The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (17 page)

“How is she?” Maggie asked.

“Not well, I’m afraid.” Dr. Janus spoke in heavily accented English. “She is extremely ill. We have another dancer here, from the same company, who is extremely sick as well.”

“What is it? What do they have?” Maggie pressed.

The doctor rubbed his nose. “We will have to run tests …”

“There was a third dancer with the company, a woman named Estelle Crawford. She had the same symptoms.” Mark reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out the pathology report. “You may find this helpful.”

Dr. Janus accepted it, looking it over. “And this woman, this Miss Crawford—?”

“She’s dead,” Maggie told him. “Please, Doctor—please save Sarah!”

“We will do everything we can,” the doctor said softly.

“We’re with MI-Five.” Mark showed his identification papers. “We’re concerned there may be foul play involved with all three dancers. May we look in on Mildred Petrie?”

“That’s not possible,” the doctor told them. “Mr. Cyrus Howard of the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries has ordered that no one goes in or out without his express permission.”

“But—” Mark began.

“Well then,” Maggie said, pulling at Mark’s sleeve, “we’ll just have to have a little word with Mr. Howard.”

Mark raised his wrist to look at his watch. “It’s after midnight, Miss Hope.”

“Well, Mr. Standish, this is where I suggest we ‘wing it.’ ”

Down in the hospital’s all but deserted cafeteria, the air was thick with the steamy smell of cabbage and potatoes. “Look, I’ll bet you that’s Cyrus Howard.” Maggie pointed to an older man in tweed, sitting at one of the tables and reading Edinburgh’s
Evening Dispatch
. The headline blared,
U.S. DESTROYER SUNK—HUNT FOR NAZI U-BOATS CONTINUES
.

“Why do you think so?” asked Mark.

“Because he’s the only man not wearing a long white doctors’ coat, Sherlock,” Maggie whispered as they approached the older man, “but he also looks a bit like a trout.” It was unfortunate, but his lips were thick and definitely trout-like. He was also astoundingly blond and pale. Maggie had the sudden absurd thought that if he were naked, one could see his entire circulatory system.

She addressed the man. “Mr. Howard?”

“How do you know who I am?” he said, peering up at them through a gold-rimmed monocle, which magnified one red eye and the surrounding wrinkles.

“This is Agent Standish from MI-Five and I am Margaret Hope, his … associate. We’re here investigating the death of Estelle Crawford and the quarantine of Mildred Petrie and Sarah Sanderson.”

Mr. Howard threw down his paper. “This is all top secret, by orders of the Prime Minister’s office. I must ask you to leave. I have nothing to say to you two.” He rose and clapped a tweed hat atop his thin gray locks. “Good evening,” he said, turning on his heel.

They watched him leave, stunned.

Then, “Come on,” urged Maggie. “Let’s go back to Mildred’s room.”

“We’re not allowed. I’ll have to call Frain and he’ll have to get on it. There’s a lot of red tape involved—I don’t expect you to understand—”

“I’ll tell Dr. Janus that I had a word with Mr. Howard.”

“Yes—and Mr. Howard just told us to go away.”

“I’ll say I had a word—I’m not going to say
which
word.”

“Maggie—”

“Mark, if you don’t want to be involved, I understand. But this is one of my closest friends, and she may be dying. If I can help, find out anything … Well, let’s just say I’m not going to let anything like red tape get in my way.” She walked away, heels clicking resolutely on the linoleum floor.

Mark looked to the ceiling as if to say a silent prayer, then followed her. “I can now see why Hugh managed to get into so much trouble with you. You’re stubborn, you don’t follow the rules—”

“Yes, and if we waited for every
i
to be dotted and
t
to be crossed, where would that leave Sarah and Mildred? Oh, that’s right
—dead
.”

“They may die anyway.”

“But we need to try. I’d never forgive myself if we didn’t.”

Despite her growing concern for Sarah and the grim nature of the situation, Maggie realized that for the first time in a very long time, she was free of the Black Dog. He’d whimpered and turned away, settling down with his paws tucked underneath him—at least for the time being.

