The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(52)

“Obviously it was some sort of mistake—”

“Wait—” Maggie interrupted. Suddenly she saw the larger picture, and knew why such deep secrecy was necessary. “Anthrax. Britain is developing biological weapons!”

“I can’t say—”

“Biological weapons …” Maggie interrupted. Her friend might not just have been a casualty in a love affair gone wrong and revenge, but collateral damage in a top-secret military operation. “Good Lord,” she murmured.

Maggie thought back to the sheep she had found on the shore. The sores. The same black sores that Estelle and Mildred had. And now Sarah has them. And the men in the boats, herding the sheep to those islands. Arisaig, she realized, piecing it all together with the satisfying click of a math problem solved. They’re carrying out experiments with anthrax disease on an uninhabited island off the coast of Arisaig. “Mr. Churchill—the Prime Minister—he can’t possibly know about this!”

“I can’t say,” Howard insisted.

“This isn’t part of the experiment,” she said, thinking aloud. “This is someone associated with the tests, who’s using the bacteria to murder someone. So, to cover up Britain’s biological poison experiments, you let someone get away with murder?”

“I can’t say.”

“My friend is dying—there is no big picture. And what’s the cure? What sort of medicine can help? Oh wait, let me guess—you can’t say!” Maggie blazed. “There are things I would very much like to say, Mr. Howard. But, as opposed to keeping secrets and protecting killers, I choose not to say them because I am too much of a lady. Good day!”


“Sarah’s dying. I can’t just sit on my hands!” Maggie protested, as they sat on a bench overlooking East Princes Street Gardens. Mark’s long legs were crossed in front of him. She wished she could be with K. Things were better with a small purring friend. How could Dr. McNeil ever have thought of …

Then she remembered the sheep, covered in sores. Like her beloved calculus problems, the variables slid and shifted and then clicked into place. The sheep were poisoned. The British were developing biological weapons. The British were developing them on an island on the western coast of Scotland, near enough to Arisaig that one of their dead sheep could wash ashore.

Dr. McNeil had said that the sheep with the two triangular-shaped notches in his right ear and red paint on his rump belonged to a farmer named Fergus Macnab. Therefore, Macnab must know something about the experiments. Or at least have a link to the person buying his sheep for experimentation. Would Macnab know anything useful? And did they have enough time to save Sarah?

“Mr. Standish, how would you feel about a little field trip to Arisaig?”


Three long, drafty, and freezing train rides from Edinburgh later, they stumbled out on the Beasdale platform, the nearest stop to Arisaig House. Mark had slept most of the way, and had crease marks on his face from where it had been pressed up against the blackout-covered window. “This is your territory, Miss Hope,” he said, yawning. “Where to?”

“To Macnab’s farm, of course.”

“Is it far?” Mark looked around at the muddy paths and then down at his shiny oxfords.

“I’m wearing heels and stockings recently in a compost heap, Mr. Standish,” she retorted. “It would be quite churlish of you to complain. And no, just a few miles south.”

“Also, Miss Hope?” Mark peered at his watch in the moonlight. “It’s late. I suggest we get a few hours’ sleep now. Even farmers aren’t up this early.”

Maggie had been so focused on getting to Macnab that she’d completely lost track of time. Hmm, he has a point. “Fine,” she said, leading the way at a fast clip. “We’ll go back to my flat. But you’re taking the sofa.” She was sorry K was with Mr. Fergus, but there was no time for a visit.


The next morning before anyone else was awake, they walked from Arisaig House to Macnab’s farm, only a mile down the coast. This time, Maggie was prepared, dressed in her jumpsuit and boots. “So much better than heels,” she sighed as they walked along the icy paths. The grass and fallen leaves were coated with frost, which crunched under their feet.

As they came upon the dirt road to the farm, they could hear the clucking of chickens and the mournful baas of sheep. A black-and-white dog, dark spots circling his eyes like a mask, cornered them on the front walk to the small stone farmhouse, growling.

“What now, Miss Hope?” Mark asked. The dog bared his teeth.