Among the Mad (19 page)

She stood up and stepped back from the desk to stand
in front of the gas fire, first crouching down to turn up the jets. Am I
healing, now? She had sensed a newness within her of late, as if spring itself
were waiting behind winter’s cold cloak. She had felt the need to bring color
into her life, and music, for didn’t song lift the spirit and provide a conduit
for the soul’s voice? And hadn’t she read, somewhere, that in dancing we are
seeking a connection with the Divine? Had she, simply by engaging in those
endeavors that called to her, given her spirit permission to come home? She
closed her eyes and thought of Simon, now gone, now nothing more than a memory
and ashes wind-strewn across a field. Looking into the past was like looking
into a long tunnel, and she knew the tragedy of his wounding and his passing no
longer touched her with such an immediate rawness. It was more akin to an ache
that came and went, like a breeze that lifts a lace curtain back from the
window, then sets it down again. Now, it was as if those jagged and painful
memories of him were clothing she no longer needed, that she had laundered,
dried and placed in a sealed box in the attic. She might open that box on
occasion and look inside, perhaps touch the fabric and hold it to her cheek,
but she would never wear those clothes again, because they did not fit. She had
changed. It was as if her tentative returning spirit had required nothing less
of her.

Maisie looked at the clock once more. Perhaps the
unrelenting grief she had worn like a heavy cloak had been akin to madness;
after all, it had kept her incarcerated in a cell of wartime memories, and she
had been her own jailer, the keys to her past jangling from her waist.

The telephone rang, causing Maisie to jump and put her
hand on her heart. She reached for the receiver. “Fitzroy—”

“Miss Dobbs, MacFarlane here.”

“Good afternoon, Chief Superintendent. I was just
about to leave for the women’s union meeting.”

“I thought as much. Anyway, change of plan. There’s a
motor on its way to you now—it should be outside in about five minutes.”

“Have there been developments?”

“Well, if you call finding out who’s been messing
around with poison gas and building a cache of Mills Bombs a ‘development’—then
we certainly have one.”

“You have the culprit?”

“Culprits. Plural. Stratton is on his way. I’ll see
you when you get here.” There was a click and then a single unbroken tone as
MacFarlane hung up the receiver.

“And good-bye to you, Detective Chief Superintendent
MacFarlane!” Maisie set the receiver down and went to the table, where she
tidied the colored pencils and picked up her document case.

The door opened and Billy entered. “Afternoon, Miss.
There’s a big old Invicta just pulled up outside—that for you?”

“I’m afraid it is. I’m off to Scotland Yard.”

Billy, placing his coat on the hook, took Maisie’s
mackintosh down and held it open for her. “Any progress?”

“Yes, they reckon they’ve caught the men behind the
poison gas attacks.”

“And you don’t think they’ve got the right blokes—I
can see it written all over your face.”

“You’re right, but I’m going to give them the benefit
of the doubt.” Maisie paused. “Look, come with me. I’ve managed to involve you,
so you should be there. Get your coat on and let’s go. I want to talk to you
anyway, about my meeting with Elsbeth Masters.”

Billy took down his coat and opened the door for
Maisie. “Miss . . . I’m sorry to bother you, but . . . and I hope you don’t
mind me asking again, but—do you think we can get Doreen into the Clifton?”

Maisie reached out and placed her hand on his arm. “No
firm ‘yes’ yet, but I believe we’ll be in luck. And the sooner the better,
after what we saw at Wychett Hill.”

MACFARLANE, STRATTON and Colm Darby were together in
the usual meeting room at Scotland Yard when Maisie arrived with Billy. After
introducing her assistant to the policemen, they took their seats for a
briefing from Robert MacFarlane.

“Acting on a tip-off, our men interrupted”—he looked
at the group over the top of horn-rimmed spectacles, and winked—“interrupted a
meeting of union troublemakers who had set themselves up in the cellar of a
house in Finchley. Caught them red-handed with the wherewithal to make and
activate incendiary devices at will. Though the laboratory chaps are still
completing their investigation, we are given to believe these villains have
constructed gas bombs ready to let loose across the city.”

“How many men?” asked Maisie. She did not look up as
she held her pencil ready to make notes on a clutch of index cards.

“Four. And one woman.”

“And you say they are union sympathizers?”

“Yes. We found anti-government literature, along with
details of likely targets, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Have you details on the ‘et ceteras,’ Detective Chief
Superintendent?” She turned to Colm Darby. “Inspector Darby, have you had the
opportunity to view handwriting samples yet? And has there been some sort of
psychological analysis?”

