Which was why Maggie on her motorcycle had already broken through the wooden security gate before they could react. “Bloody hell!” said the first guard, drunk and rubbing his eyes in disbelief. But the other three were already running to their own cycles. “Hurry! After him!”
The guard left behind pressed the alarm button, and a wail of low sirens pierced the darkness.
Maggie didn’t hear them—the rush of wind in her ears was too strong. She knew they were carrying information of great importance. Lives were at stake. Sarah’s life was at stake.
She opened the throttle full and adjusted the rearview mirror. Sure enough, in the distance she saw bright yellow pinpricks of light. Headlights.
She revved the engine. A narrow dirt path headed off from the main road, and she swung right to follow it. She knew it, having made her trainees run it often.
The path was narrow and full of stones, but she’d run it on foot enough times to be able to navigate it even in the darkness. Maggie clenched her teeth as her bike bobbed and weaved around the larger of the stones. Behind her, Mark tightened his grip.
The pinpricks of lights followed them. Damn, she thought, wondering how much of a lead she had, and how long she could hold on to it. She decided to take a risk. She hit the accelerator, rocks be damned.
It was a good thing she did.
If she’d been going any slower, she wouldn’t have made the jump over the ravine. The incline leading up to it served as a ramp, and the motorcycle was already airborne before she knew what was happening.
One exhilarating moment of flight and freedom as the motorbike soared.
When Maggie hit the ground on the opposite side, her front wheel made contact first, out of alignment with the back wheel. The bike swerved and tipped over, hurling her into the dirt. Gasping for air, she spit dirt out of her mouth and tried to move. Although everything hurt, nothing was broken. Her nose was bleeding.
“You all right?” she managed to say to Mark. She rubbed blood from her nose.
“Oh just ducky,” he panted, spitting out blades of grass. “Right as rain.”
“As my instructor Mr. Burns used to say, ‘Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing.’ ”
Then she saw the headlights in the woods behind them. Their pursuers were coming, fast.
She and Mark grabbed the bike and dragged it behind some bushes, then hid behind a tree to watch.
The guards were not so lucky.
The first biker didn’t make it across the gully—he hit the dirt-and-stone wall opposite. Bike and rider fell, bursting into orange flames at the bottom.
The two other riders, seeing what happened, pulled up short on the opposite side. “Bloody hell!” one exclaimed, getting off the bike and running to the ravine, seeing the dancing flames and smelling the burning petrol.
“He’s dead,” said the other.
“Is the other driver dead, too, then?”
The first driver listened, then shrugged. “Probably. I don’t hear a motor. But we’ll have to see in the morning. If he’s not dead, he won’t get far.”
That, Maggie thought, wiping more blood from her nose with filthy and scraped hands, is what you think.
Her mouth was parched. Her stomach was growling, too. She knew she could last without food, but she couldn’t keep up this breakneck pace without drinking something soon. Still, she didn’t want to stop. She had to get back to Edinburgh. Surely what they had found would help Sarah and find the murderer.
She was thirsty, bleeding, dirty, and tired. She stank of fear and desperation. Another man had just died—a Brit—one of their own. One who was working on biochemical weapons, she reminded herself. She would not cry, she would not—there would be plenty of time for a cry later.
To their right, through the evergreens, she knew there was a small pond. She led Mark to it, through cool pine-scented air. At the water’s edge, they both dropped to their knees and drank as long as they dared.
The icy water tasted of dead leaves, but she didn’t care.
She dropped back on the stones, panting, looking up at the dark sky encrusted with stars. “So, Miss Hope—this is winging it?” Mark dropped down beside her.
“Indeed,” Maggie said.
Mark groaned. “And what now?”
“And now we ride as fast as we can, back to Edinburgh.”
Many, many hours later, back in Edinburgh, they both went to their respective hotels to wash and change clothes, then met in Maggie’s room at the Caledonian.
Mark knocked and she let him in, the room illuminated by a circle of golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.
