Among the Mad (24 page)

“I see. Yes, as I said, it was a long time ago.”

“Dr. Lawrence, may I ask about your work at Mulberry
Point?”

Lawrence slid his hands on either side of a pile of
papers, aligning them on the desk. He pushed them to one side, then pulled them
to him, before pushing them away again.

“It was work to be held in the strictest confidence. I
do not know what Dr. Masters thinks she’s doing, telling all and sundry.”

“I believe she felt confident in divulging the
information.”

Lawrence lined up a collection of pens and pencils and
graduated them by size next to the files. Then he changed the order, and placed
writing instruments of like color alongside one another. Maisie, now accustomed
to this habit, watched each movement, waiting for his response.

“It’s clear you know about the work that goes on at
Mulberry Point, so I see little harm in allowing the following. The nature of
experimentation at the laboratory is such that both physical and psychological
responses to various substances had to be monitored. There is only so much
testing that can be done on dogs, cats, birds and mice—and it seems the public
are far more worried about the well-being of animals than they are human
life—so various workers volunteered themselves for experimentation, in the
interests of serving their country.”

“That sounds rather dangerous.”

“To a point, yes, it was.”

“Were people always aware of the consequences?”

Lawrence began moving the items on his desk again.
“Miss Dobbs, remind me why you are asking these questions?” He gave a half
laugh. “I am finding it hard to reconcile the memory of an adept nursing sister
with the woman who is questioning me now.”

Maisie let the comment settle, and continued with her
line of inquiry. “Was the testing with regard to weapons that might be used
against our countrymen, or weapons that our scientists were developing?”

“Can’t have one without the other.” Maisie noticed
that Lawrence’s response was candid. He continued as if speaking to a child
unable to grasp simple concepts. “You have to be one step ahead of the enemy,
you know. As I said, my job concerned the mind’s response to weapons that
cannot be seen, the onslaught that can only be felt, experienced.”

“I see.”

“Is that all?” Lawrence shifted his chair, as if ready
to leave the room.

“Yes, I think that’s all—oh, no, one last thing.”
Maisie gathered her document case and stood up to face the doctor. “Did you
ever get to know the men—or women, I suppose—who worked at Mulberry Point?”

He shook his head, and looked at his watch. “No, not
my job to make acquaintances of my patients.” He indicated the door. “Shall we?
I expect Croucher is in the corridor somewhere—he’ll show you out.”

“So, you wouldn’t have known a man called ‘Oliver,’
then?”

“Good heavens, no. No names, no pack drill, just
numbers. In fact, I have never known an Oliver in my life—except Twist, that
is!” He opened the door and shouted along the corridor for Croucher, who came
at once when summoned.

IT WAS CLEAR to Maisie that both Anthony Lawrence and
the porter, Mr. Croucher, had been glad to see the back of her. The former did
not care for her questioning, and the latter appeared to object to anyone
taking up space in the entrance hall, over which he seemed to reign supreme.
She felt sure that Lawrence was holding something back. Or could his manner be
put down to being a doctor, one who was not familiar with having his word
questioned in any way, especially by a former ward sister? He would object to
her inquiry as it suggested she doubted him, and in Maisie’s experience,
doctors saw their diagnosis as the last word, and their last word as law. One
did not question the doctor’s decision.

She glanced at the clock on the way out and walked to
the MG at a brisk pace, then drove back to Fitzroy Square. She parked in Warren
Street and walked across the square, in time to see Billy Beale opening the
front door to enter.

“Hold the door, Billy!” Maisie ran the last few yards.

“Afternoon, Miss. Sorry I’m a bit late, but the train
was delayed. According to the guard, there was a fair bit of ice on the line up
from Epsom this morning, and it’s slowed everything up all day.”

“Not to worry. Come on, let’s get a quick cup of tea
and then get to work.”

“Something come up?”

At the top of the stairs, Maisie unlocked the door to
the office and, well used to their ritual, both she and Billy took off their
coats and hung them behind the door before Maisie ignited the fire, and Billy
put the kettle on. Having not stopped to eat, Maisie was hungry, but food would
have to wait now as there was work to be done. Soon they were sitting at the
table by the window with the case map spread out in front of them.

“Do you remember the Foundling Hospital?”

“Over toward Mecklenburg Square?”

“Yes. It closed—oh, I think in 1926 or ’27, something
like that. Can you remember where they placed the children? I don’t think it
was closed as in never to open again, but I seem to recall it was moved, out of
London, to the country.”

“I remember reading about that, Miss. I remember
talking about it with Doreen, saying it was sad, you know, that little children
aren’t wanted, and have to live in them orphanages, growing up with—”

“But where did they go?”

“I could have sworn it was down Surrey way. Somewhere
like that—Dorking? Reigate? Redhill? Come to think of it, I think it was
Redhill.”

“Find out for me—as soon as you can. I want the
address, and I want the name of the principal, the headmaster, whatever they
call the person in charge. Then I have to pay them a visit.” She looked at her
watch. “You have to get back to your boys soon, Billy, so I’ll go alone.”

“You’ll never get down there at a decent hour today,
Miss. Don’t mind me saying so, but no one will see you.”

Maisie gave a half laugh. “This is where I need a
black motor with bells and a blue uniform. Or the words ‘Detective
Superintendent’ in front of my name.’” She paused. “In fact . . . ” She drew
her chair back and stepped quickly to her desk, where she lifted the telephone
receiver and placed a call to Scotland Yard.

“May I speak to Detective Chief Superintendent Robert
MacFarlane, please?” She paused. “Well, is Detective Inspector Stratton there?”
Another pause. “Detective Inspector Darby? All out. I see. In that case, as
soon as Superintendent MacFarlane returns, please ask him to return my
telephone call.” Maisie gave her name and telephone number and replaced the
receiver.