Mildred Petrie was tossing in her narrow white bed, moaning.

While Mark hung back, Maggie approached the bed. “Miss Petrie? Mildred?”

The dancer’s eyes were closed, but her head flailed on the pillow. “I did it! It was I!” she muttered. She coughed, a long and racking cough, then gasped for air.

“Mildred?” Maggie repeated. “I’d just like to ask you a few questions—”

“We were right to do it! Estelle had to pay! But I didn’t know … It wasn’t my fault I touched them, too …”

“Who is ‘we’?” Maggie pressed. “What did you touch, Mildred?”

Mildred opened her eyes and opened her mouth to respond. But when she tried to speak, she began to cough again, a cough that swiftly turned into a choke. She struggled for breath, her hands clawing her neck.

Mildred Petrie was dying.

Maggie whirled to Mark. “Get the doctor! Go!”

As the medical staff descended on Mildred Petrie’s room, Maggie and Mark waited in the hall outside. Maggie was knitting furiously, muttering profanities under her breath. Mark stopped pacing and looked over.

“Socks,” she said by way of explanation.

He looked blank.

“You know, ‘Our Boys Need Socks—Knit For Your Brit.’ Or however the propaganda offices are phrasing it these days. Look—” Maggie said, showing him the knitting, “I’ve even put in tiny
V
’s in Morse code—
V
for Victory. This is very patriotic work I’m doing. Very important, very patriotic work.”

Mark nodded, distracted. “Right, right.”

Dr. Janus finally emerged from the room. Both Maggie and Mark froze. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this.” He shook his head. “We did everything we could.”

If Estelle is dead and Mildred is dead, then what about Sarah?
“Dead?” Maggie managed. “What’s the cause?”

“I understand that Miss Petrie is—was—a ballet dancer.” The doctor took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. He looked bone-weary. “But the blisters on her skin look to me like Woolsorters’ or Ragpickers’ disease. And that would account for symptoms mirroring pneumonia or emphysema.”

“Woolsorters’ disease? What’s that?” Mark asked. “Because Estelle Crawford had the black sores, too, as does Sarah Sanderson.”

The doctor looked down at the chart. “Woolsorters’ disease is caused by the spore-forming bacteria
Bacillus anthracis
. Or, as it’s more commonly known, anthrax.” He cleared his throat and looked up. “Humans generally contract anthrax through an injury to the skin or mucous membranes. But it’s often found in agricultural or industrial workers who work with infected animals or animal products—such as wool, or buttons made from horn, for example.”

Maggie’s and Mark’s eyes met. Now they knew what the Minister of Agriculture and Fisheries was doing there in the hospital—and why he’d wanted to dispose of Estelle’s body before an
autopsy could be performed. If a fatal disease was spreading, the authorities would want to quarantine those with it, and not cause panic. Keep the information from the public.

Still, something puzzled Maggie. “But Estelle Crawford, Mildred Petrie, and Sarah Sanderson were—are—ballet dancers, not wool sorters. How on earth would they have come in contact with anthrax?”

“Have they traveled to any farms recently?” Dr. Janus asked. “Within the past week or so?”

“I don’t think so,” Maggie said, “but we’ll check, of course. How does one contract the disease, specifically?”

“Infection occurs through the skin. Or by inhalation or ingestion of bacterial spores.”

“Does it mean anything that all three women have the blisters on their
right
hands?”

“They may have touched something with their hand that was covered in the bacteria.”

“Is there any cure?” Maggie asked. Sarah was so desperately ill. Surely …

“Rest,” answered the doctor grimly. “And a lot depends on the baseline health of the patient.”

“You’ve examined Sarah Sanderson, yes?”

“I have.”

“And what’s your prognosis?”

“We’ll do everything we can for her. But I’m afraid I must say that at this point—it’s touch and go. Does she have any family?”

“Her mother lives in Liverpool.”

“Well,” the doctor said, “it’s time to let her know. She might want to come and say her good-byes.”

Good-byes?
Maggie’s heart stuttered.
Oh, no. Not yet …
 “May I see her?” she managed.

Dr. Janus nodded. “But not for too long. She needs her rest.”

