“You’ll be hanged.”
“At this point, Mr. Howard, I don’t really give a flying fig!”
Howard snorted, then made a steeple of his fingers. “Miss Hope, I think I can help you. We can help each other.”
“I highly doubt it.”
“There’s an epidemiologist here in the city. He’s worked with some of our boys who’ve accidentally been infected with the anthrax spores. He has a seventy-five percent success rate. You give me all of the evidence you have and promise you’ll never speak of it again—and I’ll call the doctor and have him save your friend.”
Dr. Janus met Maggie outside Sarah’s hospital room. “I just spoke with the epidemiologist,” he said in low tones. “Now that we know she’s come in contact with cutaneous anthrax, we’re going to wash her thoroughly. He also recommended that we put her on a new medication we’re calling an ‘anti-biotic.’ That should give her a fighting chance.”
“What are her chances, Doctor?” Maggie managed. She opened the door gently and saw Sarah, gaunt and gray, eyes closed, looking almost like a corpse already. She felt dizzy with fear. “Of survival?”
“We’re doing the best we can, Miss.”
Maggie went back to the Caledonian. Mark was on the telephone. When he hung up he asked, “How did it go?”
“In exchange for our silence, he gave me the name of a epidemiologist who’s helping Sarah,” she answered, her voice flat.
“How is she?”
“It’s touch and go.”
Mark shook his head. “I’m glad. But I haven’t found the murderer. As far as I can tell, Mildred Petrie never used a stage name and she has no connection to Porton Down.”
“And what about Diana Atholl?”
Mark rubbed his eyes with his fists. “No connection to Diana Atholl, either.”
“Mark,” Maggie said, thinking, “what about Diana Angius. Can you look up the name Angius?”
Mark returned to his papers. “Angius, Angius …” He stopped, eyes wide. “There’s a Simon Angius here, who’s a scientist. Works on the spore research for ‘N.’ ” He read further. “From his date of birth, he might be Diana’s father. Let me check.”
Mark went to the telephone in the hall and made a few calls. “Yes, Diana Atholl is Simon Angius’s daughter,” he panted when he returned. “And Diana visited him last month for two weeks. And she signed into the lab—under her maiden name.”
Maggie brushed loose hair out of her face. “Diana Atholl had motive and access to the poison and to the theater—that’s enough to arrest her.”
“And Mildred Petrie?”
“She was no doubt involved, but I don’t think she’s Estelle’s killer. It’s something we could ask Mrs. Atholl when we question her.”
“When we arrest her, you mean.” Mark raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to do the honors?”
Maggie shook her head. “You’re the actual MI-Five agent on the case. Frain just let me in as a courtesy.”
“You’ve earned the right to make the arrest, Miss Hope. I’m just glad I’ll be there to see her face when you do.”
At the other end of Edinburgh, at the Balmoral Hotel, the Atholls were having tea at the Palm Court. A harpist played Debussy’s “First Arabesque” as waiters in black and white circulated under the tall Victorian glass dome with silver trays.
There was a tiered tray of sandwiches in front of the Atholls, though neither was eating. Richard Atholl looked as handsome as ever. Diana, his wife, looked even shorter and stockier in a floral dress with gaping spaces between its buttons. And although waves of genteel conversation passed over them, they did not speak.
Maggie and Mark walked in, shrugging off an offer to be seated. They went directly to the Atholls’ linen-covered table.
“I’m Agent Standish and this is Miss Hope of MI-Five.” Mark showed his identification. He looked to Maggie.
She continued, “Mrs. Diana Atholl, you are under arrest for the murders of Estelle Crawford and Mildred Petrie.”
Around them, conversation stopped as curious eyes looked over.
Mrs. Atholl pressed her lips together, then stood. “Do you need to use handcuffs?” she asked. “I promise not to make a scene.”
Maggie had expected more protest, but Mrs. Atholl seemed almost relieved. “Just come with us, Mrs. Atholl, and there’s no need for handcuffs.”
“Are you coming?” Mrs. Atholl turned toward her husband.
“You? You killed Estelle?” the conductor said softly.