Mark grinned. “If you insist. My glass is a bit lonely.”
Maggie caught the bartender’s eye. “Another round, please, when you have a moment? And this one’s on me.”
“I told you I didn’t do it,” Sarah croaked from the bed, as Maggie opened the door. Then she coughed, a long, hacking jag.
“I know,” Maggie said, taking off her coat, hat, and gloves and kicking off her pumps, noting the new holes in her stockings. “I never thought so for a moment.” She walked to the bed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look terrible.”
“I feel terrible. It’s this horrible northern cold and damp.”
Maggie touched her hand to Sarah’s forehead; her friend was burning up. “You have a fever,” she said. Good God. “Would you like me to call a doctor?”
“No, no—just my overnight in the chokey taking its toll. I’ll be right as rain in the morning. I just need to get some rest. But first—tell me about Estelle.”
Maggie thought back to the autopsy. There were details she could spare her friend. She padded in stocking feet over to an overstuffed armchair, where she slumped, legs akimbo—decorum be damned. “The autopsy revealed nothing worse than emphysema and a case of psoriasis. Her body just gave out. But she’s at rest now—and her family is coming here to pick up the body for the funeral and burial.”
“Thank you,” the dancer said, after a moment. “You always believed I was innocent.”
“Of course,” Maggie said. “And I really didn’t do anything. The evidence acquitted you.”
“Still. I suppose since this is over now, the Vic-Wells will finish our Edinburgh run.”
“Where are you and the company off to next?”
“Glasgow, I think.” Sarah gave a thin smile. “It’s hard to tell the cities apart after a while—all you see are hotel rooms, studios, and stages.”
“I’m sure.” The bleat of the telephone in the hall made them both startle. Maggie rose and walked to the corridor, then picked up the receiver. “Hello? This is Maggie Hope speaking.”
“Miss Hope, it’s Mark Standish,” she heard over the crackling line. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Maggie braced herself for what might come next. “I’m listening.”
“Well, no beating around the bush—I’m calling from Chalmers Hospital. Officer Craig at the police station was kind enough to let me know that after Mildred Petrie was cleared of any sort of murder charge, she was taken directly to hospital.”
Maggie’s hands tightened on the telephone receiver. “Why? What’s wrong with her?”
Sarah looked over. Maggie put up one finger, to say wait.
“I haven’t spoken with any of her doctors yet, but Officer Craig says she was coughing horribly and running a high fever.” Mark cleared his throat. “What’s odd is that, like Estelle, Mildred also had black sores running from her right hand up to her shoulder.”
Maggie looked to Sarah in the next bed, pale and haggard. “Sarah’s under the weather, too, and has a nasty cough. Maybe it’s flu?”
Sarah sank back against her pillow and closed her eyes.
“Given we have one dead dancer and another in critical condition, I don’t want to leave anything to chance. Let’s get Miss Sanderson to hospital immediately,” Mark told Maggie. “Bring her to Chalmers—I’ll meet you both there.”
Maggie called for an ambulance and they managed to transport Sarah from the Caledonian to Chalmers Hospital, which had been requisitioned for civilian casualties. The trip to Lothian Road took only minutes, but to Maggie it felt an eternity before they reached the hospital’s emergency entrance on Lauriston Place, with Sarah slipping in and out of consciousness. Maggie squeezed her hand, desperate to transfer whatever health she herself had to Sarah.
As the medics took Sarah from the ambulance and transferred her to a waiting gurney, Maggie spied Mark in the lengthening shadows. “Mildred Petrie is here,” he reported, walking up to her, “in quarantine. Miss Sanderson will be quarantined, as well.”
“Quarantine? Under whose orders?” Maggie asked.
“Cyrus Howard, head of the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries.”
“Howard again? What does he think—that three ballerinas went fly fishing and picked up some sort of strange disease along with their trout? These are professional dancers—they don’t have time to cavort in the great outdoors.”
“You can come with me and ask him yourself—he’s getting a cup of tea down in the cafeteria.”
“Let’s get Sarah settled first,” Maggie decided, keeping pace with Mark and the gurney. Sarah’s eyes were jerking back and forth beneath the lids and she was muttering in a fever dream. “Then we can question Mr. Howard.”
To Sarah she said, “You’re safe here—you’re in the hospital. The doctors and nurses will take good care of you.” She had a momentary pang thinking of another nurse she knew—her half-sister, Elise, who’d been a nurse at Charité Hospital in Berlin.
At the sound of Maggie’s voice, Sarah’s eyes fluttered open. Her breathing was ragged.
“You’ll be in a bed soon. And I’ll be right here beside you, I promise.”
“Wha—what’s wrong with me?” Sarah managed to gasp.
“Probably just flu, darling.” Maggie forced a reassuring smile. She brushed damp tendrils of dark hair from Sarah’s face. Her forehead was burning, perhaps even hotter than before. “Pneumonia at worst. You ballerinas—always so dramatic.” She reached again for Sarah’s hand, but then stopped. The dancer’s graceful hand was covered in angry black blisters.
Maggie’s and Mark’s eyes met. They didn’t know what Sarah had, but they both knew it wasn’t flu.
Sarah’s doctor was one of the many Polish doctors, most of them from Warsaw, at the University of Edinburgh’s Polish School of Medicine. It was a unique institution that provided medical education and training to medical students and doctors exiled after the Nazi invasion and occupation.
Dr. Janus was a slight man, with a large pink bald spot. What hair remained was thick and silver, and wrapped around his head like a ladies’ fur stole.
After his examination of Sarah, he went to the waiting room to speak with Maggie and Mark.
“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.
Chapter Eleven
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!
The Prime Minister's Secret Agent Page 13