Stratton caught Maisie’s eye and shook his head, as if
to warn her against pressing MacFarlane too far. Maisie looked away, and back
at MacFarlane, waiting for an answer.

“Miss Dobbs, I take it you doubt the integrity of our
investigation.”

“No, certainly not. You’ve acted upon credible
intelligence and come up with proof of subversive activity that could
compromise the well-being of the general public, possibly leading to loss of
life on a frightening scale. No, I am not questioning the integrity of the
actual investigation that has led to these people being brought in on suspicion
of causing terror, but instead I’m wondering whether they are the people
involved in the threats received by the Prime Minister, the Home Secretary and
the Minister for Pensions, and if they are the ones responsible for the deaths
of innocent animals. I am wondering if union sympathizers would not take
another course of action—would it occur to them, for example, to show their
intent in an initial attack on dogs and then birds? It doesn’t seem to me to be
the sort of thing a group of union activists might do. What do you think?”

MacFarlane shuffled his papers, set them down, then
looked back at Maisie, supported by his knuckles as he leaned across the table.
“I think I would like you to come down to a lineup of our little gang of
subversive warriors and tell us if you have seen any of them before.” He turned
to Billy, who was following the conversation with an increasing degree of
discomfort, and wondering whether his employer was pushing her luck. “And you
too, Mr. Beale. You were also walking along Charlotte Street on Christmas Eve—you
might recall a face or two.”

Billy nodded. “Right you are, sir.”

MacFarlane looked at Maisie. “See, even your man here
thinks I’m right.”

She inclined her head and stood up, ready to follow
MacFarlane. “Then let’s go down to view the suspects, shall we?”

The group was led by MacFarlane to a damp red-brick
room without plaster on the walls, where four men and a solitary woman had been
told to stand with their legs apart and their hands behind their backs.

“Let me introduce our motley crew here today,” said
MacFarlane. “First, Graham Tucker, thirty-four, union activist, small-time
crook—though his mates here probably don’t know about his previous, which
includes pickpocketing and receiving stolen goods. Learned a thing or two about
explosives in the war, courtesy of His Majesty’s Army.” He moved along the
line. “Tommy Burgess. Thirty years of age. Mineworkers union and, again, a bit
of previous behind him, including assault and robbery.” He shook his head. “I
think we’re seeing something of a pattern here. Now to Miss Catherine Jones.
Chemist, a university girl no less—and look where it’s got her today.”

Maisie suspected Catherine Jones was about to spit on
MacFarlane’s feet, but had thought better of it and instead looked at the
ground. MacFarlane introduced the last two members of the gang, Wilfred Knight
and Frederick Ovendale, both union men, both soldiers in the war.

“Right then, we’ve seen enough, I think we can resume
our meeting now,” said MacFarlane.

Maisie spoke in a low voice to MacFarlane: “I’d like
to question Miss Jones, if I may?”

MacFarlane rolled his eyes. “Be my guest.” He turned
to a constable and a woman police auxiliary, and directed them to take
Catherine Jones to an interview room, then held out his hand for Maisie to
follow.

Maisie turned to her assistant. “Billy, perhaps you
would be so kind as to return to the meeting room and take down my case map. I
won’t be long—about ten to fifteen minutes.”

Billy nodded and looked at Stratton, who indicated
that Billy should follow him.

When they entered the interview room, no more than
twelve feet square with eggshell-finished walls and a small window that allowed
only a narrow shaft of light in, Maisie held out her hand for the woman to be
seated, then turned to the constable. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to wait
outside. I’ll only need your Miss Hawkins here to witness the interview.”

She kept her coat on, for it was cold in the room, and
sat down opposite the woman.

“If you think I’m going to be the Judas here, you’ve
got another think coming.” Catherine Jones spat out the words and did not face
Maisie, but sat with her legs to one side, so that she could look at the wall
and not her interviewer.

“I’m not going to ask you to be disloyal to your
friends, but I do want to establish the extent to which you have already used
your skills and knowledge on behalf of the union agitators. You are an
intelligent, well-educated woman, Miss Jones, yet you have risked everything by
throwing in your lot with these men.” Maisie paused, clasping her hands together
on the table in front of her. “What led you to take such a gamble?”

The woman braced her shoulders as if to fight the urge
to respond, then breathed a sigh and slumped toward the table, her head resting
on her forearms. The policewoman stepped forward, but Maisie held up her hand.
Jones shook her head and looked up. “This is a bloody nightmare.”

