Among the Mad (27 page)

“How old is he?”

“Oh, Sydney and his wife—Amelia—are gone now. Amelia
passed away some time ago now, and Sydney died a couple of years past.” The
line crackled.

“Hello!”

“Yes, still here. Anyway, to continue—no, it’s not
Sydney I thought you would be interested in, though he was an interesting
study. Brilliant mathematician, but he devoted himself to our children rather
than to life as an academic. Amelia was a housemother of sorts and taught our
girls the domestic arts. But it’s their son I wanted to tell you about. Sydney
and Amelia came to us before Stephen was born, having made a pact to dedicate
their lives to helping unwanted children. So, he was, in fact, a late child,
born while they worked at the Foundling Hospital.”

“And how old would Stephen Oliver be now?”

“If I am right, he would be thirty-six years old.
However, there’s more I must tell you.”

“Yes?”

“He was considered to be something of a genius, always
excelling at school.”

“Where was he educated?”

“That’s the thing—Sydney and Amelia saw fit to send
him to boarding school as soon as he was old enough. At six he went away to a
prep school, in Eastbourne, I think. Then off to Kings College at Canterbury at
eleven.”

“You sound as if you found that odd.”

“I confess, I did find it odd—and I am sorry, I was so
busy thinking about the children here today that it didn’t occur to me that you
might be interested in Stephen.” He paused and the line wheezed again. “You
see, they had wanted a child very much—so I was always surprised that they sent
him away at such a young age. There were perfectly good schools in London, and
though I could see sending him at eleven or twelve, six seemed a bit much, and
he was awfully upset. Here at the Foundling Hospital, we try to ensure our
children are not unduly wounded by life in an institution, and Sydney was one
of those who was almost soft on the children, and had a great deal of empathy
for them. So you can imagine how it seemed, when they sent their own son away.”

“I get the impression that, in your estimation, Sydney
Oliver did not have that same empathy for Stephen.”

“He held him to very high standards of accomplishment
and behavior. They even had a tutor for him in the holidays, so he hardly saw
the light of day. He went up to Oxford at seventeen, if I remember correctly. I
confess, I lost track of him after that—it seems that when children reach a
certain age, suddenly they’re adults and before you know it, you find out that
their parents are off to see the grandchildren. Only that wasn’t the case with
Stephen.”

“He wasn’t married?”

“No, it’s not that. He was killed, in the war.”

Maisie felt the excitement drain from her body. “Oh. I
see.”

“But he was quite brilliant, at the time considered to
be on his way to greatness in his field. He was a scientist.”

“You have been most helpful, Dr. Rigby. Is there
anything more you can tell me?”

“No, I don’t think so, but if you like, I’ll look
through his father’s record of employment here, and if I come across any
details that might be of interest, I will be in touch again.”

“Thank you. And I’m sorry to have to remind you, but I
must ask for your confidence in this matter.”

“Of course. I am responsible for the lives of many
children who come to me as foundlings. I am well used to secrets.”

Maisie bid the man good-bye and replaced the telephone
receiver.

“First you look excited, now you look as if a bomb has
dropped,” said MacFarlane as he reentered his office.

Maisie sighed, and without thinking, slumped into his
chair. “I had my man, then he slipped through my fingers.” She ran her hands
through her hair. “And to make matters worse, I could barely hear Rigby when he
was speaking.”

“And how did he slip through your fingers?”

“He was killed, in the war.”

“Are you sure?”

“I was just told as much.” Maisie bit her lip and ran
the telephone cord through her fingers.

MacFarlane smiled and narrowed his eyes. “But you
don’t quite believe it, do you?”

She shook her head. “You’re right. I don’t. I’ve
worked on enough cases to doubt the official line regarding the dead and
missing.”

MacFarlane leaned across the desk toward Maisie,
resting his weight on his knuckles. “Then keep chewing on that bone, Maisie
Dobbs. My gut tells me you might be on to something. Now then, if you don’t
mind, you’re sitting in the chair of the Detective Chief Superintendent.”

Maisie apologized and stood up. She thanked MacFarlane
and moved toward the door.

“And thank you, again, for that lovely drop of soup
yesterday.”

Stratton was passing the open door, so walked
alongside as she left the office. “What soup?” he asked.

FOURTEEN

Before leaving Scotland Yard, Maisie was given a vial
of the powder extracted from the clothing of the junior minister who had been
killed by a suspicious substance. The pathologists had corked the vial and
sealed it with wax, then wrapped it in cotton wool before placing it in a small
tin resembling one that might have been used for tobacco, the lid also being
sealed with wax. Maisie placed the tin in a plain brown paper bag and pushed it
down into her document case. MacFarlane warned her to take care, though they
had agreed that it was better she travel alone and without a police escort, in
case her movements were being observed.

“It’s completely against all protocol for handling
this sort of thing,” said Stratton, as he opened a door for Maisie on the way
to her motor car. “This stuff should be under armed guard.”

“And attract the attention of newspapermen, anarchists
and—perhaps—the man who killed a junior minister of His Majesty’s government?”

“I should come with you.” Stratton seemed almost terse
when he spoke.

Maisie stopped and faced him. “Look, don’t worry. I
shall drive straight to Oxford and go immediately to see Professor Gale. I know
he will be in his rooms because I checked his teaching and tutorial hours last
time I saw him, and doubtless Billy has contacted him by now, telling him to
expect me.”

“I wish you’d change your mind and let me come with
you,” offered Stratton.

Maisie shook her head, and they continued talking as
they walked.

“We’ve got everyone out on this one,” said Stratton,
“but if I can see my way clear to looking into the Oliver lead, I’ll get to
it—if only to help put your mind at rest. Nothing like nosing after a suspect
only to find he’s dead.”

