The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (18 page)

Maggie wandered the high stacks until she found what she was looking for, pulling several books off the shelf. Henry Phillips’s
Floral Emblems
, Frederic Shoberl’s
The Language of Flowers; With Illustrative Poetry
, and
The Language of Flowers
by Kate Greenaway. She brought them to a table and started reading.

“Ah-ha!” exclaimed Maggie, paging through the Greenaway volume.

“Ah-ha?” said Mark, who was checking his watch. “Look, Miss Hope, I’ve been patient, but—”

Maggie put the book down. “Floriography is a sort of cryptological communication—code—using flowers. It’s been used for thousands of years, all over the world, in works like the Bible and Shakespeare’s plays.

“Floriography was popular in Victorian times. Bouquets called tussy-mussies were sent as a coded messages, allowing the sender to express feelings that couldn’t be spoken aloud. You could say almost anything with flowers, in the right combination. There was a tussy-mussy in the dressing room at the ballet. Estelle, Mildred, and Sarah all touched it. I remember thinking the flowers were odd, especially for wartime Edinburgh.”

“But odd doesn’t mean murder …”

“In Oscar Wilde’s
Picture of Dorian Gray
, Wilde used specific flowers to define character. Basil Hallward is associated with the rose—the symbol of love—while Lord Henry Wotton is paired with yellow laburnum, a poisonous plant symbolizing evil. Estelle’s bouquet was made up of white roses, yellow laburnum, purple carnations.”

Maggie flipped through the Greenaway until she found what she was looking for. “White roses signify death, while yellow laburnum symbolizes poison.” She flipped through more pages. “Purple carnations mean infidelity.”

“So the bouquet is really a coded message, saying—”

“I’m going to kill you with poison because you were unfaithful.”

“And Estelle was unfaithful with whom?”

“It wasn’t
Estelle’s
infidelity—she was unmarried. But her lover was married. And what if Mildred found out about the affair? But how would she have had access to anthrax?”

“Wait one moment—first we need to find the bouquet, to see if there’s actually anthrax on it.”

“Then we need to find out if Mildred sent it,” Maggie finished.

Frain had left messages for Edmund Hope at both Bletchley Park and MI-5, to no avail. But he did know one place he might find the man: his club in London.

Edmund was sitting, naked, in a dimly lit fog of eucalyptus-scented steam. The room was Romanesque, high-ceilinged, an oasis of marble and heat. A low fountain with a statue of Diana and Actaeon burbled in the room’s center, splashing into a pool. The walls were lined with benches. The lights were low, with a single high-mullioned window boarded over in compliance with blackout regulations. Edmund sat and read
The Times
in one corner, lit by a bare lightbulb. The headline blared:
RAF SINKS TANKER
IRIDIO MANTOVANI
60 MILES OFF COAST OF LIBYA AND BRITISH CRUISERS HMS
AURORA
& HMS
PENELOPE
SINK
STEAMER
ADRIATICO
.

He had a tumbler of scotch next to him.

“Thought I might find you here.” Frain sat next to Edmund.

There was a protracted silence between the two men as the water continued to trickle in the fountain. Frain jutted out his chin, indicating the statue. “Odd choice for a bastion of male privilege, don’t you think?”

Edmund folded his newspaper and set it down. He was sweating heavily. “I think it’s rather perfect,” he replied, finally. “In Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
, Orsino compares his unrequited love for Olivia to the fate of Actaeon.
‘Oh, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purged the air of pestilence. That instant was I turned into a hart, And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E’er since pursue me
.’ ”

“Very pretty. Your former wife’s still in custody, you know.”

“I know. I went to see Clara. Warned her off Maggie. Clara’s done enough damage for more than two lifetimes.”

Frain stared into the clouds of steam. “The doctor at the Tower thinks that Clara’s reverting. Into past personalities. She certainly has him wrapped around her little finger.”

Edmund grimaced and took a gulp of scotch. “She certainly had us all wrapped and tied with pretty bows, didn’t she?
All
of us.”

“I think you should see her again,” Frain said. “It might be your last chance. Her execution date has been set—December seventh.”

At this, Edmund finally looked up. His blue eyes were rimmed with red and puffy, his face bloated from too much drink. “Why?”

“To settle things between you. To make your peace. To say good-bye.”

“And you’re really going to shoot her.”