“Yes, it is. But it started somewhere, didn’t it?”

The woman sat back. “I’d give my eyeteeth for a
ciggie.”

“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

“No, I didn’t think so. You’re not the type, more’s
the pity.”

“Tell me how you became mixed up in this, Catherine.”

Jones shrugged. “I lost my job. Easy as that. Laid off
with no money coming in. My parents are dead, my brother was wounded in the war
and died in a hospital in Southampton—septicemia. I’m alone, so I need money to
live. I’d joined the union, and became more involved in politics.” She paused.
“You probably have no idea what it’s like, do you, not knowing where the next
penny’s coming from?”

Maisie wanted to respond, but held back, instead
letting the vacuum of silence force the woman to continue.

“No, I thought not. You haven’t a clue, not a bloody
clue.” Jones shook her head again. “Well, I might as well go on.” Another sigh.
“Looking for a place to go, I walked into the wrong crowd. As I said before—all
as easy as that.” She snapped her fingers into the space between her
interrogator and herself. “Soon our band had broken away from the union, and we
decided the only way to make our presence felt was . . . was . . . a show of
strength.” She sat in silence. “Not that we’d actually shown anyone anything,
to tell you the truth. We were just getting going.”

“So you had your cache of weaponry, but hadn’t used
it?”

“Not a bloody thing. To tell you the truth, I think we
were all a bit scared. It soon became clear to me that Tommy Burgess had more
interest in making plans to hold up banks than in making a point by showing the
boys in Whitehall that the unions had something to say. I was on the verge of
getting out of it, and I was sure that Wilf was an informer—bloody scab!”

“Do you know a man by the name of Ian Jennings?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“Answer the question, please, Catherine.”

“Never met anyone by that name in my life.”

“Could you make a bomb of poison gas?”

“Such as?”

“Chlorine. Chlorine and phosgene, or mustard gas.”

“Old wartime favorites?”

“Yes.”

“No, I couldn’t. That takes more of an expert than I
can lay claim to being. And I wouldn’t. Saw what the gas did to my brother.”

“But you were making bombs.”

“Not like that, though. We might’ve created a stink,
might have caused a few tears, or the police to run away from a march, but no,
I’m not in the business of killing like that.”

“But I understand Mills Bombs were found.”

“They might have been found, Miss Dobbs. But I didn’t
know we had them. I was only involved in developing chemical concoctions to
upset the police during our demonstrations. Not killing people.”

Maisie nodded. “That will be all, thank you.” She
pushed back her chair to stand.

“Thought so. I tell you everything I know and I’m
still not getting out of here.”

“I’m sorry, Catherine. I have to be honest, I don’t
think I can get you out. At the very least, you are guilty of conspiring to
cause an affray, and the men you were with were in possession of dangerous
weapons. But I will record our conversation. It may help when you come up
before the judge. And try not to get in with the wrong crowd again—you are far
too intelligent a woman to have done such a thing.” She nodded to the
policewoman and left the room, passing the constable as she departed. “You can
escort Miss Jones back to her cell now.”

Stratton was waiting for Maisie at the end of the
corridor, and moved forward to walk in step with her as she alighted the
staircase.

“What do you think?”

Maisie stopped, turning toward Stratton. “What do you
think I think? They might have been planning subversive activity, they might
have had a cache of weapons that they surely must answer for in a court of law,
but they are not behind the threats we’re investigating. I really don’t know
what’s happening here, but—”

“MacFarlane is under pressure to produce suspects.”

“I suppose next he’ll round up the women unionists for
even daring to ask for pensions.”

“No, not quite, however—”

“Come on, Richard, you know he’s wrong. Even he knows
he’s wrong.” She continued on up the staircase, realizing she had just
addressed Stratton by his Christian name. Her cheeks blazed.

“Stop, wait, please, Maisie.”

“Yes?” She turned as he placed a hand on her arm.

“You and I do not have to discontinue the
investigation.”

