Among the Mad (26 page)

The words echoed into the room, and then there was
silence. Maisie looked at MacFarlane as he lifted his spoon again, and gauged
the degree to which she should take him into her confidence, whether to share
her belief that she would find a thread of possibility at the hospital
tomorrow. There was a sense she had, an excitement that welled in her chest
when she was close to the trickle of information that would lead to a stream,
and the stream to a river. That sensation was with her now. She set down her
spoon and leaned forward.

“Chief Superintendent.”

MacFarlane had just lifted a spoonful of broth to his
mouth and stopped when she spoke. “Yes, Miss Dobbs?”

“I think tomorrow’s appointment will bear fruit.”

“I know you do.”

She nodded. “I believe I am close, very close.”

“Aye, lass, you may be. But we all have to go on with
the search, which is why Stratton is keeping an eye on the Fascists, and Colm
Darby is still sniffing away at his Irish leads. We’ve seconded two of Dorothy
Peto’s women detectives to shadow our latter-day suffragettes, and we have
infiltrated the unions. Our friend Urquhart tells me that there are German
agents who have been trying to test their own nerve gases on our underground
railway for months now—it’s a wonder he told me anything, but this is no time
for us all to take to our corners, much as we have to fight the urge to get
into a huddle. And you have your orphans, and your doctors and your professors.
We’re all hoping for that little tap on the shoulder, aren’t we? The wee bit of
excitement when we know we’ve got something.”

Maisie nodded.

MacFarlane’s voice had taken on a softness she had not
heard before. “So, you go on down your path, and you keep me well informed. And
if you get that fish on the line, don’t think you can land him yourself. I’ve
seen your resolve, seen what you’ve accomplished—remember, it was my job to
investigate you—but bringing in this man may take more than even you think.” He
finished the second bowl of soup, wiped his mouth with the table napkin, and
leaned back. “Now, I don’t want to outstay my welcome, Miss Dobbs. You’ve done
me proud.”

“I’m glad to have had the company, Chief
Superintendent.” Maisie stood up. “I’ll get your coat and hat.”

Having closed the main door behind Robbie MacFarlane
and watched as he walked into the night, Maisie returned to the flat and locked
the door. While attending to washing the plates, cutlery and utensils, she
realized that she really was glad to have had the company. Though there was the
occasional supper engagement, so often her evenings were spent alone, her
staple diet being the large pan of soup she made at the beginning of the week.
And later, as she donned her flannel pajamas and pulled a pillow from her bed
to the floor, where she sat cross-legged to meditate before sleeping, she
acknowledged that the Chief Superintendent gave no more weight to her inquiry
than he had to the other leads being investigated by Special Branch and
Military Intelligence. But he had made her feel as if she were accepted, part
of his group. He let her know that she was not alone, that, in a way, she
belonged.

December 31st, 1931

Maisie began her journey before seven in the morning.
Despite being close to the river, and the mist that wafted in swirls around
motor cars, horses and riverboats, the morning was crisp, and the ribbon of
grass alongside the flats dusted with frost. The roads would doubtless be icy,
so she expected the journey to take longer than usual.

Setting off, Maisie crossed the Albert Bridge and made
her way toward the Brighton road, which would take her out of London, through
Streatham and Coulsden, then down to Redhill. As was her habit, she used the
journey to reflect upon the case in hand, and thought back again to the meeting
with Anthony Lawrence. There was something changed about him, she thought. Was
it a certain disillusionment with his work? At one time he had demonstrated the
mark of an innovative thinker, but now, though he seemed no less dedicated to
his role, there was something jaded about his demeanor. Perhaps writing the
book was part of an endeavor to rekindle his former energy. She also remembered
that, despite promises, he had never managed to effect access to the hospital’s
records so that she might peruse the lists of men discharged from care during
the past several years. And she hadn’t pressed him because they had discovered
the name of the Christmas Eve suicide. She reminded herself that, though
Christmas seemed as if it were months ago now, it was only a few days past,
with the New Year almost at hand—not the best time to try to overcome the
machinations of a hospital’s administrative departments. And besides, she knew
Urquhart’s men were supposed to be doing just that, and hoped they would alert
her if they found something of note.

She checked the hour on a church clock as she drove
through Purley, and wondered if she might have time to go on to Oxford
following the meeting with Dr. Rigby. She wanted to question John Gale further,
but reminded herself that she would need to collect the substance sample from
MacFarlane before setting off again.

The sun was poking through as she approached Merstham,
where she stopped to check the address of the Foundling Hospital, before
proceeding on to Redhill, the next town. Already busy by half-past eight in the
morning, the High Street was flanked by two lines of shops and a large
red-brick town hall, another testament to Victorian ostentation. Soon she was
approaching the Foundling Hospital, now housed in a former convent, a building
almost as dark and gothic as the Wychett Hill Asylum.

Dr. Rigby greeted Maisie with the efficiency she had
observed before in those responsible for the institutionalized. He checked his
watch upon greeting her and repositioned the monocle that made him seem older
than his years, though he must have been past sixty. With his furrowed brow
emphasizing his importance, she thought he resembled photographs she had seen
of Rudyard Kipling, when the newspapers published photographs of the author and
his wife visiting the battlefields of northern France in search of their only
son’s final resting place.

“Dr. Rigby, thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“Quite, Miss Dobbs. I understand this is a police
matter.”

“Yes. I am currently seconded to Scotland Yard—I have
a letter of introduction, if you would like to see it.”

“If you don’t mind, yes.” He held out his hand to a
chair, then waited until she was settled before taking his seat on the opposite
side, next to a window overlooking the playground.

