“Indeed,” Maggie said.
Mark groaned. “And what now?”
“And now we ride as fast as we can, back to Edinburgh.”
Many, many hours later, back in Edinburgh, they both went to their respective hotels to wash and change clothes, then met in Maggie’s room at the Caledonian.
Mark knocked and she let him in, the room illuminated by a circle of golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.
Maggie had already read through the papers. “Well, it’s official,” she said, handing him the folder. “The British are developing what they’re calling N—anthrax, the official name for Bacillus anthracis. The weapons-grade anthrax itself is made at Porton Down, but the experiments are being carried out on the island they’ve code-named Neverland.”
Mark sat down on the chair and began to read. “Holy pish!” he said, flipping pages.
“My thoughts, exactly.” Maggie started to pace restlessly. “We certainly have enough now to make Howard talk. But that still doesn’t bring us any closer to our murderer.”
“There’s a payroll,” Mark pointed out. “And a list of contacts at Porton Down.”
Maggie stopped in her tracks. “We’d have to get a list of everyone associated with the ballet company and the Lyceum, and then cross-check with Neverland and Porton Down.”
She flung herself on the bed. She was exhausted. Two dancers and a man were dead, Sarah was dying, the British, whom she always thought of as the White Hats, were developing anthrax … Dead sheep burning …
“I may not have been all that useful on our mission, Miss Hope,” Mark said, taking out a folder of papers, as well as a fountain pen from his breast pocket, “but I can assure you, paperwork—and tracking people down—is where I excel.” He went out to the hall to use the telephone.
While Maggie napped, Mark made call after call, using “MI-Five” often, as well as calling in some personal favors. Finally, he returned and slumped back in his chair. The folder and the papers fell to the floor.
“What?” Maggie gasped, startled. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Anything?”
“Damn it, no. We seem to have reached a dead end. At least until I can think of another angle.”
“Let me see,” Maggie said, stretching out her hand. Mark gave her the papers.
She read through them all again. Nothing. “And then—what do you have? A list of everyone at the Vic-Wells?”
“Yes, and the theater, too. No one’s name checks out.”
“Stage names,” Maggie said.
“What?”
“A lot of the dancers use stage names. And women, of course, take their husbands’ names. We need to find their legal names and see if any of them match. Maybe Mildred Petrie used a stage name? And be sure to check for Diana Atholl.”
But Mark was already struggling to his feet. “I’m ordering us an enormous breakfast from room service, and then I’m on it. What are your thoughts on haggis for breakfast?”
“I think I’d rather have toast, thank you.”
After dawn had broken and office hours had begun, Mark continued with his research. Maggie decided she had somewhere else to be. She was waiting outside on the steps of the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries when Cyrus Howard arrived.
“I have nothing to say, Miss Hope,” he said, taking out his keys to open the door.
“Really, Mr. Howard?” she said, pulling out her trump card, the file. When he saw what she had, he paled.
“Come in, Miss Hope,” he said.
“Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.”
In Howard’s office, he sat and Maggie paced.
“My friend is dying,” she told him. “My friend is dying from anthrax poison that you and your cronies are making at Porton Down and testing on an island off the coast of Arisaig. ‘Neverland,’ ” she spat.
“Miss Hope—”
“Somehow, this poison has infected at least three civilians—two are dead and one is dying. And yet you cover it up …”
“We have everything under control. There’s no need for MI-Five or police involvement.”
“I don’t think you understand that my friend is dying,” Maggie snapped. “I can go to any number of people at this point. I can go to the Prime Minister. I can go to the King. I can go to the BBC …”
“Don’t you know?” Howard shot back. “The Prime Minister is behind these experiments. If you go to him, you’ll be arrested for treason.”
Mr. Churchill? Developing anthrax? Maggie felt her legs buckle. “That doesn’t stop me from going to the press,” she retorted.