“I know. I have no intention of stopping, even though
I am sure my work here on this case has just come to an end, and even though it
will be on my own time.” Maisie did not try to hide her exasperation. “I just
know there is someone out there, working alone—or with a close associate—who is
on a knife edge. I just feel it. I have been trying to compose a picture in my
mind’s eye of the type of person we are looking for, and I do not see him
reflected in any single member of that group we’ve just viewed. Catherine Jones
may be a trained chemist, may be an intelligent woman, but there’s something
she does not have, something you would need to be able to kill dogs, birds—and
eventually, a human being. She does not have the suffering. Even in the hard
nuts who appear beyond any redemption, we see that terrible ache that took root
and grew to take over a whole person. She had lost her parents, yes, her
brother, yes, but she does not display a level of . . . ” Maisie bit her lip,
searching for words to describe an emotion she could feel but not give voice
to. “Deep, deep melancholy, a darkness. She is not someone who truly has
nothing to live for but to give up her life for others in a similar position.”
She turned to continue up the staircase. “And that makes the man we are looking
for very, very dangerous indeed, for he has nothing to lose, not even his
conscience. We should be thankful that he is choosing to increase the stakes
slowly, but I fear his patience is wearing thin.”

“I think you’re right.” Stratton kept pace with
Maisie, who was now making her way toward the meeting room at a fair clip.

“Then tell Robbie MacFarlane.”

“Tell Robbie MacFarlane what?” The Detective
Superintendent’s voice boomed from a room on the left as he walked into the
corridor. “Tell Robbie MacFarlane what, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie stood tall to answer MacFarlane. “Sir, I do not
believe the people we have just seen are responsible for the threats sent to
Downing Street.”

MacFarlane placed a hand on Maisie’s shoulder. “Well,
Miss Dobbs, at this moment in time, it does not matter what you believe.” He
turned to Stratton. “I’ll talk to you later. I just need a word with Miss Dobbs
here.” Bringing his attention back to Maisie, he cupped her elbow in his hand
and steered her toward his office. “Sit down please, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie took a seat and placed her document case on the
floor alongside her chair. She rested her hands in her lap and crossed her
ankles, noticing that MacFarlane had followed each move.

“Now then, I know you think we’ve got the wrong
people, and perhaps you are right. I’m not going to dismiss your observations
out of hand, but I will save you the time.” He folded his arms and looked at
his feet. Maisie noticed that the fabric of his jacket was taut across his
shoulders, and thought he might have bought the jacket when he was a younger
man and the intervening years were not accommodated easily by his clothing.

“Miss Dobbs, your services are no longer required by
Special Branch. Your contributions have not been without merit, but now that we
have suspects in custody, there would be unwanted speculation if we retained
you for any longer than necessary, especially in these times of tight budgetary
oversight. In short, the bean counters are watching me, so you had better be on
your way.”

“And you no longer have to keep an eye on me because
my name was mentioned in a threatening letter sent to the Prime Minister’s
office?”

“We believe that to have been a shot in the dark,
perhaps a device to throw us off the scent, so to speak. Plus, you have been
mentioned in the newspapers before in one or two cases involving former
soldiers.” He laughed. “And I doubt you could make a bomb, Miss Dobbs.”

“Yes, you’re right—bombs and poison gas are hardly in
my line.” Maisie reached for her case and rose from the chair, holding out her
hand. “Thank you for the opportunity to work with you, Detective Chief
Superintendent MacFarlane. I am glad to have been of service.” She cleared her
throat. “I take it my account will be settled promptly.”

“I will personally ensure you are not out of pocket.”

“Thank you.” She turned to leave, but MacFarlane
reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“I hope we meet again, Miss Dobbs.”

“Yes, of course. I am sure our paths will cross.” She
pulled on her gloves. “Now then, I should be off.”

Maisie made her way to the meeting room where Billy
was in conversation with Stratton and Darby.

“Ready, Billy?”

“Yes, Miss.” He held up a rolled-up length of paper.
“I’ve taken the case map.”

She turned to Stratton and Darby, holding out her hand
to each in turn. “Gentlemen, it was a pleasure working with you. I wish you the
best of luck.”

As soon as they were outside, Maisie raised her hand
to summon a taxi-cab.

“Pushing the boat out, aren’t we, Miss?”

“I need to get back to the office, Billy, so we can
get on with some real work.”

A cab drew alongside and Billy opened the door for
Maisie to take a seat before he instructed the driver and then clambered
aboard. “I thought we were working, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“As the Chief Superintendent said, Billy, I do not
have the knowledge to make a bomb or some other sort of terrible weapon. But
someone out there does and he’s been letting us know that he has every intention
of using that knowledge if his demands are not met—and we must assume they
definitely will not be met.” She looked out of the window at the already
darkened skies of a winter’s midafternoon, then turned back to Billy. “So, our
job is to find the person who has that knowledge.”

“There’s a lot of people like that about, I mean, I
could knock together an incendiary device if I had to.”

Maisie shook her head. “But you are guided by
goodness, Billy. Our man doesn’t know what it is to feel that goodness anymore.”