Maisie took an envelope from her document case and
handed it to Rigby, who adjusted his monocle several times as he read.

“Detective Chief Superintendent . . . Special Branch.”
He raised his eyebrows, a move requiring another repositioning of the monocle,
then handed the letter back to Maisie. “What can I do for you?”

“Sir, I’m looking for a man who might have been one of
your children, perhaps some thirty-five years ago. I have little to go on,
except that I suspect he would be in his mid-thirties at the present time.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Oliver.”

“May I ask what the man has done, why he is wanted by
the police?”

“I am sorry, Dr. Rigby, I cannot divulge that
information. However, the man I am looking for is—I think—an intelligent and
academically accomplished man.”

Rigby shook his head. “Then you won’t find him among
our boys.” He leaned back, then forward, and clasped his hands together,
circling his thumbs around each other as if part of his body had to continue
moving at all times. “Right from the start, our boys here are groomed for
military service, a fine place for a young man who has none of the advantages
of a higher-born life.” He pointed to photographs on the wall, of young boys in
military-style trousers and jackets, and girls in the uniform of domestic
service. “Our girls are steered toward service, where they will have a roof
over their heads and, with a strong moral compass instilled in them, will not
repeat the folly of their mothers.”

“And what if a child shows a particular academic
inclination?”

Rigby pulled a collection of school exercise books
toward him. “This is my marking for this morning. Have a look through the
children’s work.”

Maisie took several of the books from the top and
began to leaf through. The children’s penmanship was perfect, the lines sharp,
the curves exact. And though the number work did not demonstrate academic
excellence, there was a level of workaday proficiency that would stand each
child in good stead.

“When our children leave us, they leave with the
ability to care for themselves. They can read and write, they understand the
importance of personal hygiene and a strong individual discipline. In addition,
they are exposed to the arts, to music and to a healthy level of recreation.
But there are no academic miracles, no pauper-to-university stories to tell
you.”

“Thank you, Dr. Rigby.” Maisie replaced the books on
the top of the pile. “However, I wonder, might it be possible to look at your
records for the years 1892 to the century’s turn? Just in case I find
something?”

Rigby shrugged. “As you wish. Of course, the records
are packed away—we expect to move again in a few years, into new premises in
Hertfordshire. The old convent here is but a stopgap. However, our records are
catalogued. I’ll have them brought to my office here.”

Less than an hour later, Maisie closed the last ledger
and placed it back into the box from which it came. She checked that she had
replaced every folder, every book and piece of paper as it was found, and stood
up, rubbing the small of her back. She had discovered nothing. Nothing among
the Thomases, Fredericks, Arthurs, Alberts and Williams. Many of them had
joined the army, and most of them were likely now dead. As instructed when Dr.
Rigby left her to work in his office, she pulled a cord on the wall, and one of
the school’s secretaries came into the room.

“I’m finished now. Could you inform Dr. Rigby that I
am ready to leave?”

Rigby returned, and began walking her to the front
entrance. Maisie stopped to watch children playing a team game on an adjacent
field.

“They are happy enough, Miss Dobbs.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“They have fresh air, they have food, an education,
and our staff here are as dedicated today as Sir Thomas Coram was when he
founded the hospital.” He walked down the steps, and turned to Maisie. “I must
confess, I am not sorry that you are leaving empty-handed. It would be a sad
day when the actions of one of our boys or girls attracted the attention of
Scotland Yard in such a way. Of course, there are the wayward ones, but the
fact that you are involved with Special Branch in a police investigation is gravely
ominous.”

Maisie nodded and smiled. “Thank you. I am grateful
for your time and assistance.”

She drove slowly along the graveled driveway, careful
in case a child should run across chasing a ball. Pulling out through the gates
and onto the road, she shook her head. She had been sure, absolutely convinced,
that she would find the thread she was looking for today. And now she had
nothing, and that nothing tugged at her all the way through Merstham, through
Purley, Coulsden, Streatham, across London toward Lambeth and Scotland Yard.
She would report to MacFarlane and watch his face as he observed her
disappointment. Robbie MacFarlane would know how she felt. She would telephone
Billy to gather the list of orphanages, and in all likelihood MacFarlane would
ask if another line of inquiry might be more fruitful. She parked the MG,
entered Scotland Yard, and was taken to Special Branch headquarters by a police
constable.

“There you are!” MacFarlane’s voice echoed down the
corridor when he heard Maisie talking to Colm Darby, who had also just arrived
back at the Yard. “There’s been a man on the telephone asking for a Miss Maisie
Dobbs.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Name of Rigby. Didn’t want to talk to me, or to
anyone else, but wanted Miss Dobbs, ‘if you would be so kind’—be so kind, if
you don’t mind—as to place a telephone call to him.” MacFarlane pointed to his
office. “So you’d better get to it. And when you’re done with that, I have
something for you to take to Oxford.”

Maisie stepped into MacFarlane’s office and reached for
the telephone while taking an index card from her document case. “Could you put
me through to a number in Redhill? Yes. Thank you.” She gave the number and
waited.

“Rigby.”

“Dr. Rigby.”

“Ah, Miss Dobbs. I had a thought after you left.
Strange—didn’t put two and two together before. I tried to catch up with you,
even sent a boy running after your motor car, but you’d gone.”

“What is it? Do you recall a boy who fits the bill?”

“In a way, yes, I do, though he was not one of ours,
strictly speaking.”

“Go on.”

“Sydney Oliver will probably go down as one of our
most dedicated teachers. He spent every moment at the school, put his life into
his work.”