Among the Mad (12 page)

MacFarlane looked at her and, though she could not be
sure, she thought he might have winked. “What do you think, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie cleared her throat and turned to the Prime
Minister. “A letter-writer reveals much about himself in the manner of his
script. That helps us to draw a picture of who he might be, where he might
live, what his habits are. It helps us to narrow down the places where we might
look. At first glance, the handwriting shows many of the markers noted by
myself and Detective Inspector Darby when the first letter was received by the
Home Secretary.” Maisie looked at Robinson. “Sir, seeing as the three letters
are identical in content, might it help if I read one aloud?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course, please
continue, Miss Dobbs.” He glared at MacFarlane.

Maisie stood up so her words might carry without
anyone straining to hear, and hoped that the shaking in her voice was not too
obvious.

“You didn’t listen, did you? You sat, fat, by your
Christmas Day fires, with your turkey and plum pudding inside you, and you
ignored my warning.”

Maisie looked up for a second, to see how the writer’s
words were being received, then she cleared her throat and went on.

“And while you ate and drank, there were people
without. There are people on the streets and among them are men who gave legs,
arms and minds for you. And now look at you—you who thought I was nothing, a
nobody. Will you do that now? Will you, The Rt. Honorable Prime Minister, do
something about us all? Or you, Mr. Minister of Pensions? And Mr. Baldwin, how
about you? Or will you scrap among yourselves for your power? I think you know
what I can do, the power I wield. Or is the life of mere animals not worth a
measure of your time? I will not allow those to suffer who have suffered enough
already, but you know what I want and what I can do. I can be hell itself,
unless my demands are met. I want every man who served to receive a full
pension he can live on—wounded or not. That’s where we will begin, Honorable
Gentlemen. That is where we will begin. I hope you can come to your senses before
another day has passed.”

Maisie placed the letter on the table, and sat down,
smoothing her skirt as she took her place once more. She was relieved that she
had chosen to wear her smart burgundy costume this morning, and not an older
ensemble.

“Thank you, Miss Dobbs,” said MacDonald. He looked at
the Commissioner and Urquhart, then MacFarlane. “Gentlemen, your measure of the
seriousness of this threat? Are the people of London at risk? When can I expect
word that this man is behind bars, and what precautions will you be taking in
the meantime?” He looked at his watch, then at his private secretary.

“Five minutes, Prime Minister.”

The Commissioner cleared his throat. “I have been
briefed by Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane that there is a medium risk,
that you can expect word within twenty-four hours, and we will be increasing
the number of men on the streets.”

Maisie raised her eyebrows.

“Can I have a word?” Baldwin leaned forward. His
manner was easier than that of the Prime Minister, with more resonance to his
voice. “Thank you for the summation of your plans, Commissioner, but if I may
address the Detective Chief Superintendent”—he looked straight at
MacFarlane—“what is medium risk and is twenty-four hours attainable? We’re used
to looking over our shoulders, but will I need a neck brace?”

“Sir, ‘medium risk’ means we do not believe all of
London will be flattened by midnight. However, we know already that this man
has the means to cause some harm if he so chooses. Given what must be an
amateur capability, damage—and let us be clear, we are talking about chemical
weaponry—would be limited to about a quarter of a mile. And that’s if it isn’t
a windy day when he takes it into his head to unleash his cocktails on a
greater area than Battersea Dogs and Cats Home.” MacFarlane coughed and cleared
his throat, paused for a second, and looked at Baldwin, then the Prime
Minister. “And to the matter of twenty-four hours, I would say that it is
attainable. We are looking at the Irish, the Fascists, the possibility of a
very disgruntled Bolshevik union man—or men. We’re following recently released
criminal elements, and of course we might have a lunatic on our hands.”

Feeling a dryness at the back of her tongue, Maisie
held her hand to her mouth and coughed. She wondered whether such intimidating
circumstances always compromised a speaker’s voice, because the visitors to the
Prime Minister’s residence were either clearing their throats or coughing every
time they spoke. “If I might add a word—” She was aware of the men turning to
look at her, and for a heartbeat it seemed as if the hands of time were turning
through treacle, for their heads appeared to move so slowly and she could hear
her own heartbeat throbbing in her ears. She took another deep breath. “As we’ve
been speaking, I have had an opportunity to glance at the letters—and they
obviously bear greater inspection—however, the manner in which the script has
been executed suggests to me that this man is more desperate than he was two
days ago. I suspect he is in some pain, and the penmanship suggests he is cold,
very cold. Physical deprivation will enhance his emotions, so I would say that
we are on something of a knife edge in terms of the threat.”

The men looked at one another as MacDonald thanked
Maisie for her summation of the situation, pushed back his chair, and addressed
the group. “I expect a report in twenty-four hours. I want to know that London
is safe, that my cabinet is at no risk of harm. Do what you have to do,
Commissioner.”

Along with the other visitors, Maisie stood up as the
Prime Minister left the room, followed by Baldwin and Tryon.

“Gentlemen.” The secretary stood by the door, his hand
indicating the way, then he turned to lead the visitors from the building.

Maisie reached forward to gather the letters and was
about to hand them to MacFarlane when Urquhart leaned over and attempted to
grasp the collected papers.

“I’ll take those, if you don’t mind. Military
Intelligence trumps the boys in blue.”

“Oh, but I’m sure—”

“Hang on to those, Miss Dobbs, we don’t want the
Funnies getting above themselves, do we?” said MacFarlane.