They reached Maisie’s MG, whereupon Maisie set her
document case behind the passenger seat, and settled into the motor. She
started the engine as Stratton added, “Do be careful, won’t you?”

“I’ll be all right. Now then, MacFarlane will be
bellowing along the highways and byways of Scotland Yard for you, so you’d
better get a move on back up to his lair.”

THE GRAYNESS OF noontime held all the promise of a
bitter, frostbitten night, one that she would rather spend at home in front of
the fire with a book, and not at a party. Though her wrap was wound around her
shoulders and up to her neck, and she wore gloves, she was still cold as she
followed the A40 route out of London and on toward Oxford. The going was slow
at first, but just as she was able to pick up speed on the outskirts of London,
she became aware of a black motor car maintaining a certain distance behind the
MG. It was close enough to keep her within sight, but not so close as to
encourage a second look. At first she decided to pay little attention, but it
became apparent—when she passed another vehicle, sped up or slowed down—that
the motor car was following her. She took care to keep up with other traffic on
the road, and accelerated when one vehicle pulled onto another road, or peeled
off toward a shop. She began planning her exit from the MG when she reached
Oxford—she wanted to be able to reach Professor Gale’s office before she was
approached by the occupants of the motor car, which she thought might be a
Wolseley Straight Eight, a vehicle much faster than her own.

To her chagrin, the pack ahead soon dissipated, and
now with no other cars immediately in front or behind, the Wolseley gained
speed, pulled around her and braked, leaving just enough room for her to brake
in turn without crashing into the rear. She locked the MG’s doors and waited as
a man emerged from the back of the jet-black vehicle. It was Urquhart. He
strolled toward her without urgency and came alongside the MG, whereupon he
leaned over so that his face seemed to fill the side window, and smiled. Maisie
opened the door and turned sideways to look him in the eye.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, Mr. Urquhart. Is there
anything I can do for you?”

Urquhart smiled. “I am sure you can do better than
that, Miss Dobbs. Indeed, I’m surprised you can be so calm, seeing as you’re in
possession of a volatile substance that could probably do us all a mischief.”
He brought his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Now then, where do
you think you’re going with your precious cargo?”

“I am on my way to meet an eminent scientist who I am
sure will be able to identify the constituent properties of the substance. It
will not tell us who the junior minister’s killer is, but it might point us in
a given direction.”

“Yes, I know all that.”

Maisie gave no evidence of surprise, and simply looked
ahead. “May I continue now?”

“No. Well, not in the direction you were going, Miss
Dobbs.” Urquhart looked up as a vehicle slowed down and pulled around them, the
driver shaking his fist at the inconvenience. “First of all, if you would be so
kind as to open the passenger door, I’ll be accompanying you.” Maisie leaned
across and unlocked the door. Urquhart continued talking as soon as he was
settled. “Bit cramped in here, isn’t it?”

“It suits me, thank you very much.”

“No need to be like that. Now then, follow the
Wolseley, if you will. He’ll pull over as soon as we find a suitable place for
you to park, then we’ll continue on in a bit more comfort.”

“And may I ask where we’re going?”

“Mulberry Point. And do not be unduly concerned about
your appointment—Professor John Gale will be meeting us there.”

Maisie said nothing as the journey continued, and as
Urquhart promised, they stopped only once, to leave the MG safely parked next
to a post office. After Maisie was settled in the saloon’s back seat, they sat
in silence as the Wolseley’s driver took the motor car to top speed on its way
past Reading to Little Mulberry. Maisie was tired. The days since Christmas had
been long and the visit to the Foundling Hospital in Redhill already seemed
more than just a few hours ago. She listed back and forth, in and out of
wakefulness, and only when Urquhart spoke did she realize that she had given in
to sleep.

“We’re here, Miss Dobbs.”

“Yes, yes, good.”

Urquhart looked around and smiled. “Look, Miss Dobbs,
I really don’t know why you’re worried about us. We’re all on the same side,
you know—we just work in different ways. Big Robbie does things his way and we
do things our way. And no one gets anywhere when they’re keeping secrets.”

“Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane has said
the same thing.”

“Hmm, which is why you were on your way to Oxford with
a valuable sample of heaven knows what and I wasn’t kept in the picture.”

Maisie bit her tongue, even though she thought of
several suitable retorts.

A soldier emerged from a guardroom as the Wolseley
drew alongside a barrier. He looked inside the vehicle as Urquhart pulled a
wallet from his inside pocket and opened it to reveal his identification.

“Meeting Professor John Gale.”

The soldier checked Urquhart’s credentials, and read
the letter provided by Urquhart, which was from Military Intelligence, Section
Five.

“And is this Miss Dobbs, sir?”

“Yes.”

The soldier peered across to the back seat. Maisie
smiled, and though it was overcast, she thought the soldier blushed.

“Right you are, sir. Know your way?”

“Yes, Corporal. Thank you.”

The motor continued on, and with the window still
open, Maisie could smell the sharp freshness of countryside, of cold air across
barren fields, and in the distance she heard the bleating of sheep.

“Here we are.”

As soon as the Wolseley rumbled to a standstill, the
driver came around and helped Maisie out of the vehicle.

“Follow me,” instructed Urquhart, as he walked toward
a series of low hut-like buildings that Maisie could see were well lit—and well
guarded.

Urquhart led the way to the first building, where a
soldier asked to see identification. When the uniformed man was satisfied that
they were who they claimed to be, with a salute he allowed them to pass. A man
in a pair of white overalls and a mask pulled down around his neck met them in
the makeshift reception area. In the distance, coming from another low hut,
Maisie could hear dogs barking.