buckled in places. The largest hut contained the cramped cubicles that comprised the scientists’ sleeping quarters; the smallest was the kitchen. There were also two labs – one for examining the ice samples that the drill produced, and the other filled with meteorological equipment. And finally, there was the drill-house.
Because the storms that regularly screamed through the base destroyed anything that stood in their way, the drill that ate through the ice towards Lake Vostok had to be protected. It stood in a hangar, twenty feet high, and was a hissing, rattling, roaring machine that provided the focus of all activity at the station. Seven of the team of eight scientists, who had been detailed to remain at Vostok until the drill reached the lake, stood outside the drill-house now, waiting for Hall to open the door and let them in.
“Tanya must’ve locked it,” said Hall, still hauling on the handle. “She was on drill duty this afternoon.”
“Why would she do that?” asked Paxton. He gestured at the empty expanse that surrounded them. “It’s not like we need to worry about burglars.”
Paxton had three Americans, three Russians, and a fellow Britisher under his command. Of them all, he found the bellicose Texan, Hall the most difficult to like.
Hall shrugged. “We’ve almost reached the lake. Maybe Tanya wants to be alone when the drill reaches it – claim the glory for herself. After all, who knows what might be down there?”
“Our readings say we won’t break through ‘til tomorrow,” said Paxton, forcing himself to ignore Hall’s unpleasant snipe at the affable Russian.