Among the Mad (8 page)

Lawrence replaced the folder and ran his fingers along
the sides once more to align the pile. “You could start with the pensions
people, but I can tell you now, that door is indubitably locked shut. I will
try to gain permission for you to view the records held here of former
patients. And I can give you an introduction to other secure hospitals. When people
leave an institution—be it a hospital or prison—there is sometimes a need to
retain a sort of relationship with that place. They might find digs with a view
of the hospital chimneys, they might need to come back for outpatient
examinations or medication. They might just want to know that the nest, even if
it was the most dreadful place they had ever known, is still close. But that’s
just my opinion. My peers might suggest otherwise.”

Maisie gathered up her gloves and scarf. “Thank you,
Dr. Lawrence.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “I had better be off now.”
She took a card from her black document case and put it on the desk in front of
Lawrence, who had pushed back his chair. “Please send word as soon as you have
permission for me to view the records. I hate to say this, but to gain informal
access to the files would be so much better than having a warrant issued. I am
sure Matron would walk on hot coals rather than have that sort of thing going
on in her hospital.”

Lawrence laughed. “I will be in touch. Now then, I’d
better escort you to the porters’ office.”

As they made their way down the staircase, Lawrence
and Maisie spoke of times past, of improvements to the Clifton Hospital since
she relinquished her nursing position, and of the doctor’s children, who were
now grown. He unlocked doors and locked them again as they passed through the
lower corridors, and soon they had reached the entrance.

“Here we are.” Lawrence stopped alongside the porters’
office and knocked on the door. “Please let me know if I can be of any further
assistance to you, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie shook his proffered hand, and turned to the
porter who had just opened the door.

“Will you be back today, Dr. Lawrence?” The porter
inquired, while holding the ledger for Maisie to sign out.

“Yes I will,” replied the doctor. “See that Miss Dobbs
doesn’t have to wait too long for a taxi-cab, there’s a good chap, Croucher.”

“Right you are, Dr. Lawrence. I’ll make sure she gets
on her way.” He turned to Maisie and smiled.

FOUR

The man opened his eyes and waited for a moment or two
while sleep ebbed from his mind, in the way that the sea recedes from the
shore, going back a little, then returning, going back, then returning. It was
in the first few seconds of waking that he sometimes panicked and was paralyzed
by fear, for there were times when he took to his bed, not because it was night
and therefore time to rest, but because being awake—even in daytime—was more
than he could bear. His body was always chilled, and though the room was dry
enough, his clothes felt damp, and his toes were bitten with cold. He pulled
the blanket up over his coat-clad body and closed his eyes, smacking his lips
as if to soothe his jaw so that sleep would come again and he could be
delivered from his waking nightmares, which always seemed worse than those
inflicted upon him in slumber. There were times when he woke and held his
breath, for he couldn’t remember why he was steeped in melancholy, why his
heart ached and his body hurt. Then the pictures began to play in his mind’s
eye again, and the sounds tormented him so that he would clutch his head as if
to rip it from his shoulders. Those were the times when he would have welcomed
death, if only to be cast free.

Once more he came to, rubbing his hand across his
stubbled chin, and pressing his fingers to his tired, sunken eyes. He rolled
over to bring the clock on the mantelpiece into focus. It was nearly time. The
man sat up and, when he’d garnered strength enough, swung his legs over the
side of the narrow, iron-framed bed, and stood, reaching for his stick. He
wavered for a moment, as if he might fall back, then shuffled toward a wireless
set on the table. He switched it on. First the pips, signifying the hour, then
the news.

He listened, his head to one side, close to the
wireless. Nothing. Nothing for him. There was no news indicating that he had
been heard. No surprise announcements telling of handouts coming from
Westminster, no word of special festive season meetings to discuss the plight
of those who had given all for their country, no acknowledgment of the
suffering of those who had nothing. His throat was dry in the way that thirst
came after daytime sleep, so he limped toward the stove, lifted the kettle to
see if there was sufficient water, and put it down on the gas-ring, which he
ignited with a match. It was to be expected, he thought, as he stood back,
considering, again, the substances he’d employed earlier, endeavoring to be as
dexterous as he had been in the past, lest he make a mistake. Of course, he had
cleaned his laboratory, such as it was, but you never could be too careful.
There was a right way to do things, and in his work, he did things as they
should be done. He stuck to the rules.

He waited for the kettle to come to the boil, then
poured the scalding liquid into the mush of soggy leaves left in the pot from
this morning’s tea. With the weak but hot brew in hand, he sat at the table and
pulled his diary toward him. He sipped the tea, put the chipped cup to one
side, and opened the book to a clean page.

I am not heard. I am not taken seriously. I thought
the Dobbs woman might believe me, if she were summoned. I saw the police go to
her premises, so I know they have the letter.

He paused, then began writing again.

There was concern in her eyes when she walked toward
Ian. Not pity, not disgust, and she did not cross to the other side of the road
to escape the futility of him. She showed

He tapped the pencil on the table, then flinched at
the sound.

She showed care. That is all I have asked for, these
many years, that people are concerned, and that in their actions, they
demonstrate care. It occurred to me that the woman did not wait for someone
else to approach Ian. She did not ignore him. She walked toward him without
looking in another direction. I noticed that. I have come to notice that people
do not look at the Ians of this world, but instead turn their heads here and
there.

The man paused and rubbed his hand across his chest,
then took several breaths. Not deep breaths, because the air would scald his
lungs with its coldness, which in turn would cause him to cough. And if he
coughed, he might not stop and then the blood would come. He tempered the urge
to gag, calmed his body, then began writing once more.

