The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (19 page)

The older woman bent down to adjust his hat. “I know! It’s a great, big castle, innit, darlin’?”

“Of course it’s the last one,” Mark grumbled as they turned onto Northumberland Street to find Mary Mason’s Florist. “It’s
always
the last one.”

“Actually, that’s not statistically probable,” Maggie replied. “You just find the times when it’s the last one after a long search to be more memorable.”

“I don’t know what Hugh saw in you,” Mark grumbled, “I really don’t …”

“Tut, tut,” she admonished. “We’re here. Be professional.”

When they pushed open the door, a tiny silver bell jingled. “I’ll be right with you!” a woman’s voice rang out from the back room. Inside, it was warm and humid, and smelled of cut stems and narcissus blooms. There weren’t many flowers for sale, but there were several large and formal bouquets on the counter, ready to be wrapped in brown paper—velvety red amaryllis blossoms and heather, punctuated with thistles.

A tall woman with broad shoulders and a gray bun walked in from the back room. “Good afternoon,” she said and smiled, wiping her hands on her apron as she did so. “May I help you?”

“I’m Mark Standish from MI-Five and this is my associate, Miss Hope.” He showed his papers. “We’re investigating a series of murders, and would appreciate your help.”

The woman’s face paled. “Of—of course.”

“Do you remember making a bouquet of white roses, yellow laburnum, and purple carnations?” Maggie asked. “It would have been sometime during the last week of November,” she added.

“O’ course,” the woman responded. “Such a strange bouquet. And in wartime, too! But she was insistent, she was. Some o’ the flowers I had to bring in from Glasgow.”

“She?” Mark said.

“Yes, it was a woman, older. Looked so sad, really, for buying such a pretty bouquet.”

The florist opened the cash register and took out an accounting book. “I remember writing this one down, because of all the special flowers. Was a pretty penny, I remember.” She put on tiny silver-rimmed spectacles.

“Ah, here it is.” She put her ledger on the counter for them to see. “No, sorry to say I have no record of who made the purchase. That bouquet was paid for in cash.”

“But do you remember anything about the woman—anything at all?” Maggie pressed.

The woman thought for a moment. “Well, there was one odd thing about her—”

Mark leaned in. “Yes?”

“She had some green paint—or makeup or something—left around the edges of her face.”

“I knew it!” Mark exclaimed, as they walked out of the shop. “Green makeup—left over from a performance as the evil witch! Mildred Petrie is the killer!”

“Mildred bought flowers,” Maggie reminded him, stopping on the damp pavement. “That doesn’t mean she killed Estelle.”

“But you yourself said the flowers meant—”

“The flowers meant, ‘I’ll kill you with poison because you were unfaithful.’ But Richard Athol wasn’t stepping out on Mildred. He was unfaithful to his
wife
—Diana Athol has motive and fits the message of the bouquet. Not Mildred.”

“Then why was Mildred buying the flowers?”

“That’s a very good question,” Maggie said, starting to walk. She called back to Mark, “Come on, let’s go.”

They stepped over puddles and avoided crumpled packets of cigarettes. Looking down on a cemetery, the stones and walls covered in lurid green moss and lichen, Maggie saw a French letter. “So much for the grave being ‘a fine and private place,’ ” she muttered.

The offices of the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries were on Queen Street. “MI-Five,” Mark said to the receptionist, a middle-aged woman, plump and prune-faced. Her glasses were so thick her eyes were magnified. “We have official and urgent business with Mr. Howard.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but he’s not here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The woman pushed up her glasses and glared. “Well, I don’t care if you believe me or not, sir—I’m telling you Mr. Howard is not here.”

“Look, not only are two civilians dead, but a third is dying! I don’t have time for this nonsense. There may be a widespread health epidemic occurring!” Maggie shivered. Neither of them had put it into words before, and the truth was so very ugly spoken aloud.

“And, as I said, I’m very sorry, but—”

Ignoring her protest, Maggie pushed past to the door. She opened it.

There sat Cyrus Howard, at his desk, chewing on a slice of Dundee cake, cup of tea in hand.

“Why, look—it seems Mr. Howard is in after all,” Maggie said pleasantly. “Come, Mr. Standish. I believe it’s time for an impromptu meeting.”

“I know who you two are,” Howard said. “You’ve caused me nothing but trouble. The situation is under control.” He set down his cup, holding on to his cake.

