Among the Mad (31 page)

“Yes. It was me, I remembered you. Only I didn’t know
your name until I heard that bloke yelling at the top of his voice. ‘Maisie
Dobbs! Miss Maisie Dobbs!’ But now you’re working for them, aren’t you? You’re
part of the merry-go-round. You don’t know—none of your type know—what it is to
be like us, to be alone, what it is to know that . . . no one knows you.”

“Then how did you know Jennings? And Croucher?”

He looked at the floor. “Oh, yes, poor sparrow
Croucher.”

Maisie frowned, wondering what the man meant. She felt
as if she were walking on ice that might crack at any moment. She felt as if
her world could upturn in the time it took to take a breath. Still she did not
look down at Croucher, though she could smell the death on him, could smell
time sucking the warmth from his body, leaving it hardened and cold.

“I met Ian somewhere. I don’t know where now. I can’t
remember, though it might have had something to do with Croucher, or . . . ”
The man seemed distracted, as if he had suffered a sudden fatigue. “I might
have known him years ago. And he tried to help me, even though he needed the
help.” The man stared at the lamp, which was growing ever dimmer, and sighed.
“They let him down, you know, the army pensions people. Called him up in front
of three know-alls who said that he could do a job, what with his mind and the
fact that he could get about.” He drew his attention back to Maisie, his eyes
rolling back as he tried to focus. He shook his head and spoke again. “But of
course, poor Ian couldn’t get a job—it’s all a man with the parts still intact
can do to get on, isn’t it, Miss Dobbs?”

She nodded, anxious to appease him. “These are hard
times.”

“And Croucher, bless him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s one of those eternal helpers. Don’t know what
made him do it, but he saw me—I can’t remember where he saw me, to tell you the
truth—but he saw me, and he might have seen Ian, both of us holding out our
hands in different places. And he tried to help.” He shook his head from side
to side, like a man trying to correct blurred vision. “Oh, yes, that’s where I
met Ian. I think Croucher brought him to me, to be my friend. I think he
thought we had known each other, years ago.”

“And were you friends, you and Ian Jennings?”

He shrugged. “He should have waited.” He pointed to
his head. “Not right up here, Jennings. I told him I had a plan, that I’d had
enough of waiting, that I could bring this country to its knees. But he got
lost in his mind, silly boy.” He shrugged again. “Don’t know why I always
called him a boy. I don’t even know if he was younger than me.”

“And how old are you, sir?”

The man winced and clutched either side of his head.
“I must be nigh on forty now, or thirty-eight, or—” He brought his attention
back to Maisie. “I don’t want to talk anymore. I’ve got to get on. In fact, I
should do something about you. After all, I don’t want you stopping me, don’t
want you—”

In the distance the ringing of a bell on a police
vehicle could be heard, coming closer. Then another from the opposite
direction. The man cocked his head this way and that, as if to try to ascertain
where the sounds were coming from. Maisie took the opportunity to step back,
but the man was quick, and lunged toward her, pulling the flank of his left arm
around her throat as he held her from behind. Despite his disability, his
strength overpowered her.

“Oh, no you don’t. You’ve seen too much as it is.”

“You can’t leave here, sir. I know what you plan to
do, I know where you’re going with that jar.” She wondered whether to play her
trump card, and knew there was no time to take chances. She choked out her
words, with the crook of his arm resting against her gullet. “The police know
and so do the secret service. So you see, you don’t stand a chance. Don’t
leave. I am sure—”

Maisie gagged and coughed, and with her hands tried to
drag his arm away from her throat. She began to feel light-headed, with colored
threads of light pulsating across her peripheral vision as she fought for air.
With as much strength as she could muster, she pushed back, jabbing the man
hard in the ribs with her elbow. She felt him lose his balance. His arm came
free of her neck, and he fell against the table. The bells traveled closer; she
could hear muffled voices in the distance, as if men were running to and fro,
coming closer, then away again.

Gasping, Maisie turned to face the man she knew to be
mad, a man whose thoughts were not tempered by the constraints that brought his
behavior within limits considered “normal.” As he used his strength to regain
some semblance of balance, the jar rocked and fell to one side on the table,
where it rolled back and forth. The man followed the jar with his eyes as if
dazed, as if what he could see had no relation to the visions in his mind.
Maisie lurched for the jar, and felt its weight in her hands, but when she
looked back, it was into the eyes of a killer. He held out a knife toward her.

“Give that to me.”

“Sir, this is a dangerous substance. The police will
be here soon, and if you give yourself up, there will be leniency, you will be
cared for, you will be—”

“Put away where I belong, eh? Put away where no one
can see me and where I can’t be a danger to myself. They always want you put
away, until they need you again, until your country needs you.” He mimicked the
tone of wartime recruitment posters, and waved the knife in front of her, but
she kept the jar clutched close to her body. “And they’ll want what’s up in
here, won’t they?” For the second time he pointed to the side of his head. “But
I—”

The voices came closer, and when the man looked around
to follow the sound, Maisie kicked out at him, as hard as she could. He fell
backward, again, and braced his fall against the wall. Maisie staggered,
feeling her feet slide in blood that had seeped from Croucher’s broken skull.
Still clutching the jar with one hand, she reached for the table to keep
herself steady. Sweat poured from her brow as the man began to lumber forward
again. Then he stopped and looked out the window, his face tilted upward to
view the street. Footsteps running back and forth echoed on wet flagstones, but
Maisie knew that even if she called out she would not be heard from inside the
basement flat.

The man brought his attention back to her, as if he
had just been woken from a deep sleep, his eyes moving slowly, reminding her of
a patient after an operation, when the effects of ether were still evident,
before full consciousness had been regained.

“It’s over, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” said Maisie, her voice soft. “It’s over
now.”

