The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(43)
“No!” Oh, Hugh …
“And I’m sure you can imagine who these photographs were addressed to?”
No. No. Surely Hugh couldn’t have. “My … mother?”
Mark tapped his nose. “Exactly.”
Oh, Hugh, Hugh … Maggie’s eyes narrowed as she thought. “And so her boss found out their spy had been turned …”
“… and that’s most likely the reason she gave herself up to the British and offered to work as a double—or maybe a triple?—agent.”
Her head was spinning, putting it all together. “And poor Hugh was fired for it.”
“He was.” Again they drank in silence. A log broke in two, and the dog twitched in his sleep.
“Mr. Standish, I have just one question.”
Mark had finished his gin and gestured expansively. “Anything, Miss Hope.”
“When Hugh pulled down his pants, who was taking the pictures?”
He looked like a guilty little boy.
“I thought so. More tea, Vicar?”
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.