Maggie had already read through the papers. “Well, it’s official,” she said, handing him the folder. “The British are developing what they’re calling N—anthrax, the official name for Bacillus anthracis. The weapons-grade anthrax itself is made at Porton Down, but the experiments are being carried out on the island they’ve code-named Neverland.”
Mark sat down on the chair and began to read. “Holy pish!” he said, flipping pages.
“My thoughts, exactly.” Maggie started to pace restlessly. “We certainly have enough now to make Howard talk. But that still doesn’t bring us any closer to our murderer.”
“There’s a payroll,” Mark pointed out. “And a list of contacts at Porton Down.”
Maggie stopped in her tracks. “We’d have to get a list of everyone associated with the ballet company and the Lyceum, and then cross-check with Neverland and Porton Down.”
She flung herself on the bed. She was exhausted. Two dancers and a man were dead, Sarah was dying, the British, whom she always thought of as the White Hats, were developing anthrax … Dead sheep burning …
“I may not have been all that useful on our mission, Miss Hope,” Mark said, taking out a folder of papers, as well as a fountain pen from his breast pocket, “but I can assure you, paperwork—and tracking people down—is where I excel.” He went out to the hall to use the telephone.
While Maggie napped, Mark made call after call, using “MI-Five” often, as well as calling in some personal favors. Finally, he returned and slumped back in his chair. The folder and the papers fell to the floor.
“What?” Maggie gasped, startled. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Anything?”
“Damn it, no. We seem to have reached a dead end. At least until I can think of another angle.”
“Let me see,” Maggie said, stretching out her hand. Mark gave her the papers.
She read through them all again. Nothing. “And then—what do you have? A list of everyone at the Vic-Wells?”
“Yes, and the theater, too. No one’s name checks out.”
“Stage names,” Maggie said.
“What?”
“A lot of the dancers use stage names. And women, of course, take their husbands’ names. We need to find their legal names and see if any of them match. Maybe Mildred Petrie used a stage name? And be sure to check for Diana Atholl.”
But Mark was already struggling to his feet. “I’m ordering us an enormous breakfast from room service, and then I’m on it. What are your thoughts on haggis for breakfast?”
“I think I’d rather have toast, thank you.”
After dawn had broken and office hours had begun, Mark continued with his research. Maggie decided she had somewhere else to be. She was waiting outside on the steps of the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries when Cyrus Howard arrived.
“I have nothing to say, Miss Hope,” he said, taking out his keys to open the door.
“Really, Mr. Howard?” she said, pulling out her trump card, the file. When he saw what she had, he paled.
“Come in, Miss Hope,” he said.
“Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.”
In Howard’s office, he sat and Maggie paced.
“My friend is dying,” she told him. “My friend is dying from anthrax poison that you and your cronies are making at Porton Down and testing on an island off the coast of Arisaig
. ‘Neverland,’ ” she spat.
“Miss Hope—”
“Somehow, this poison has infected at least three civilians—two are dead and one is dying. And yet you cover it up …”
“We have everything under control. There’s no need for MI-Five or police involvement.”
“I don’t think you understand that my friend is dying,” Maggie snapped. “I can go to any number of people at this point. I can go to the Prime Minister. I can go to the King. I can go to the BBC …”
“Don’t you know?” Howard shot back. “The Prime Minister is behind these experiments. If you go to him, you’ll be arrested for treason.”
Mr. Churchill? Developing anthrax? Maggie felt her legs buckle. “That doesn’t stop me from going to the press,” she retorted.
“You’ll be hanged.”
“At this point, Mr. Howard, I don’t really give a flying fig!”
Howard snorted, then made a steeple of his fingers. “Miss Hope, I think I can help you. We can help each other.”
“I highly doubt it.”
“There’s an epidemiologist here in the city. He’s worked with some of our boys who’ve accidentally been infected with the anthrax spores. He has a seventy-five percent success rate. You give me all of the evidence you have and promise you’ll never speak of it again—and I’ll call the doctor and have him save your friend.”