“ ‘Trouble’?” Maggie hissed. “Two people are already dead. If this is your idea of ‘under control’ … Well, then obviously MI-Five needs to investigate.”

Howard’s face purpled. “While it’s unfortunate some of the civilian population was infected, I can assure you that this was an isolated incident. And this is all top,
top
secret, I’ll have you know. There’s absolutely no need for MI-Five to poke its nose into this.”

“You can’t keep MI-Five from investigating when the civilian population’s in danger.” Mark’s voice was even.

“The civilian population is not in danger!”

“Ragpickers’ and woolsorters’ disease …” Maggie said, thinking it through. “If it were just an isolated incident on a farm, that would be one thing … but
three
ballet dancers infected?”

“Obviously it was some sort of mistake—”

“Wait—” Maggie interrupted. Suddenly she saw the larger picture, and knew why such deep secrecy was necessary. “Anthrax. Britain is developing biological weapons!”

“I can’t say—”

“Biological weapons …” Maggie interrupted. Her friend might not just have been a casualty in a love affair gone wrong and revenge, but collateral damage in a top-secret military operation. “Good Lord,” she murmured.

Maggie thought back to the sheep she had found on the shore.
The sores. The same black sores that Estelle and Mildred had. And now Sarah has them. And the men in the boats, herding the sheep to those islands. Arisaig
, she realized, piecing it all together with the satisfying click of a math problem solved.
They’re carrying out experiments with anthrax disease on an uninhabited island off the coast of Arisaig
. “Mr. Churchill—the Prime Minister—he can’t possibly know about this!”

“I can’t say,” Howard insisted.

“This isn’t part of the experiment,” she said, thinking aloud. “This is someone associated with the tests, who’s using the bacteria to murder someone. So, to cover up Britain’s biological poison experiments, you let someone get away with murder?”

“I can’t say.”

“My friend is
dying
—there is no big picture. And what’s the cure? What sort of medicine can help? Oh wait, let me guess—you can’t say!” Maggie blazed. “There are things I would very much like to say, Mr. Howard. But, as opposed to keeping secrets
and protecting killers, I choose not to say them because I am too much of a lady. Good day!”

“Sarah’s dying. I can’t just sit on my hands!” Maggie protested, as they sat on a bench overlooking East Princes Street Gardens. Mark’s long legs were crossed in front of him. She wished she could be with K. Things were better with a small purring friend.
How could Dr. McNeil ever have thought of …

Then she remembered the sheep, covered in sores. Like her beloved calculus problems, the variables slid and shifted and then clicked into place. The sheep were poisoned. The British were developing biological weapons. The British were developing them on an island on the western coast of Scotland, near enough to Arisaig that one of their dead sheep could wash ashore.

Dr. McNeil had said that the sheep with the two triangular-shaped notches in his right ear and red paint on his rump belonged to a farmer named Fergus Macnab. Therefore, Macnab must know something about the experiments. Or at least have a link to the person buying his sheep for experimentation. Would Macnab know anything useful? And did they have enough time to save Sarah?

“Mr. Standish, how would you feel about a little field trip to Arisaig?”

Three long, drafty, and freezing train rides from Edinburgh later, they stumbled out on the Beasdale platform, the nearest stop to Arisaig House. Mark had slept most of the way, and had crease marks on his face from where it had been pressed up against the blackout-covered window. “This is your territory, Miss Hope,” he said, yawning. “Where to?”

“To Macnab’s farm, of course.”

“Is it far?” Mark looked around at the muddy paths and then down at his shiny oxfords.

“I’m wearing heels and stockings recently in a compost heap, Mr. Standish,” she retorted. “It would be quite churlish of you to complain. And no, just a few miles south.”

“Also, Miss Hope?” Mark peered at his watch in the moonlight. “It’s late. I suggest we get a few hours’ sleep now. Even farmers aren’t up this early.”

Maggie had been so focused on getting to Macnab that she’d completely lost track of time.
Hmm, he has a point
. “Fine,” she said, leading the way at a fast clip. “We’ll go back to my flat. But you’re taking the sofa.” She was sorry K was with Mr. Fergus, but there was no time for a visit.