“Yes.”

“Even though she’s a woman.”

“Afraid so, old thing. She’s dangerous and not making herself very useful.”

“The press would have a field day if they found out.”

“They’re not going to find out.”

“No,” Edmund said, rising and displaying a midsection bloated and turned to fat. “I’m done with her. I’m done with everyone, quite frankly.”

Frain took in the ruin of the other man’s body. “Don’t be a coward, Edmund. And don’t drink so much. You’ll drink yourself to death, if you’re not careful.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Peter.” Edmund picked up his newspaper and tucked it under his arm, then reached for his glass. He downed the whiskey in a single gulp. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough harm?”

“So, how does this work?” Maggie asked. “How do we find the bouquet?” They were walking from the library down St. Patrick and Nicolson Street to St. Leonard’s Police Station. The rain had turned into a light mist.

“Well, when the police take over a crime scene—in this case,
the theater—they bag and tag everything. After everything’s secured, the detective in charge would package the evidence and dust for fingerprints.”

“Package, how?”

“They quite literally wrap it in brown paper and put a property and evidence tag on it.”

“Including flowers?”

“We can hope.”

“Tell me about Dr. Teufel,” Dr. Carroll asked Clara. She was in the cage in his office, but no longer bound to the bed.

“
You’re
Dr. Teufel.” Clara was sitting up on the bed, gazing out the window.

“Well, I need to know what you think of me. For scientific purposes.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Does Agna know … me?”

“Of course,” she snapped. “She thinks you’re her doctor. She thinks you’re helping her with her stomachaches.”

“And I’m not helping her?”

“Everyone wants something.” Clara Schwartz leaned back and lit a cigarette. Dr. Carroll had given her cigarettes, to encourage her to talk, and she relished the one she had lit, sucking in the smoke, savoring it before blowing it out contemptuously. “He was helping to release me.”

“And how did Dr. Teufel release you?”

“He told Agna they were vitamin shots. And she believed him.” Clara Schwartz took another puff. “What a ninny.” She laughed, a mean, tight laugh.

“What were the vitamin shots?”

“They weren’t even shots. The medicine was given through an IV drip. What fool thinks vitamins are given through an IV drip?”

Dr. Carroll made a note. “What was in the drip?”

“Something else,” Clara said. “Something bad.”

“Do you know what it was specifically?”

She smiled, her eyes lit from within. “Hate.”

“Who do you hate?”

“You know.”

“Tell me.”

“The Jews, of course. The kikes.”

“Who else?”

“The niggers.”

“Who else?”

“The Italians, the southern ones. The northern Italians are all right. The French—well, they can go either way. Gallic blood is unpredictable.”

“Who else?”

“The Russians. The Commie Jews.”

“And what does Dr. Teufel—what do I—want you to do to them?”

“Not do—avoid. Keep racial purity at all costs.” Clara flicked ashes on the floor. “I want to go out. I’m tired of being in here. I want to look up at the sky.”

“You can see the sky from the window.”

“I want to feel the moonlight on my skin. Don’t you ever want to feel the moonlight on your skin?”

“But Agna doesn’t get out of here, either, does she?”

“I’m bored!” Clara spat. Then, “You know her mother is sick, don’t you?”

The doctor leaned back in his chair. “No, I didn’t.”

“The dirty disease. The nasty disease. Syphilis.” Clara’s smile was cat-like. “She’s a whore, you know.”

“Does Agna know her mother is sick?”

“The whore’s not sick, she’s
dying
. No, Agna’s not strong enough to know.”

“Was her mother ever kind to her? Before she became sick?”

A grimace twisted Clara’s face. “No. She never had time for Agna. And when she was around, she was constantly criticizing her. The girl couldn’t do anything right, ever. Her mother broke her, broke her spirit, broke her heart. She broke Agna and the father pretended not to see. All he did was hide behind his books. He pretended not to know.”

“And where were you?”

“I was watching. I was watching as her mother broke her.”

“And why didn’t you come out?”

“Because …” Clara Schwartz smiled, revealing pearly teeth. “Because if I’d been let out to play, I would have slit her mother’s throat—and her weak, impotent father’s as well.”

Wearing gloves, Maggie and Mark found the boxes that had been in Estelle and Sarah’s dressing room, crammed with tubes of lipstick, pans of pancake foundation and sponges, and cakes of mascara with black comb brushes. There was a vase, but no flowers.