Dr. Janus met Maggie outside Sarah’s hospital room. “I just spoke with the epidemiologist,” he said in low tones. “Now that we know she’s come in contact with cutaneous anthrax, we’re going to wash her thoroughly. He also recommended that we put her on a new medication we’re calling an ‘anti-biotic.’ That should give her a fighting chance.”
“What are her chances, Doctor?” Maggie managed. She opened the door gently and saw Sarah, gaunt and gray, eyes closed, looking almost like a corpse already. She felt dizzy with fear. “Of survival?”
“We’re doing the best we can, Miss.”
Maggie went back to the Caledonian. Mark was on the telephone. When he hung up he asked, “How did it go?”
“In exchange for our silence, he gave me the name of a epidemiologist who’s helping Sarah,” she answered, her voice flat.
“How is she?”
“It’s touch and go.”
Mark shook his head. “I’m glad. But I haven’t found the murderer. As far as I can tell, Mildred Petrie never used a stage name and she has no connection to Porton Down.”
“And what about Diana Atholl?”
Mark rubbed his eyes with his fists. “No connection to Diana Atholl, either.”
“Mark,” Maggie said, thinking, “what about Diana Angius. Can you look up the name Angius?”
Mark returned to his papers. “Angius, Angius …” He stopped, eyes wide. “There’s a Simon Angius here, who’s a scientist. Works on the spore research for ‘N.’ ” He read further. “From his date of birth, he might be Diana’s father. Let me check.”
Mark went to the telephone in the hall and made a few calls. “Yes, Diana Atholl is Simon Angius’s daughter,” he panted when he returned. “And Diana visited him last month for two weeks. And she signed into the lab—under her maiden name.”
Maggie brushed loose hair out of her face. “Diana Atholl had motive and access to the poison and to the theater—that’s enough to arrest her.”
“And Mildred Petrie?”
“She was no doubt involved, but I don’t think she’s Estelle’s killer. It’s something we could ask Mrs. Atholl when we question her.”
“When we arrest her, you mean.” Mark raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to do the honors?”
Maggie shook her head. “You’re the actual MI-Five agent on the case. Frain just let me in as a courtesy.”
“You’ve earned the right to make the arrest, Miss Hope. I’m just glad I’ll be there to see her face when you do.”
At the other end of Edinburgh, at the Balmoral Hotel, the Atholls were having tea at the Palm Court. A harpist played Debussy’s “First Arabesque” as waiters in black and white circulated under the tall Victorian glass dome with silver trays.
There was a tiered tray of sandwiches in front of the Atholls, though neither was eating. Richard Atholl looked as handsome as ever. Diana, his wife, looked even shorter and stockier in a floral dress with gaping spaces between its buttons. And although waves of genteel conversation passed over them, they did not speak.
Maggie and Mark walked in, shrugging off an offer to be seated. They went directly to the Atholls’ linen-covered table.
“I’m Agent Standish and this is Miss Hope of MI-Five.” Mark showed his identification. He looked to Maggie.
She continued, “Mrs. Diana Atholl, you are under arrest for the murders of Estelle Crawford and Mildred Petrie.”
Around them, conversation stopped as curious eyes looked over.
Mrs. Atholl pressed her lips together, then stood. “Do you need to use handcuffs?” she asked. “I promise not to make a scene.”
Maggie had expected more protest, but Mrs. Atholl seemed almost relieved. “Just come with us, Mrs. Atholl, and there’s no need for handcuffs.”
“Are you coming?” Mrs. Atholl turned toward her husband.
“You? You killed Estelle?” the conductor said softly.
“Yes, I killed Estelle,” Mrs. Atholl replied tonelessly. “And it still didn’t make any difference. Even with her gone, you still don’t love me.”
“What did you do to her, Diana?” the conductor asked, voice breaking. “What did you do to my Estelle?”
“We’ll talk about that at the station,” Maggie interposed, motioning for Mark to hurry. “Will you be coming, Mr. Atholl?”