“Mildred said, ‘I did it,’ ” Mark said, pulling Maggie aside. “But then she said she ‘didn’t know’—and that she ‘touched them, too.’ ”

“She was delirious,” Maggie replied, thinking of Sarah. “I wouldn’t take her words literally.”

“It’s a
confession
. That she played a part in the death of Estelle Crawford. Sarah was collateral damage. And she, herself, somehow touched something she wasn’t supposed to—and was poisoned, too. Mildred Petrie killed Estelle Crawford. Somehow, she and Sarah were accidentally poisoned?”

Maggie shook her head. “It’s not a confession. How could she have committed murder if she ‘didn’t know’?”

“The doctor said that infection occurs through the skin or by inhalation or ingestion of the bacterial spores. What if she touched something that was poisoned?”

“You mean, did she prick her finger on a spindle? I believe that’s an entirely different ballet, Mr. Standish.”

Mark ground his teeth in frustration.

“In the Windsor case I was too quick to let personal prejudices cloud my judgment, and too quick to jump to conclusions,” Maggie reminded him. “You said so yourself.”

“But—”

Maggie took his arm. “Come on. Let’s see Sarah.”

In Sarah’s room, raindrops spattered against the high windows, and there was an overwhelming scent of rubbing alcohol. Sarah’s eyes were closed. But when she heard the door open, they fluttered open. “Maggie …”

Maggie went immediately to her friend’s side. “Shhhh … No need to talk, sweetheart. Just rest.”

Sarah gave a choked laugh. “I don’t think I’ll be dancing
La Sylphide
anytime soon …”

Maggie looked at her friend’s hand clutching the gray blanket. “Sarah, do you remember touching anything with your right hand? Raw wool for your toe shoes, perhaps? Horn buttons?” The black sores seemed to be worse on her right ring finger.

Sarah didn’t reply.

“Did Mildred have any grudge against Estelle?” Mark asked. “Did she do anything to endanger her? Would she have any reason to … kill her?”

Sarah gave a low cough, then closed her eyes. “… No …”

She was in no shape for questioning. Maggie stroked her friend’s pale cheek. “The doctors will take good care of you. And I’ll do everything I can to figure this out—I promise.”

Sarah didn’t reply.

After a restless night at the Caledonian, Maggie woke. It was just after seven.

The Black Dog bared his teeth and warned her against trying to go back to sleep, so she washed and dressed. When it was time for visiting hours at Chalmers, Maggie met Mark in Sarah’s room.

Sarah was asleep. She was pale, and the bones of her face looked more pronounced.
Almost more like a skull than a …
 Then,
Stop it! Just stop!

Maggie didn’t want Mark to see her cry, so she turned and walked quickly to the window. Outside, the sky once again threatened snow. It was gray and heavy, just as the Victorian soot-stained buildings were gray and heavy. She swiped at her eyes with her gloved hands.
Very Victorian train station
, David had once said about the Langham Hotel, mocking its pretensions.
Victorian …

“Victorian,” Maggie said suddenly. She turned to face Mark.
“Victorian!”

“Er, yes?”

“Everything here’s
Victorian
.”

“Well, many buildings are, although you can also see other architectural influences, depending on if you’re in New Town or Old Town—”

“No, no,” Maggie interrupted impatiently. “Not just the architecture.
Tussy-mussies. Ballerina bouquets. Floriography. The language of flowers.” She began to pace.

“Sorry, not following.”

“There was a huge bouquet for Estelle in the dressing room, arranged in the Victorian tussy-mussy style—”

Mark scratched his head. “So?”

“Mark, we need to go to the library!”

“The library?”

“We need to find out the meaning of the flowers. When we do, we’ll have an idea of the message the murderer was trying to send—and, maybe, who it was. Come on,” Maggie said, pulling Mark by the arm, “hurry!”

The Edinburgh Central Library was an imposing building on George IV Bridge, between Old Town and the University quarter. They raced up the wide central staircase to the Reference Library, on the top floor. It was an enormous room, with Roman arches, high windows, and banks of wooden card indices.