Among the Mad (11 page)

“But she’s in Wychett Hill now. I can’t do anything
about it.” Billy shook his head. “I’m stuck, just as if me hands were tied
behind me back. I just couldn’t think straight. There was all this commotion,
what with getting Doreen into the ambulance—I can’t believe it’s all happened,
to tell you the truth.”

“I know someone at the Clifton who might help.” Maisie
spoke as she walked over to the card file and pulled out a drawer. She began
flicking through the cards. “In fact, I should see her soon anyway, about this
case. Let me make a telephone call and see what I can do.” She crossed the room
to the telephone, and picked up the receiver. “And I’ll be in touch with
Maurice—perhaps he’ll be able to pull a string or two.”

“Miss, I feel awful, I mean, here I am again, in
trouble and you’re sorting it out.”

“We all have trouble at times.” Maisie held up a
finger to indicate that her call was answered, and when Dr. Elsbeth Masters was
not available, she asked the secretary to let her know that she would call
later.

Maisie replaced the receiver and sat down again opposite
Billy. “Look, you go on home now, spend some time with the boys this afternoon.
You can see Bert Shorter tomorrow. We’ll see if we can get Doreen into the
Clifton. And then it won’t be long before she’s home, right as rain.”

Billy brightened, and thanked Maisie once more. He
gathered his coat and hat, and with a wave left the office.

As soon as she heard the front door close, Maisie put
her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes, pinching the top of her nose to
fight fatigue. The bump on the back of her head still throbbed yet she had much
to accomplish before making her way to Scotland Yard and her next meeting with
Special Branch. And more important than anything, now, was getting Doreen Beale
out of an asylum with antiquated ways of dealing with its patients. Old ways
that, under the guise of kindness, could kill, or drive an almost-sane person
mad.

Time and tide, time and tide. They wait for no man.
Now another letter to Mr. Home Secretary. And one to Mr. Prime Minister, Mr.
This and Mr. That. Perhaps I’ll send one to Mr. Robert Lewis MacFarlane, and
even one to Miss Maisie Dobbs. Or perhaps not. Another rabbit down the hole,
another mouse in the jar, another bird falling down. And will they listen now?
Will they hear my voice—our voices? Voices, voices, voices. I am not one man,
no, I am legion. And will they remember who we are, and what we are owed?

The man paused and held his head to one side,
listening. He looked around to regard the silhouette negotiating the steps down
to his door.

Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes .
. . Croucher.

SIX

Maisie arrived at Special Branch headquarters at
Scotland Yard and was shown directly to Robert MacFarlane’s office. He was in
the midst of a telephone conversation as she entered, but he waved her in and
pointed to a chair. Maisie looked around the room while the call was completed,
noticing that it was tidier than she might have imagined, with files and papers
stacked in a neat pile, and a clean blotter on the desk. On the walls a series
of framed photographs were evidence of a career in the police force, from a
young policeman in uniform, to senior officer in an important department. In
the middle of the gallery, a single photograph bore testimony to MacFarlane’s
war service, showing him in the uniform of a Scottish regiment.

“Beaumont Hamel, June the thirtieth, 1916.”

Maisie turned to face MacFarlane. Having finished his
call, he had leaned forward in his chair and was making a notation on a piece
of paper before placing it in a folder and turning to look at the photograph.

“Just a day before the worst day of my life.”

“Yes, I would imagine it was.”

“And in all my years in the force, the people I would
really like to bang to rights are the men who thought taking on the enemy along
seventeen miles of the Somme Valley was a good idea.”

Maisie nodded. “You’re talking about men who cannot be
touched, Superintendent.”

“Och, aye, lass, I know. But it doesn’t stop me
thinking about it. I reckon there’s more crooks over there in Westminster than
there are lurking down the Mile End Road—but let that be between us, eh?”

“I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Stratton and Darby should be here in a minute or two.
I thought we could have a little chat, a bit of a conversation, about the
Battersea deaths. Never thought I’d be interested in dog murder.”

“It could be just the beginning.”

“Aye, of something pretty bloody nasty, if you ask
me.” He looked at her without moving for a second or two, then pressed his lips
together before continuing. “Stratton’s not sure anymore that this has to do
with the fellow in Charlotte Street. He thinks it’s a bit of a red herring.”

“If you recall—” Having spoken, Maisie wondered if she
had chosen her words wisely—after all, the Chief Superintendent gave the
impression that there was nothing he would fail to recall. “The connection to
Christmas Eve was drawn because my name was mentioned.”

MacFarlane sighed, signaling a level of exasperation,
not with Maisie, but with progress on the case. “Yes, and that might have
thrown us off—have you thought of that?” He did not wait for an answer. “I’m
very familiar with your work, Miss Dobbs, and with some of the more public
cases you’ve been engaged with, and you might just as easily be known—very well
known, in fact—to members of the underworld, or, given your social contacts, to
the likes of Oswald Mosley’s followers.”

“I must point out that I am not at all acquainted with
Mosley.”

“Oh, but you know people who are—he was seen at the
home of Mr. and Mrs. Partridge, for example, and was known to be spouting his
‘come one, come all’ rhetoric at a supper there, and I believe you were present
on that occasion.”

“I have known Mrs. Partridge since I was seventeen
years of age. She worked tirelessly as an ambulance driver in the war, and I do
not care to have her character besmirched because a certain man was under her
roof. To set the record straight, yes, there was a supper. No, he was not
invited, but came for drinks—prior to the guests sitting down—with people who
wanted the Partridges to meet him. No, he did not stay. No, they didn’t really
care for him, because he hasn’t been invited back. And finally, I was late
because I was working, so by the time I arrived, Mosley had left, therefore we
did not meet. I know him no better than you, Chief Superintendent.”