“Now what?”

“As soon as you have the information about the
Foundling Hospital, Billy, I’ll make an appointment and go tomorrow morning.”

“What will you tell them?”

“Anything—whatever I have to say to gain an audience
with someone who in turn has access to the records.”

Billy nodded as he stood up and went to the wooden
card file set against the wall alongside his desk. Maisie noticed his
matte-gray skin and the lines around his eyes, which seemed even more
pronounced than yesterday.

“Oh, Billy, I am sorry. I was so anxious to get to my
desk that I forgot to ask about Doreen—and she has been on my mind so much. How
is she?”

Billy bit his lip. “I want her out of there, Miss. I
wish I could have just brought her home, but—I don’t know what’s right anymore.
I don’t know whether taking her out is worse than leaving her there, but at the
same time, you should see her—I don’t know what they’re doing half the time. It
seems to me they’re keeping on with this business of trying to shock her mind
into going back to what it was, as if they’re trying to get a big enough jolt
in her to come to terms with what happened to our Lizzie. She’s holding on to
it—with all her mind she won’t let our little girl go. But she’s gone, and I
miss her just as much. There’s the boys to think of, and our future, and the
way things are going . . . ”

“Come on, sit down, Billy.” Maisie took Billy by the
arm. “I’ll telephone Dr. Masters again right now, to see if there’s been any
progress. I’ll ask if she can bring any more urgency to getting Doreen
transferred.”

“I feel as if I’m giving up, Miss. Nothing seems to be
going right for us, does it? Just when we think we might be on our way up the
river, so help me a bleeding great wave comes and knocks the stuffing out of
all of us. And the boys know it, it’s taking its toll there, make no mistake.”
He sighed, taking in such a deep breath that it sounded as if it might be
punctuated by a bronchial cough, but was not, for he continued talking. “Time
was, I would look at all them poor sods walking for work, lining up for
subsistence, and think, ‘At least we ain’t got that to put up with.’ But now I
don’t. I don’t feel better off anymore, because we’ve been playing with a
rotten deck of cards, me and Doreen.”

“It’ll be all right, Billy, I promise. Look, you go
and put the kettle on for a fresh cuppa, and I’ll telephone Dr. Masters.”

Billy nodded and set about collecting the tea tray,
and when he left the room, Maisie picked up the telephone receiver. She had not
wanted to place the call while he was in earshot, in case the news was other
than they had hoped for.

“Dr. Masters?”

“Yes—oh dear, it’s you, Maisie. I have been meaning to
get in touch since yesterday, but I am clinging on to sanity myself. We always
have more admissions at this time of year. Christmas and New Year, I am sure,
sends everyone around the bend. Now then, you’ve called about Mrs. Doreen
Beale—that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Do you have news for me?”

“Good news. We can admit her in the New Year, but we
have to wait for the seasonal influx to be whittled down.” Maisie could hear a
shuffling of papers. “Right, here we are: we’ll admit her on Monday, January the
fourth. An ambulance has been arranged to bring her up from Wychett Hill—I have
to complete some documents and then admissions will expedite matters.”

“Oh, Dr. Masters, thank you.”

“Not at all, not at all. Sounds like the poor woman
was in a dreadful state, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, and she has since suffered through more
procedures.”

“I’ll assess her as soon as she arrives. We’ll look
after her, not to worry.”

“Thank you, again, Dr. Masters.”

“Yes, as soon as I heard your voice, I knew you were
ringing to ask about either Mrs. Beale’s transfer or the business of Anthony
Lawrence.”

“Is there something else you can tell me about Dr.
Lawrence?”

Dr. Masters sounded distracted, as if other matters to
hand were claiming her attention.

“Oh, yes, I’d just heard from him for the first time
in years when you came to see me, hadn’t I?”

“That’s right.”

“It wasn’t about much, really. He is writing a book,
about the effects of nerve agents and other such weaponry on the human psyche.
Naturally, he wants to draw upon some of the work we did together years ago, so
he sought permission to reuse material from several papers we co-authored at
the time.”

“I see. Was he worried that you might publish first?”

Masters laughed. “If he was, his mind is at rest now.
I do not feel the need to leave any legacy other than my work with my patients.
When I have given papers at meetings of my peers, it is to advance the work of
us all. Oh dear, I really must rush in a minute or two. What was I saying? Oh
yes, this field is changing all the time. In years to come, we will be laughed
at and, though I hate to say this, I believe that any book hitherto written on
this subject—and on the issue of what the public refers to as ‘shell-shock’—is
tainted by political interests.”

“Even with someone as eminent as Dr. Lawrence? When I
worked with him I thought he was one of the best at his job.”

“And so he was—and still is. But when you have
dedicated your life to your work, when you have more of that life behind you
than in front of you, you start to think of ways in which your reputation can
live on after you’ve gone.”

“Yes, yes, I understand.”

“Frankly, as soon as I’m gone, I’m gone, and that’s
all there is to it. In the meantime, I must now bring this conversation to an
end, but if Mr. Beale is with you, may I have a quick word?”

Billy had just walked into the room, so Maisie held
out the telephone receiver to him and mouthed the words Doctor Masters.

Setting down the tea tray, Billy took the receiver and
listened to the news regarding his wife, and Maisie moved away toward the case
map, which was now pinned to the table by the window. She looked at her
assistant and believed she could see the lines diminishing from around his
eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you, Dr. Masters, really I don’t.” He rubbed
his forehead to hide his tears as he spoke, then said good-bye and ended the
telephone call.

“Almost there, Billy,” said Maisie, as she heard the
receiver returned to its cradle.

“Miss Dobbs, I thought she was going to be in that
Wychett Hill place forever, I really did.” He brought Maisie a cup of tea. “I
don’t know how to thank—”