Among the Mad (7 page)

“What can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”

“It’s rather difficult to explain on the telephone,
but it is urgent, and confidential—would you spare me about twenty minutes this
afternoon, say about half past one?”

“I have to leave to keep an appointment at approximately
two o’clock, so . . . well, all right, yes, but perhaps you could come along to
my office a bit earlier—one o’clock?”

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Lawrence. I look forward to
seeing you at one.”

“And you, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie smiled as she replaced the telephone receiver
in its cradle. There was something that Anthony Lawrence and Robert MacFarlane
had in common—they were both honest, no-nonsense men dedicated to their
respective professions. But with Lawrence, now considered an expert in the
treatment of psychological trauma, she had observed his compassion when they
had both worked at Clifton, had seen him square up against pension authorities
who tried to label mind-wounded men as malingerers, and had seen him spend hours
with one man simply to try to get him to speak his own name out loud. She
didn’t hold out hope for a breakthrough in the meeting, but if a conversation
with Lawrence helped to crack into the frozen lock on this case, it would be
more than worth the time.

ARRIVING AT THE Princess Victoria Hospital by
half-past twelve, Maisie went first to the porters’ office, whereupon her name
was verified and a porter picked up a hefty bunch of keys attached to a
bracelet-sized brass ring and instructed Maisie to follow him. The hospital
where Lawrence now worked was much like other institutional buildings
constructed in the heyday of Victoria’s reign, with a certain flourish to the
red-brick design signifying the industrial and commercial wealth of her Empire
and a legacy for the people. The wooden banister was buffed to a shine, as was
every brass fixture and fitting, and as they made their way toward the doctors’
offices, a lavender fragrance wafted from just-polished floorboards. Maisie
wondered if Sheila Kennedy, the hospital’s almost legendary matron, was still
in charge—certainly the level of order suggested that she remained at the helm.
It was an order that belied the name accorded the hospital by the locals, who
referred to it as “the Bin.” First built as an asylum, it had been turned over
to military cases of neurasthenia and other neuroses during the war, as had the
Clifton Hospital. Although many of those wartime patients had been discharged
over the years, some after just a few weeks of care, the hospital remained more
or less full, with an increasing number of patients starting to be admitted in
recent years whose mental anguish was rooted in an inability to deal with the
ordinary and extraordinary in everyday life, rather than battles on foreign
soil.

Where there might have been double doors that flapped
open in hospitals for the physically infirm, the porter at the Princess
Victoria Hospital unlocked each door and took care to secure it again as they
passed through. Soon they reached the upward spiraling back staircase flanked
by cream-painted walls with maroon and cream tiles at the base. The staircase
opened onto a corridor with offices on both sides, each with a heavy oak door.
In this part of the hospital there was not the same level of security, though
the porter remained with Maisie at all times. He stopped at the door to Dr.
Lawrence’s office and knocked, only opening the door when a voice boomed,
“Come!”

“A Miss Dobbs to see you, sir.”

“Ah, yes, of course—oh, and I’ll see Miss Dobbs out
again later when I leave.”

“Right you are, sir—but she will have to sign out.”

“Not to worry, I’ll ensure she stops at the office.”

The porter stepped aside to allow Maisie into the
room, then touched his forehead as if in salute and backed out into the
corridor while closing the door as he went.

Maisie shook hands with Dr. Lawrence. His hair was
combed to either side from the same center parting he favored as a younger man,
though it was now gray, and not the coal black Maisie remembered when they both
worked at the Clifton Hospital. His moustache seemed longer than it had once
been, and Maisie noticed the ends were waxed, giving him something of a haughty
appearance, though she could not recall such a character flaw. He wore round
wire spectacles, and his skin bore the lines and folds of one who worked
instead of slept over many nights, suggesting that worry and concern were
elements he could never escape. His collar was tight around the neck, his tie
pulled almost to his Adam’s apple, and he was still wearing his white coat,
which indicated that he had just finished his rounds.

“Please, take a seat, Miss Dobbs.” He held out his
hand toward a plain wooden chair.

“It was good of you to see me, Dr. Lawrence,
especially at such short notice.”

“Think nothing of it, glad to assist, if I can. You
were a fine nurse, Miss Dobbs. I always thought you might enter medical school
yourself—women seem to be turning their hands to everything nowadays, don’t
they? I suppose it’s a case of ‘needs must,’ what with so many remaining spinsters,
eh? Certainly we don’t have so many nurses leaving to get married, because
there’s not enough men to go around!” He smiled briefly as he took his seat on
the other side of the desk. Maisie noticed that his chair had two flat and worn
cushions on the seat, probably brought from home in an attempt at creating more
comfort. “And what have you been doing with yourself since you returned to
Cambridge?”

As Maisie began to describe her life over the past
twelve years, she took account of her surroundings. Lawrence’s office was neat
and tidy, with books shelved according to subject matter and a general sense of
order. It was something that Maisie had liked about the doctor, that sense of
order. He always counted instruments before and after procedures, always made
legible notes immediately following each patient consultation, while thoughts
were still fresh in his mind. But that was ten years ago. Now, as she spoke,
she noticed he absently corrected the pile of papers and files on his desk,
making sure that each was only so far from the edge, and never more than two
inches apart. He reached forward and lined up his pens and pencils, then took a
clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it back and forth across the wood.

“ . . . so, when Dr. Blanche retired, I took over the
business and set up on my own. I now have an office in Fitzroy Square.”

“Hmm, impressive, Miss Dobbs, impressive.” He looked
up and returned the handkerchief to his pocket, pulled out a fob-watch from his
waistcoat and checked the time before replacing the watch once more. “Mind you,
we always hate to lose a good nurse.” He cleared his throat. “So, what can I do
for you—you said it was urgent.”

