The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(50)

“There might be worms in there, as well—to help with the composting.”

“This just keeps getting better and better now, doesn’t it?”

Mark shrugged. “Not so bad. I grew up on a farm.”

“Well, thank you, Farmer Standish. Even if the bouquet’s been ‘turned,’ it’s probably still here, yes?” As Mark lifted off the lid, Maggie grabbed a rusty shovel leaning against a stone wall. She began to dig in the compost, taking shovelfuls of muck from the heap and flinging them behind her.

“Oi, mind where you’re throwing that, if you please, Miss Hope!” he cried, ducking and moving out of the way. “I can do that, if you’d rather—”

“No, I’m fine,” Maggie responded, taking a moment to scratch her nose and leaving a streak of mud on her cheek as she did so. “Of course someone turned it,” she muttered, as she continued to dig. “Of course …”

Her growing pile was mostly decomposing garden scraps, with the occasional wriggling fat worm. Finally, her shovel exposed the bouquets.

There were all sorts of ballet bouquets: lilies, narcissus, forced hyacinth blooms—now wilted and starting to rot. But not the bouquet Maggie remembered from the dressing room. Not the bouquet that was possibly the murder weapon.

“Here, give me a hand, please,” Maggie told Mark, realizing she couldn’t get enough leverage with the shovel from outside the composting bin.

Mark was gobsmacked. “You’re—you’re going in?”

“Well, do you see another way of digging through to the bottom?”

“Er, no.”

“Hmmm …” Even though she was hobbled by her skirt, Maggie clambered into the bin and resolutely continued to dig. Her nose twitched. I wish I had my SOE boots and jumpsuit …

“Quite the aroma you’ve unearthed,” Mark remarked, watching. “ ‘Unearthed’—you do see the joke, yes?”

Maggie stood upright, resting one hand on the shovel, the other on her waist. Her face was filthy. “Perhaps you’d like a turn, Farmer Standish?”

Mark looked down at his cashmere overcoat. “Er, as long as you’re already in there …”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

“Here,” he said, taking off his leather gloves. “Mine are thicker. More protection if we do find these poisoned posies.”

Maggie quickly stripped off her own thin gloves, pocketed them, and put on the fur-lined ones. She continued to dig, then looked up. “Nothing,” she reported.

“Nothing?”

She shook her head. Her voice was desolate. “Not a blasted thing.”

“Well, we can at least track down the florist who made it. Maybe there’s more information there.”


There were four florists in Edinburgh.

They went to three of them, finding nothing, finally ending up on Queen Street. The rays from the setting sun turned the castle rose-gold, as children played in St. James’s Park, the church’s bell tower swathed in scaffolding. Twin girls in matching blue coats were playing jump rope, while a little boy in overalls and a Fair Isle sweater clung to his grandmother’s hand and pointed up. “Castle! Castle!” he lisped, pointing a chubby finger.

The older woman bent down to adjust his hat. “I know! It’s a great, big castle, innit, darlin’?”

“Of course it’s the last one,” Mark grumbled as they turned onto Northumberland Street to find Mary Mason’s Florist. “It’s always the last one.”

“Actually, that’s not statistically probable,” Maggie replied. “You just find the times when it’s the last one after a long search to be more memorable.”

“I don’t know what Hugh saw in you,” Mark grumbled, “I really don’t …”

“Tut, tut,” she admonished. “We’re here. Be professional.”

When they pushed open the door, a tiny silver bell jingled. “I’ll be right with you!” a woman’s voice rang out from the back room. Inside, it was warm and humid, and smelled of cut stems and narcissus blooms. There weren’t many flowers for sale, but there were several large and formal bouquets on the counter, ready to be wrapped in brown paper—velvety red amaryllis blossoms and heather, punctuated with thistles.

A tall woman with broad shoulders and a gray bun walked in from the back room. “Good afternoon,” she said and smiled, wiping her hands on her apron as she did so. “May I help you?”

“I’m Mark Standish from MI-Five and this is my associate, Miss Hope.” He showed his papers. “We’re investigating a series of murders, and would appreciate your help.”