The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(48)

Edmund was sitting, naked, in a dimly lit fog of eucalyptus-scented steam. The room was Romanesque, high-ceilinged, an oasis of marble and heat. A low fountain with a statue of Diana and Actaeon burbled in the room’s center, splashing into a pool. The walls were lined with benches. The lights were low, with a single high-mullioned window boarded over in compliance with blackout regulations. Edmund sat and read The Times in one corner, lit by a bare lightbulb. The headline blared: RAF SINKS TANKER IRIDIO MANTOVANI 60 MILES OFF COAST OF LIBYA AND BRITISH CRUISERS HMS AURORA & HMS PENELOPE SINK STEAMER ADRIATICO.

He had a tumbler of scotch next to him.

“Thought I might find you here.” Frain sat next to Edmund.

There was a protracted silence between the two men as the water continued to trickle in the fountain. Frain jutted out his chin, indicating the statue. “Odd choice for a bastion of male privilege, don’t you think?”

Edmund folded his newspaper and set it down. He was sweating heavily. “I think it’s rather perfect,” he replied, finally. “In Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, Orsino compares his unrequited love for Olivia to the fate of Actaeon. ‘Oh, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purged the air of pestilence. That instant was I turned into a hart, And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E’er since pursue me.’ ”

“Very pretty. Your former wife’s still in custody, you know.”

“I know. I went to see Clara. Warned her off Maggie. Clara’s done enough damage for more than two lifetimes.”

Frain stared into the clouds of steam. “The doctor at the Tower thinks that Clara’s reverting. Into past personalities. She certainly has him wrapped around her little finger.”

Edmund grimaced and took a gulp of scotch. “She certainly had us all wrapped and tied with pretty bows, didn’t she? All of us.”

“I think you should see her again,” Frain said. “It might be your last chance. Her execution date has been set—December seventh.”

At this, Edmund finally looked up. His blue eyes were rimmed with red and puffy, his face bloated from too much drink. “Why?”

“To settle things between you. To make your peace. To say good-bye.”

“And you’re really going to shoot her.”

“Yes.”

“Even though she’s a woman.”

“Afraid so, old thing. She’s dangerous and not making herself very useful.”

“The press would have a field day if they found out.”

“They’re not going to find out.”

“No,” Edmund said, rising and displaying a midsection bloated and turned to fat. “I’m done with her. I’m done with everyone, quite frankly.”

Frain took in the ruin of the other man’s body. “Don’t be a coward, Edmund. And don’t drink so much. You’ll drink yourself to death, if you’re not careful.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Peter.” Edmund picked up his newspaper and tucked it under his arm, then reached for his glass. He downed the whiskey in a single gulp. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough harm?”


“So, how does this work?” Maggie asked. “How do we find the bouquet?” They were walking from the library down St. Patrick and Nicolson Street to St. Leonard’s Police Station. The rain had turned into a light mist.

“Well, when the police take over a crime scene—in this case, the theater—they bag and tag everything. After everything’s secured, the detective in charge would package the evidence and dust for fingerprints.”

“Package, how?”

“They quite literally wrap it in brown paper and put a property and evidence tag on it.”

“Including flowers?”

“We can hope.”


“Tell me about Dr. Teufel,” Dr. Carroll asked Clara. She was in the cage in his office, but no longer bound to the bed.

“You’re Dr. Teufel.” Clara was sitting up on the bed, gazing out the window.

“Well, I need to know what you think of me. For scientific purposes.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Does Agna know … me?”

“Of course,” she snapped. “She thinks you’re her doctor. She thinks you’re helping her with her stomachaches.”

“And I’m not helping her?”

“Everyone wants something.” Clara Schwartz leaned back and lit a cigarette. Dr. Carroll had given her cigarettes, to encourage her to talk, and she relished the one she had lit, sucking in the smoke, savoring it before blowing it out contemptuously. “He was helping to release me.”