“I might know Tom Mosley very well.”

“If you know him as ‘Tom’ and not ‘Oswald’ then you
probably do—so why do you suspect me of an alliance where there is none?”

MacFarlane shook his head. “I’ve never spoken to him
in my puff, but I know where he is, whom he meets, what he does, who works for
him. I know about his women. But you’re right, I have no reason to suspect you
are at all involved with his followers.”

“Then why ask me?”

“Because I have to, because I don’t know yet what I’m
dealing with. We have a letter, you are mentioned in that letter, and when
stated demands are not met—government works at its own pace, and hardly at all
over Christmas—six dogs are murdered. And it comes to something when Special
Branch gets into the stopping of wickedness to all creatures great and
small—I’d rather leave that to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Animals. But the fact that chlorine gas was used to kill the beasts sends
shivers up my spine, I can tell you. What, pray, is next?”

As if on cue, there was a sharp double rap at the
door.

“Come!”

“Sir, message for you.” The young detective, in
civvies, passed a sheet of paper to MacFarlane, who read the note and frowned.

“I’ll need my motor car, Bridges, and be quick about
it.” He stood up, and as he walked toward the coat-stand he turned to Maisie.
“Hope you’ve not any plans for going to a ceilidh this evening, Miss Dobbs.
We’ve got work to do.”

“Another letter?”

“Yes, another letter. And with Colm Darby out with his
contacts, and Stratton somewhere that doesn’t happen to be here, you might as
well join me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Number Ten Downing Street.”

“Oh, good lord!”

“No, I would say the Right Honorable Gentleman has
never been that good, not with the mess this country’s in, what with his
shambles of a National Government.”

Maisie took up her document case and wrapped her scarf
around her neck, taking her gloves from her coat pocket as MacFarlane opened
the door for her. “I am sure he speaks highly of you, too, Chief
Superintendent.”

A SINGLE LAMP illuminated the front door to Number Ten
Downing Street as the police vehicle drew to a halt alongside the entrance. The
uniformed driver and a plainclothes man alighted first, opening the passenger
doors for MacFarlane and Maisie only after they had checked the street and
nodded to the constable at the door, who had replaced the usual night watchman
on Christmas Eve. By the time they reached the door, it was open and they were
ushered inside.

“Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane and . . . ”
The private secretary looked at Maisie, then at MacFarlane.

“Miss Dobbs, Psychologist and Investigator, is working
for me on this case. I asked her to join us.”

“Very well. If you would come this way, the Prime
Minister is already in the Cabinet Room with the Lord President of the Council,
Mr. Baldwin, and the Minister for Pensions, Mr. Tryon. Gerald Urquhart from
Military Intelligence Section Five is with us, as is the Commissioner of
Police.”

“Yes, I know—he summoned me.”

“Good. Now then, here we are.”

Though well used to meetings with important clients, Maisie
felt her heart race and her hands begin to shake. But just before they were
shown into the Cabinet Room, she closed her eyes for a mere three seconds and
imagined her father’s garden at Chelstone. Years before, when she was a girl,
her mentor, Maurice Blanche, had taken her to his own teacher and friend, Basil
Khan, who instructed Maisie in the stilling of the mind. It was with Khan’s
guidance that she learned that through the art of bringing calm to everyday
thought one could delve deeper into levels of knowledge that were available
only to those for whom true silence held no fear. And it was Khan who taught
her that, in those situations where one became unbalanced in thought due to
fear or exhaustion, one only had to bring a picture into the mind’s eye of a
place where one had known peace. So Maisie saw her father’s garden, his
embracing smile, and his arms opened wide to hold her. And she was calm.

Having barely noticed her surroundings while being
escorted to the Cabinet Room, she was able to look around her self as
introductions were made. Upon first taking office in 1924, Ramsay MacDonald had
been appalled at what he deemed a distinct lack of both bookcases and works of
art in the Prime Minister’s Downing Street residence. Now shelves of books flanked
the fireplace, as well as racks of maps, so that when world affairs were under
discussion, the relevant map could be pulled out and referred to. On this
occasion, all present were quite familiar with the geography of London.

Once again MacFarlane introduced Maisie, who held out
her hand to each man present and took theirs in a firm grasp. She thought the
Prime Minister quite resembled photographs she had seen in the newspapers and
she could see how his physical appearance might inspire all manner of caricatures.
His gray hair waved out from a left parting, and it seemed that the dour Scot
eschewed hair oil. His small eyes were partially obscured by round spectacles,
and there were deep furrows between his brows. His moustache was thick and
broad, and he demonstrated an eccentricity in his choice of clothing—a wing
collar with a black tie, a long jacket that would have been more appropriate in
an Edwardian drawing room, and a pocket watch with a long fob. He clenched a
barely lit pipe between his teeth. Despite this, she admired him, for it was no
secret that Britain’s first Labour Prime Minister was the illegitimate son of a
maidservant, who as a young man had taken it upon himself to continue his
education after leaving school at the age of twelve.

Ramsey MacDonald turned and took his customary seat at
the table, in front of the fireplace. The secretary indicated the company to be
seated.

“Now, I have received a letter today—as has Mr.
Baldwin, as has Mr. Tryon, each of us sent identical letters—to the effect that
London will know a terror never before unleashed if certain demands are not
met.” The secretary placed the letters on the table in front of Urquhart,
MacFarlane, Robinson—the Police Commissioner—and Maisie Dobbs. Forgetting
protocol, Maisie did not wait and was first to reach for the letter addressed
to the Prime Minister. If MacFarlane brought her here, she meant to do her job.