I feel as if I have been shouting at someone who is
walking away from me, and who cannot hear. It has been like that since the war.
And so, because I don’t want to shout louder, I turn back, I don’t bother. But
now I have to bother. I can hear myself screaming inside my head. I can hear my
voices, telling them how wrong they are, how wrong they have been. I can no
longer plead in my prayers. Listen to me. Listen to me. Please, please, listen
to me. But no one listens, because the man with his hand held out, the man who
cannot walk as he once walked, or think as he once thought, has nothing that
anyone wants to hear, not anymore. So now I have to shout. Only I no longer
shout with words. There is no point. They only listen to me when I take action.
Then they have to listen. So I shout with the doing, and it always comes back
to what I do well.

TEN

The taxi-cab dropped Maisie and Billy at the junction
of Warren Street and Fitzroy Street. As they walked around the corner into the
square, a black motor car parked on the flagstones in front of the mansion that
housed their office caught their attention. They both stopped walking and stood
for a moment to observe the vehicle.

“It’s not a police motor, but it is official,” offered
Maisie.

“Could be for someone else.”

“It could.” She paused. “But it isn’t. Come on, let’s
see who it is.”

They did not look into the motor car as they passed
and made their way up the steps to the front door, but as Maisie took out her
key, they heard a door open behind them and a voice call out.

“Miss Dobbs? And this must be Mr. Beale. Jolly good to
have caught you.”

They turned around, and Maisie slipped the key into
her pocket.

“Gerald Urquhart. Remember me? Well, I just dropped by
to have a little conversation, a little chin wag, as they say.” With a
lightness of foot, he came up the steps toward Maisie and held out his hand, though
his voice was now low. His coppery brown hair was slicked back by oil that made
it seem darker, and he wore a gray suit with white collar and black tie. His
shoes were polished to a deep shine. “Military Intelligence, Section Five. It’s
a business matter. Let’s go up to your office, shall we?” He nodded toward the
door for Maisie and Billy to lead the way. “Just a few points to discuss. I’m
sure you want to keep the Funnies up to date, eh? MacFarlane and his boys can
be so cloak and dagger, can’t they?”

Opening the door to her office, Maisie approached her
desk, set her document case on the floor and her shoulder bag in a drawer.
“Billy, pull up chairs for yourself and Mr. Urquhart, please.” She sat down
behind her desk and waited for the men to be seated. Behind Urquhart’s back
Billy caught Maisie’s eye and raised his hand to his mouth as if holding a cup.
Maisie shook her head. There would be no offer of tea for the man from Section
Five.

“Miss Dobbs.” Urquhart pulled at the trouser fabric
close to his knees as he sat down. “I understand that our friend Robbie
MacFarlane has dismissed you from the investigation regarding the source of
those letters sent to the Prime Minister et al.”

“Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane has a group
in custody and believes them to be behind the threats. They are union
activists, and one of the group studied chemistry at university, so has an
understanding of combustible substances.”

“I see. And you think he’s wrong.”

“I think it’s worth continuing the search. I think
it’s worth leaving no stone unturned.”

“Do you know why you’ve been dismissed?”

“I would have thought it’s clear.”

“Not at all.” He crossed his legs, leaning back in a
manner that Maisie interpreted as proprietorial. “No, you were dismissed
because of Robbie’s tendency toward maverick acts. Taking you to Number Ten was
not one of his better strategic moves.”

“I understood I was asked to accompany the Chief
Superintendent because I was available and was working on the case. I believe
he wanted to bring some immediacy to the meeting, to show that he was not
thinking in the usual way, so to speak—that he was willing to consider
intelligence beyond Special Branch.”

“Or in other words, that he could do what he liked in
his personal bailiwick.”

Maisie did not respond. She wasn’t about to agree with
Urquhart, or disagree, though she could see his point.

“Moving to a more fruitful dialogue, I hope, I
understand you have a—now, what would your old teacher Dr. Blanche say?”
Urquhart put his finger to his chin in mock thought. Maisie said nothing,
though she felt a welter of dislike for the man. She waited for him to
continue.

“Oh, yes, he’d say that you had a sense of the author
of the letters, wouldn’t he? Good old Maurice.”

Fighting the urge to stand—she didn’t want to give the
impression of needing height to have a voice with power behind it—Maisie
responded with a certain coolness. “Dr. Blanche has been decorated for service
to this country and, as you know, much of that service has been in
intelligence, so I would prefer it if you referred to him with the respect his
contribution to our nation’s security deserves.”