The woman’s face paled. “Of—of course.”
“Do you remember making a bouquet of white roses, yellow laburnum, and purple carnations?” Maggie asked. “It would have been sometime during the last week of November,” she added.
“O’ course,” the woman responded. “Such a strange bouquet. And in wartime, too! But she was insistent, she was. Some o’ the flowers I had to bring in from Glasgow.”
“She?” Mark said.
“Yes, it was a woman, older. Looked so sad, really, for buying such a pretty bouquet.”
The florist opened the cash register and took out an accounting book. “I remember writing this one down, because of all the special flowers. Was a pretty penny, I remember.” She put on tiny silver-rimmed spectacles.
“Ah, here it is.” She put her ledger on the counter for them to see. “No, sorry to say I have no record of who made the purchase. That bouquet was paid for in cash.”
“But do you remember anything about the woman—anything at all?” Maggie pressed.
The woman thought for a moment. “Well, there was one odd thing about her—”
Mark leaned in. “Yes?”
“She had some green paint—or makeup or something—left around the edges of her face.”
Chapter Twelve
“I knew it!” Mark exclaimed, as they walked out of the shop. “Green makeup—left over from a performance as the evil witch! Mildred Petrie is the killer!”
“Mildred bought flowers,” Maggie reminded him, stopping on the damp pavement. “That doesn’t mean she killed Estelle.”
“But you yourself said the flowers meant—”
“The flowers meant, ‘I’ll kill you with poison because you were unfaithful.’ But Richard Athol wasn’t stepping out on Mildred. He was unfaithful to his wife—Diana Athol has motive and fits the message of the bouquet. Not Mildred.”
“Then why was Mildred buying the flowers?”
“That’s a very good question,” Maggie said, starting to walk. She called back to Mark, “Come on, let’s go.”
They stepped over puddles and avoided crumpled packets of cigarettes. Looking down on a cemetery, the stones and walls covered in lurid green moss and lichen, Maggie saw a French letter. “So much for the grave being ‘a fine and private place,’ ” she muttered.
The offices of the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries were on Queen Street. “MI-Five,” Mark said to the receptionist, a middle-aged woman, plump and prune-faced. Her glasses were so thick her eyes were magnified. “We have official and urgent business with Mr. Howard.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but he’s not here.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The woman pushed up her glasses and glared. “Well, I don’t care if you believe me or not, sir—I’m telling you Mr. Howard is not here.”
“Look, not only are two civilians dead, but a third is dying! I don’t have time for this nonsense. There may be a widespread health epidemic occurring!” Maggie shivered. Neither of them had put it into words before, and the truth was so very ugly spoken aloud.
“And, as I said, I’m very sorry, but—”
Ignoring her protest, Maggie pushed past to the door. She opened it.
There sat Cyrus Howard, at his desk, chewing on a slice of Dundee cake, cup of tea in hand.
“Why, look—it seems Mr. Howard is in after all,” Maggie said pleasantly. “Come, Mr. Standish. I believe it’s time for an impromptu meeting.”
“I know who you two are,” Howard said. “You’ve caused me nothing but trouble. The situation is under control.” He set down his cup, holding on to his cake.
“ ‘Trouble’?” Maggie hissed. “Two people are already dead. If this is your idea of ‘under control’ … Well, then obviously MI-Five needs to investigate.”
Howard’s face purpled. “While it’s unfortunate some of the civilian population was infected, I can assure you that this was an isolated incident. And this is all top, top secret, I’ll have you know. There’s absolutely no need for MI-Five to poke its nose into this.”
“You can’t keep MI-Five from investigating when the civilian population’s in danger.” Mark’s voice was even.
“The civilian population is not in danger!”
“Ragpickers’ and woolsorters’ disease …” Maggie said, thinking it through. “If it were just an isolated incident on a farm, that would be one thing … but three ballet dancers infected?”