“They won’t take me, you know.”

Maisie felt tears prickle against the corners of her
eyes. She remembered Ian Jennings. She could see him in front of her, could see
her hand held out to try to stop what she knew was about to happen, and she
could feel, again, the knowing that came to her, that the man would take his
own life.

She nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“Do you think there’s a heaven, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie cleared her throat. “I think there’s a better
place than this.”

The man shrugged, lifted the knife to his wrists, and,
without a sound, sliced deeply into the flesh. And as he fell to the ground,
the lifeblood pumping from his body, she began to weep. With one last ounce of
energy, he held the knife steady with blade pointed upward, and rolled onto it
so that his heart was pierced.

Maisie cried out and, still clutching the jar to her
chest, moved around the body, opened the door and ran up into the street.

“MacFarlane! Are you there? MacFarlane!”

Two policemen came out of the layers of smog toward
her, whistles blowing. Soon a black Invicta swung around the corner, and even
before the driver had maneuvered to a halt, the back door opened and Robert
MacFarlane was running to her side. He put his arms around her, and spoke with
a softness, she realized later, that she had never heard before.

“It’s all right, it’s all right. We’re here, we’re all
here, it’s over now. It’s all over.”

Maisie allowed herself to be soothed, allowed herself
to weep into MacFarlane’s shoulder. Police cars swooped down the street, and
soon MacFarlane had taken Maisie to the Invicta, and was barking orders to the
men. Stratton and Darby arrived in minutes, and while Maisie leaned back into the
firm leather upholstery, the scene of a murder and a suicide were secured, and
the pathologist summoned.

The passenger door of the Invicta opened, and Maisie
looked up, expecting it to be MacFarlane or Stratton. It was Urquhart.

“Nice work, Miss Dobbs. Two dead bodies and no one to
question, and—oh, I think that’s for me.” He reached out toward the jar, but
Maisie held firm.

“Mr. Urquhart. Two dead bodies, not two hundred. One
murder—and I can recount the whole event to you now, if you like, or you can await
my statement via Scotland Yard. I can also tell you about the suicide, which
was going to happen anyway, because that’s what the man had planned. Only he
didn’t take anyone with him—except Mr. Croucher.”

Urquhart shook his head. “I’m sorry—you look like
hell.”

“That’s how people look, when they have seen hell
through another’s eyes.”

“May I?” He held out his hand toward the jar.

Maisie waited a moment, then handed it to him. “Be
careful, Mr. Urquhart. I believe that within that jar is one half of another
destructive agent—and if you go into the flat you’ll find a vial, which I think
is some sort of catalyst to render whatever you have there into a veritable
killing machine.”

“It will be going directly to Mulberry Point.”

“I don’t care where you take it, Mr. Urquhart, as long
as it goes as far away from innocent human beings as possible.”

“Thank you, Miss Dobbs. I know we haven’t enjoyed the
best working relationship, given that you’re a civilian attached to Special
Branch, but you’ve done a good job.”

Maisie nodded and closed her eyes. “Shut the door as
quietly as you can, if you don’t mind.”

MAISIE MADE HER statement and was questioned for over
an hour at Scotland Yard, after which she joined MacFarlane, Stratton and Darby
in MacFarlane’s office. It was a quarter to twelve at night and it had been a
long day for all concerned.

“We’re going to have to be back here first thing in
the morning—early.”

“But—” Before he could say more, Stratton stopped
speaking.

“Problem with that, Stratton?” MacFarlane looked up
from notes taken during a search of the basement flat.

“No, sir. It was nothing.” He stole a glance at
Maisie, who knew Stratton had a son with whom he had doubtless promised to
spend the first day of the New Year.

“Right then,” MacFarlane continued. “Here’s where we
are.” He looked at Maisie, then at the men. “Obviously our investigation will
continue. For now, I can tell you all that there was nothing in the flat to
identify the man who killed Mr. Edwin Croucher, a hospital porter residing in
Catford. There were no letters, no bills, nothing.”

“What about the landlord?” Maisie sat forward on her
chair.

“According to the landlord, the man paid his rent in
advance, from one week to the next, and was never late. He gave no name when he
rented the flat, about eighteen months ago, and the landlord was happy to have
the money, so no questions asked. The rent was always paid with coins—pennies,
thrup’ny bits, ha’pennies, florins. He paid his rent with the fruits of his
labors, sitting with his hand out on the streets of London.”

“You mean there was not one single item in that flat
that we could use to put a name to this man?” Darby frowned as he faced
MacFarlane.

MacFarlane picked up a package wrapped in muslin and
folded back flaps of cloth. “Nothing but this, the man’s diary. The ramblings
of a barely-there-at-all man.”

“Have you read it, Chief Superintendent?” asked
Maisie.

“I’ve had a quick gander.”

“May I?” She reached out toward MacFarlane, and he
placed the cloth-covered diary in her hands.

“Be careful, Miss Dobbs, that’s got to go down to the
lab boys.”

“I understand. May I read it?”

“Well, you can, but before you do that, I thought you
might all like to join me in a toast.”

“Toast?” asked Darby.

“Colm, my old boy, we’ve been forgetting ourselves.”
MacFarlane stood up, opened a filing cabinet, and from the bottom drawer
removed a bottle of malt whiskey and four tot glasses. He lined up the glasses
on his desk and poured a full measure of the amber liquid into each glass. Keeping
the bottle in his hand, he took a glass and clinked it hard enough against each
glass in turn so that the members of his staff, including Maisie, had to be
quick to grab their whiskey as it tilted toward them.

“A happy New Year to one and all. Slainte!” MacFarlane
gulped his whiskey, then slammed the glass on the table to pour another, just
as Big Ben began to chime the hour and the passing of the new year.