“Yes, indeed—and confidential.”

“Of course. As you know, we’re used to keeping a
confidence here, so do bear that in mind.”

Maisie sighed. “The fact is, I do not have very
specific questions, but I am anxious to make a dent in a very serious
investigation. Suffice it to say that I am working on secondment to Scotland
Yard on a sensitive case.”

“Go on . . .”

“Did you read about the man who committed suicide on
Charlotte Street on Christmas Eve?”

“Yes, of course—nasty, nasty business. It’s a miracle
he didn’t take anyone with him, though according to the press, there were
wounded.”

“Thankfully, nothing too serious—though, as we both
know, to witness such a thing scars the mind forever.”

Lawrence ran his fingers along the sides of a pile of
folders as he nodded. “Indeed. I take it the suicide is connected with your
current work?”

“It is a distinct, but not confirmed possibility. I
believe the man had been a soldier in the war. I was walking along Charlotte
Street at the time, and was close enough to him to see that one leg was
crippled in some way, perhaps an inability to bend at the knee, while the other
leg was either amputated at the knee, or bent backward. I would say there had
been an amputation. His remains would support such a conclusion. And though I
was not able to speak to him—had I been any closer, I might not be here today—I
observed movement of the head and hands that might suggest a shell-shock case.”

“How can I help?”

“Dr. Lawrence, there are a considerable number of men
who have remained locked away in institutions since the war and who are still
suffering from war neurosis. And many more have been discharged in recent
years, possibly to relatives, or to live in a hostel. Our man may have been one
of them.”

Lawrence sighed, rubbing his chin. “Miss Dobbs, the
truth regarding this country’s treatment of its shell-shocked soldiers is
harrowing, and to someone like yourself—trying to discover the dead man’s
identity, for I imagine that must be of prime importance—it presents an
obstacle of considerable proportions.” He sighed again, picked up a pen and put
it down, ensuring that the writing instruments remained parallel to one
another. “There were approximately, say, seventy-five to eighty thousand men
diagnosed with shell-shock during and immediately after the war. These were the
cases that could be easily identified, corroborated and signed off to return to
England or to receive treatment.” He looked at Maisie with eyes the color of
slate that reminded her of the sky on a bitterly cold day. “In my
estimation—and I could be taken to task by the authorities for such comments,
so please reflect upon this conversation with care—the numbers of shell-shocked
men ran into the hundreds of thousands. And, arguably, there is no man”—he held
Maisie’s eyes with his own—“or woman, who returned from Flanders unscathed in
the mind.”

“I know.”

“Yes, you do. However, I wonder if you know what
pressures were brought to bear on doctors during and after the war?” He did not
wait for an answer before continuing. “Not only were we pressed to declare a
man fit for duty as soon as any physical wounds were healed, but in all but the
most obvious cases—and here’s my personal experience—our instructions, perhaps
to send a man to a secure institution for additional care, were overruled by
senior military staff who would label a man as a lazy item, or with low moral
fiber. And off they would be sent, back onto the battlefield with their minds
half destroyed.” He shrugged. “Of course, there was another reason—pensions. If
a man is physically wounded in battle, there is a small pension allowance. With
increasing numbers of men suffering mentally from the effects of war, the
government was becoming queasier and queasier about having to pay pensions it
would never be able to afford—so those men were discharged at the earliest
possible opportunity, because for many, there was no bleeding, no physical
wound or scarring. Miss Dobbs, if you haven’t realized it already, you must be
aware that you are looking for a needle in a haystack. You could go through
every record of every patient suffering from neurasthenia, war neurosis,
melancholia and hysteria, and you will have touched only the tip of the
iceberg.”

“You are very frank, Dr. Lawrence.”

“For every man on our wards who will never see the
outside of an institution, there are five, six, seven out there”—he pointed at
the window—“who are in a cell in their mind. They are trying to find work,
trying to live from one day to the next. Some might have families or children,
but they are ticking away inside, so that one day, when the baby wails in a
certain way, the man will end up cowering in the corner or, worse, inflicting
harm. And some take a deep breath every day, working, living, eating,
breathing, holding all the components of life together in a vise-like grip so
that no one will ever know they are broken as much as if their bodies had been
crushed.”

“I’m sorry if—”

Lawrence held up one hand. “Please, don’t. You came to
ask a question or two and you got more than you bargained for.” He reached for
a folder, taking care to pull it toward him without disturbing the rest of the
pile. He tapped the top of the folder. “This is a collection of letters from
the powers-that-be instructing me to decrease numbers of soldiers from the war
still held here. They are to be sent out into the raw reality of London in the
midst of winter, and with no prospects of work or any sort of support. Where
will they go? Who will care for them? This is the sort of battle I have on my
hands—now everyone wants to forget the war.”

Maisie nodded. “Dr. Lawrence, you have been most kind
to spare me so much of your time. However, I wonder if I can just ask one or
two questions. Are there any behaviors common among men who are discharged? Do
they remain close to the hospital? Do they go further afield?” She breathed
deeply. “You see—and it’s my turn to remind you of my need for confidentiality
now—to give you more of an idea of the situation, there has been a threat
received by a high-ranking government official. While others are working to see
if the demands of the person who issued the threat could be met in some way
that might placate him and give us time, my task is to try to find him. I have
said the words needle in a haystack myself—I know from my war experience and my
work at the Clifton how difficult that task might be. But I must continue, and
in a short time follow any lead that presents itself to me. So, clutching at
straws—if I take a gamble and assume the man who took his life on Christmas Eve
was released from a secure institution at some point in the past couple of
years, how might I find him?”