Oh, stupid boy. He should have listened to me, he
would not have had to wait long, not now, not now when I have them almost where
I want them. “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.” Yes, let them slip, poor
unwanted beasts.

*  *  *

MAISIE PAID the taxi-cab driver and dashed across the
square just as Stratton’s Invicta pulled up outside her office.

“Blast!” She had wanted to be alone for a while to
consider the meeting with Dr. Lawrence before having to go back to Scotland
Yard and another encounter with MacFarlane.

“Ready?” said Stratton, as she approached the vehicle.

“Yes—and no. I would have liked more time before being
called to report on my activities today.”

“I agree, but let’s face it, at least we know which
side you’re on.”

Maisie rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I am
really growing tired of this innuendo due to the fact that my name was
mentioned in the letter. MacFarlane has questioned me and indicated his trust
in me. I have told you all that I believe the threats should be taken
seriously, so I would be obliged if you—and Colm Darby or anyone else who
chooses to—would just cease baiting me. You know which side I’m on.”

Stratton was taken aback by the strength of Maisie’s
response. “I apologize if I offended you, Miss Dobbs. My comment was meant to
be taken lightly, given that we find ourselves in a troubling situation—I don’t
know about you, but I hardly made any headway today.”

“I have had better days,” Maisie conceded, sighing.
“So I’m sorry if I was quick on the defensive. Mind you, I’ve chipped away at
one avenue that might be promising—the possibility that the suicide was a
soldier suffering from some level of traumatic neurosis.”

Stratton shook his head. “I can’t believe we’ve been
unable to give a name to the dead man, unable to identify him. We’ve talked to
the shopkeepers, residents—no one knows him, and he’s not a regular.”

“Known unto God.” Maisie spoke the words softly, as
she saw the man in her mind’s eye again.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Inspector. I said, ‘Known unto God.’
That’s what it says on the new gravestones for unidentified soldiers buried in
France, ‘A Soldier of the Great War, Known unto God.’”

“Well, we’d better know something soon, or MacFarlane
will be in high dudgeon.”

“I can imagine.”

“OH, FOR PITY’S SAKE! Anyone would think we’d all just
come in off the beat. Two days and we still don’t know that poor bugger’s
name.” MacFarlane made no concessions to the fact that there was a woman in the
room, and gave weight to his voice with a thump on the table with his right
hand.

Maisie did not flinch, though Stratton moved on his
chair in a way that revealed his discomfort. He’d better get used to this if he
wants to work with MacFarlane by spring, thought Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs, perhaps you could enlighten me as to your
activities this afternoon?”

“Of course, Detective Chief Superintendent
MacFarlane.”

MacFarlane raised an eyebrow as she came to her feet
and pulled out a roll of wallpaper and several tacks from her document case.
She unfurled the paper, held it to the wall and proceeded to pin the paper in
place.

“If I wanted a decorator, I might have called one in,
Miss Dobbs.”

“Bear with me, please.” She reached into her case and
removed several thick wax crayons, keeping one and placing the others on the
table, then turned her attention to the men. “My assistant and I use this as
one of several means to follow developments in a case. It provides a map, if
you will, of our progress, and no thought, idea or speculative hunch is ever
considered too foolhardy or insignificant to record. We add to it as we proceed
and it has proven useful in helping us to identify links, clues and
opportunities that might not otherwise have been visible with the usual linear
note-taking.”

“We tend to prefer facts.”

“This may sound contradictory,” said Maisie, “but I do
not think we have the time to entertain only firm facts—we have to broaden our
canvas, in the short term at least.”

MacFarlane acquiesced. “Continue broadening the
canvas, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie paused, looking at each man in turn. If she was
to work as part of a crew rather than alone, she would ensure that she was not
only listened to, but heard. And she did not care to be under surveillance.

“Given our speculation that the Charlotte Street
suicide was a soldier with rather serious wounds, I—”

“Serious?” queried MacFarlane. “He obviously walked to
the place where he died. Can that be called serious?”

“Sir, as we believe, the man had an amputation and was
also likely lame in his other leg, plus he might well have suffered exposure to
chlorine or mustard gas. To say nothing of war trauma. I would say those wounds
constitute ‘serious.’ I would add, further, that in becoming used to seeing
those who have suffered in the war, we have also become somewhat immune to
their plight. As we now know, contrary to the belief of military superiors, it
takes more than fresh air and a week in the country to cure a man before we
pack him off again into battle or, in this case, the skirmish of everyday
society.”

“Point taken. Go on, Miss Dobbs.”

“Thank you.” Maisie began writing on the strip of
wallpaper. “So, I called on Dr. Anthony Lawrence, one of the country’s leading
experts in the care of those who remain sufficiently unstable as to warrant
remaining in hospital care.”

“Is that a nice way of saying ‘locked up’?”

“Having been a nurse in a secure hospital and caring
for men with shell-shock, I try to retain a level of respect, Detective Chief
Superintendent. But yes, they are locked up. They require a degree of
supervision that is not to be found in the home—if, of course, there is a home
to go to. Now then, back to my meeting with Dr. Lawrence—I wanted to discover
more about the habits of those who have been released. In short, I wanted to
know if there was something about either the man in Charlotte Street or the
letter-writer that would indicate they had been released from a hospital
recently, and were perhaps feeling abandoned, at sea, so to speak. I confess,
it was a stab in the dark, but I had to start somewhere.”