“No!” Maggie said, refusing to accept the facts staring her in the face when they went upstairs to confront Officer Craig. “No—maybe they were put somewhere else. Maybe somewhere to dry?”

“I’m afraid if it’s not here, then we don’t have it, Miss,” Officer Craig said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, but if there were fresh flowers, and it’s been how long?” He whistled through his teeth. “They were probably moldy—stinking up the place.”

“So, then what would happen?” Maggie persisted.

“What d’you mean, Miss?”

“Say the flowers were at the theater. If they’d been brought here, cataloged as evidence—but then thrown out. Where would they have been thrown?”

“Well …” More neck scratching. “The compost bin, Miss. We’ve a wee Victory garden out back—back o’ the building, next t’ the garden.”

Maggie started running. Mark followed at her heels.

“But someone may have given it a turn—you might need to dig through the muck, Miss!”

“So when he said ‘given it a turn,’ he meant …” Maggie’s nose crinkled.

They looked over the police department’s small Victory garden. Sure enough, there was a wooden composting bin off to one side. Made of wooden slats with space between to allow the air to circulate, it gave off a distinctly unpleasant odor.

“Mixed it all up, with a shovel. Meaning if the bouquet’s in there, it won’t be anywhere near the top. We’re going to have to dig for it.”

Maggie stepped closer. “Fantastic. Simply marvelous.”

“There might be worms in there, as well—to help with the composting.”

“This just keeps getting better and better now, doesn’t it?”

Mark shrugged. “Not so bad. I grew up on a farm.”

“Well, thank you, Farmer Standish. Even if the bouquet’s been ‘turned,’ it’s probably still here, yes?” As Mark lifted off the lid, Maggie grabbed a rusty shovel leaning against a stone wall. She began to dig in the compost, taking shovelfuls of muck from the heap and flinging them behind her.

“Oi, mind where you’re throwing that, if you please, Miss
Hope!” he cried, ducking and moving out of the way. “I can do that, if you’d rather—”

“No, I’m fine,” Maggie responded, taking a moment to scratch her nose and leaving a streak of mud on her cheek as she did so. “Of course someone turned it,” she muttered, as she continued to dig. “Of
course …
”

Her growing pile was mostly decomposing garden scraps, with the occasional wriggling fat worm. Finally, her shovel exposed the bouquets.

There were all sorts of ballet bouquets: lilies, narcissus, forced hyacinth blooms—now wilted and starting to rot. But not the bouquet Maggie remembered from the dressing room. Not the bouquet that was possibly the murder weapon.

“Here, give me a hand, please,” Maggie told Mark, realizing she couldn’t get enough leverage with the shovel from outside the composting bin.

Mark was gobsmacked. “You’re—you’re going in?”

“Well, do you see another way of digging through to the bottom?”

“Er, no.”

“Hmmm …” Even though she was hobbled by her skirt, Maggie clambered into the bin and resolutely continued to dig. Her nose twitched.
I wish I had my SOE boots and jumpsuit …

“Quite the aroma you’ve unearthed,” Mark remarked, watching. “ ‘Unearthed’—you do see the joke, yes?”

Maggie stood upright, resting one hand on the shovel, the other on her waist. Her face was filthy. “Perhaps
you’d
like a turn, Farmer Standish?”

Mark looked down at his cashmere overcoat. “Er, as long as you’re already in there …”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

“Here,” he said, taking off his leather gloves. “Mine are thicker. More protection if we do find these poisoned posies.”

Maggie quickly stripped off her own thin gloves, pocketed them, and put on the fur-lined ones. She continued to dig, then looked up. “Nothing,” she reported.

“Nothing?”

She shook her head. Her voice was desolate. “Not a blasted thing.”

“Well, we can at least track down the florist who made it. Maybe there’s more information there.”

There were four florists in Edinburgh.

They went to three of them, finding nothing, finally ending up on Queen Street. The rays from the setting sun turned the castle rose-gold, as children played in St. James’s Park, the church’s bell tower swathed in scaffolding. Twin girls in matching blue coats were playing jump rope, while a little boy in overalls and a Fair Isle sweater clung to his grandmother’s hand and pointed up.
“Castle! Castle!”
he lisped, pointing a chubby finger.