The next morning before anyone else was awake, they walked from Arisaig House to Macnab’s farm, only a mile down the coast. This time, Maggie was prepared, dressed in her jumpsuit and boots. “So much better than heels,” she sighed as they walked along the icy paths. The grass and fallen leaves were coated with frost, which crunched under their feet.

As they came upon the dirt road to the farm, they could hear the clucking of chickens and the mournful
baa
s of sheep. A black-and-white dog, dark spots circling his eyes like a mask, cornered them on the front walk to the small stone farmhouse, growling.

“What now, Miss Hope?” Mark asked. The dog bared his teeth.

It was impossible to approach the house without incurring the further wrath of the dog.

The door banged open. “Oh,
do
shut up, Jasper—that’s quite enough!” the older man said to the dog, who whined and went to greet him, tail wagging, licking his fingers. The man was silver-haired,
with a neck hidden by fallen flesh, and mud-caked boots. “And who are you two interlopers?” he demanded, one hand on his hip, the other carrying a rifle.

“Are you Fergus Macnab?” Maggie asked.

“Who’s asking?”

Once again, Mark pulled out his identification cards. “I’m Mr. Standish with MI-Five, and this is my colleague, Miss Hope. Are you the owner of sheep—”

“—with two ear notches and a red dot on their rumps?” Maggie interrupted.

“Aye, those are mine,” Macnab said. “What business is it of yours?”

“I was the one who found one of them, washed up on the shore near Arisaig House, covered in sores.”

“What of it? Sheep get sick, they die.”

“Who do you sell your sheep to, Mr. Macnab?”

His eyes narrowed. “The government, o’ course,” he retorted. “Wool for clothing, horns for buttons, meat for the ration queue.”

It was quite possible that the man had no idea what was happening to his sheep. “Do you know the names of the government officials who buy your sheep, Mr. Macnab?” Maggie asked.

“Too many to keep track of,” the farmer muttered. “But it’s the installation just down the road, by the shore. Took over my land, they did, the blighters, just like they took over Arisaig House!” Macnab shook his fist. “You got problems with what happened to those sheep, you ask those buggers. You give them what for!” he barked. The sheepdog barked too, as if in agreement.

“Yes, sir,” Maggie said. “We most certainly will.”

“Not too much farther, Mr. Standish,” Maggie said as they walked down to the shore. “Almost there.”

“Almost where?” Mark panted, not used to country paths anymore. “If we took the road, we’d get there quicker.”

Maggie couldn’t believe that Mark was most likely several pay grades above her. “Yes, but then they’ll see us coming. Do you really think they’ll just give us the key to all their files and tell us to go on and have a look?”

“Well …”

“If we can observe them from the shore, we have a chance to see what they’re really doing, without them being aware of our presence.”

“Very well, Miss Hope.” Mark sighed. “Carry on.”

The scent of salt water and seaweed was stronger near the water, as Mark and Maggie walked the pebbly shore. “They’ve launched boats from here,” Maggie decided, looking at the ropes and the wear of the beach.

“Boats for what?”

Maggie found a grassy spot, just out of sight of a long wooden dock with several boats roped to it on the beach, and sat down cross-legged on a flat rock. “I don’t know,” she said. “But we’ll wait and then we’ll find out.”

They waited for hours and nothing happened. There was only the lapping of the waves and the occasional cry of a seabird. As the sun continued to rise, the day grew warmer and Mark’s stomach rumbled. “Don’t suppose you have anything to eat?” he whispered.

“No,” Maggie whispered back.
This is one of MI-Five’s finest? God save the King, indeed …

“It would—” From the corner of her eye, she spotted movement. She raised one hand to silence him. Men in uniform, each carrying a sheep in his arms, were walking down the dock and loading the animals into a waiting boat. When the boat was full, they pushed off, using a small motor to head to an offshore island. When the boat was out of sight and the rest of the soldiers had dispersed, Maggie stood, brushing off the bottom of her trousers. “Sixteen sheep,” she said.

“Now what?” Mark asked, bewildered.

“Now we go after them, of course.” Maggie gave a crooked smile. “You may not know this, but stealth water landings are one of my specialties.”

They borrowed one of the other boats and went to the same island, but landing on the opposite shore. “Come on!” Maggie said. Mark and his city ways were really getting on her nerves.

They pulled the boat onto the pebbled shore and hid it beneath some trees, camouflaging it with dead branches. Then they made their way to the top of the hill, crawling the last ten feet.