He was staring at his wife as if he’d never seen her before. “No. No, I won’t be coming.”
“Richard!” Diana half screamed, half moaned. “Please! I’m your wife!” The harp music stopped. Everyone in the tearoom waited, on edge, to see what would happen.
“Not anymore,” he told her. “Our sham of a marriage is over.”
Diana Atholl’s eyes were wild. She was still for just a moment, like a startled bird, and then she broke from Mark’s hold, lunged to her feet, and began to run.
“I’ve got this,” Maggie called, setting out.
The women’s heels clattered on the floor. Mrs. Atholl slammed into a startled waiter, then staggered into a potted palm. But she kept running.
Maggie dodged a woman swathed in furs and reeking of perfume and leapt forward at Diana. Both women slammed to the marble floor. She straddled Diana’s facedown body, forcing her hands behind her back.
“You nearly killed one of my best friends,” Maggie growled in her prisoner’s ear. “Two women are dead because of you. Why is Mildred Petrie dead and Sarah Sanderson in the hospital, Mrs. Atholl?”
“Mildred,” she gasped, “Mildred bought the flowers for me. I didn’t want to be spotted. I never thought she’d touch them after I’d left them for Estelle …”
“So Mildred touched the bouquet after you poisoned it. And Sarah accidentally touched it, too,” Maggie finished. “Revenge didn’t bring back your husband, but it did kill two, maybe three, women.”
Diana began to cry. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so, so sorry …”
Mark handcuffed her and brought her to her feet, then looked to Maggie, who stood and brushed herself off, ignoring the shocked looks of the hotel guests and staff. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Maggie answered. “But if you wouldn’t mind taking her to St. Leonard’s, I’d like to get back to Sarah.”
Chapter Fourteen
Dr. Carroll continued to update Frain with telephone calls. Elbows propped on his desk, he watched the Union Jack snap in the stiff breeze outside his window.
“I consider this a visit to the mad tea party, Dr. Carroll,” Frain said. “Frau Hess is playing you.”
The doctor shook his head. “I’m no Sigmund Freud, but I don’t think she is.”
“You don’t know Clara Hess.”
“I know her better than you do.”
“You know what she chooses to show you.”
“I’ve done my research. The woman we know as Clara Hess was born Agna Frei—Agna Clara Frei. She changed her name to Clara Schwartz when she began her opera career, and became Clara Hope when she married Edmund Hope, and then became Clara Hess when she returned to Germany and married the conductor Miles Hess.”
“So she knows her name,” Frain deadpanned. “Remember, she’s an actress—she knows how to create a role and how to perform it brilliantly.”
“I don’t believe this is a performance, Mr. Frain.”
“You have a few more days. If she doesn’t start talking and giving us information, she’ll be executed.”
The doctor looked at his desk calendar. It was December 3. Four days left until her execution. “I think that would be a terrible mistake.”
“Get some intel out of her that I can use—or just flip her to our side. Unless you can do that, she’s going to end up like Josef Jakobs—dead.”
“I want books, Dr. Carroll.” This time, Dr. Carroll was visiting her in her room at the Tower. He had ordered the cage and the restraints removed.
“I’m sorry, Frau Hess, but prisoners do not have the privilege of receiving books.”
“What do you think I’m going to do with them? Make paper airplanes? Pinprick code? It’s not as if everyone wouldn’t be on the lookout for that.” Clara rose from her chair and stretched.
Then, she doubled over in pain, clutching her stomach. It was the telltale sign of another personality coming to the fore.
“Frau Hess?”
“I’m—I’m—” She struggled to speak. When she did, a different voice came from her mouth.
It was Agna. “My favorite book is Hoffmann’s Der Struwwelpeter. Do you know it?”
“I do.” Dr. Carroll’s voice gentled as it always did when he spoke with the child Agna.
“Am I banished?” she asked, looking around, eyes wild. “I must be. I’m in my room and I can’t get out. Mother must have locked me in!”
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