The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(44)
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.