“Now look here, Robbie—”

“I think we’d better catch up with the others. I for
one do not want to be locked in here for the night. Now, why don’t you take one
letter, Mr. Urquhart, so that you can conduct your own tests.” Maisie handed
Urquhart the top letter, placing two in her document case as she walked at a
brisk clip toward the front door, which was being opened by the private
secretary. MacFarlane and Urquhart were behind her.

With a dull thump the door closed at their heels and
the three stepped onto the pavement at the same time as Robinson, already
seated in his motor car, wound down the rear passenger window.

“I’ll see you at the Yard, MacFarlane. Soon as you’re
back.” The window wound up again, and the driver pushed the vehicle into gear
and drove away.

“Need a lift, Gerry?”

“Much obliged, Robbie.”

The Superintendent’s motor car drew alongside and
Urquhart opened the door, holding out his hand to steady Maisie as she stepped
on the running board and into the vehicle. MacFarlane sat next to her, and
Urquhart pulled down the extra passenger seat in front of them.

“I was surprised to see Miss Dobbs with you,
Robbie—reckon that’s why the boss wants to see you pronto?”

“I won’t be answering that question, my man,
especially in the presence of Miss Dobbs, who happens to be a most valuable
member of my group.”

“Not on the force though, is she?”

“That’s enough, Gerry.”

Maisie leaned forward to speak, thought better of it,
and instead rested back on the seat. As MacFarlane had suggested, disagreements
between Special Branch and Military Intelligence were sometimes unavoidable as
they often tilled the same ground, and the last thing she wanted to do was to
get in the middle. She wasn’t sure why MacFarlane had taken her to Downing
Street for what amounted to a “heads will roll” meeting. It was clear the
government would never bow to a threat. But she had seen the handwriting, the
stains on the paper, and she knew she would spend a restless night. There was
work to be done, and she would need to be in Oxford in the morning.

December 28th, 1931

Maisie was surprised at having slept so well, given
that she had arrived home late following what proved to be a heated meeting
with Stratton, Darby and MacFarlane. The four had convened soon after the Chief
Superintendent arrived back at Special Branch headquarters. She knew MacFarlane
had been brought up short by his superiors, and was doubtless asked to explain
why he had asked Maisie to accompany him to the meeting with the Prime
Minister. It was a question she hoped to ask him herself, at an appropriate
moment. What was clear was that the next twenty-four hours represented a race
against the clock.

Twenty-past six in the morning. Time to leave London.
The air was damp, with a smog so thick she was glad to be traveling by train.
Taking the circle line to Paddington, she came up from the underground into the
busy station, where a throng of passengers rushed back and forth, or lingered,
clapping hands together to keep warm as they waited for departure
announcements. Maisie bought her third-class ticket and walked toward the
platform, clutching her document case with her left hand as she turned the
clasp to secure her shoulder bag.

When she held out her ticket to the station guard, she
glanced across and thought she saw Dr. Anthony Lawrence on the neighboring
platform. She stopped to look again—after all, one gentleman waiting for a train
can look much like another—but a train pulled in alongside the platform where
the man was standing.

Maisie approached a guard. “Excuse me—”

“Hurry up, Miss, can’t keep people waiting.”

“I’m sorry—but could you tell me where that train is
going?”

“The one just come in on platform six?”

“Yes.”

The guard pulled out his watch. “That’ll be the twenty
minutes past to Penzance.”

“Thank you.”

As Maisie walked along the platform, the Oxford train
chugged into the station, steam punching out sideways as the locomotive slowed
to a stop at the buffers. She took a seat alongside the window, close to the
heater, and settled in for her journey, soon so deep in thought that she held
no awareness of the carriage filling, or of the guard’s whistle and the
lumbering side-to-side motion as the train pulled out of the station. She
wondered where the doctor might be going on a working day. She knew the
Penzance train stopped at stations in Berkshire and Wiltshire and then
throughout the west of England on its way to Cornwall, and there were
psychiatric hospitals in several places on the way, out in the country where
men could be kept away from the noise and struggle of towns, cities and other
conurbations. But really, even if it were Lawrence, it was nothing to do with
her where he was going, was it?

THE PORTER AT St. Edmund Hall escorted Maisie along a
corridor of the medieval college, knocking on the door to John Gale’s rooms and
announcing the visitor before allowing her to enter.

“Miss Dobbs. Right on time, that’s what I like. Can’t
bear people who are late, completely befuddles my day, especially as I’ve a
lecture in an hour. Now come along, take a seat by the fire.”

John Gale was almost six feet tall and somewhat thin;
his gown seemed to hang on his shoulders. His hair, silver gray and swept back,
was longer than was fashionable and, Maisie thought, it might be likely that
the business of getting a haircut was something that slipped his mind until the
skin around his collar began to itch with chafing.

Maisie reached out to shake Gale’s hand, then seated
herself as instructed on a low slipper chair of red velvet set alongside a
fireplace that could have benefited from a puff or two from the bellows. As if
reading her mind, Gale knelt down in front of the fire and proceeded to blow on
the smoldering embers to encourage a more active flame, then added more coal
from the scuttle. He blew once or twice more, then came to his feet, taking the
chair opposite her.

“There, that’s better, soon have a roaring fire. I
forget myself, you see—working on a paper for a meeting of physicists next
week—and then I wonder why I’m cold. In any case, Maurice said you wanted to
see me, that it had something to do with my work in the war.”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m interested in the gases used
in the war. I was a nurse, so I know the effects of various gases—chlorine,
chlorine and phosgene, and of course, mustard gas—but I want to understand how
the government responded to the attacks in the first instance. I understand you
worked at Mulberry Point, and wonder if you could enlighten me.”

“Not sure I should be talking about this, to tell you
the truth. Mind you, it was a long time ago when I worked there full-time.”