Among the Mad (9 page)

“We’re all stabbing in the dark.” MacFarlane reached
for a red wax crayon from the jar on the table and began to twirl it around in
his fingers, as if it were a baton. “And your stab was as good as any. Did you
come away with anything?”

Maisie shook her head. “Precious little, to tell you
the truth. Dr. Lawrence made the point that the number of men so afflicted is
far beyond official tallies. In addition, regression following release from
hospital could happen at any time—one month, one year, five years.”

“So what’s your next move?”

“I’m not sure. However, I would appreciate it if I
could report back to you in a less regimented fashion. Coming back here has
deprived me of valuable time. My schedule is not prescriptive. Might I instead
telephone Detective Inspector Stratton at a given time each day?”

MacFarlane looked at the other men. “Richard? Colm?”

Both nodded their accord.

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie thanked the men and returned to her seat. She
had at least skirted the question of her next move, though she realized that
MacFarlane might address the question again. In the meantime, she would do all
she could to keep her next moves to herself. She might be one of a team, but
she also knew she made greater headway when left to her own devices and
following her own direction along the way.

Stratton was next. Taking up a wide black crayon he
turned to the wallpaper. “I feel like a teacher at the blackboard.”

“Don’t tempt me.” MacFarlane grinned, then waved his
hand for Stratton to continue.

“Very straightforward—continued questioning of
shopkeepers along Charlotte Street, working back to Oxford Street, though we
were hampered by the shops not being open today, so we had to locate
proprietors and so forth. We’re hoping to retrace the dead man’s movements. Of
course, we have to entertain the possibility that these two events have no
relationship one to the other, in which case, all we will find, eventually, is
the deceased’s name.”

“Anything else?”

“We’ve located a woman who works at Bourne and
Hollingsworth, who says she saw a man bearing the deceased’s description
alighting from the number thirty-six bus. She travels in from Camberwell and
says she always sits in the same place close to the door and cannot remember
him getting on the bus, so he must have got on anywhere from, say, Lewisham to
Camberwell. We’ll have men at bus stops along the number thirty-six route on
Monday, at a time coinciding with the commuting habits of the woman. We’ll
question people along the way to see if anyone recalls seeing the man on
Christmas Eve.”

Maisie cleared her throat, then spoke directly to
MacFarlane. “The man who made the threat is expecting a response first thing
tomorrow morning. We seem to have forgotten that the threat stands. Will there
be some announcement from the Home Office, perhaps on the wireless, by way of
placating this person? Or are we waiting to see whether he is serious?”

“I’m sorry to say that, given our lack of headway,
Miss Dobbs, we are presently in a wait-and-see situation.”

“I don’t think we’ll be waiting long.”

“Aye, I think you’re right, as much as I hope you’re
wrong.” He sighed, then motioned to Stratton. “See that Miss Dobbs is escorted
home, Stratton. And settle upon a time to speak to each other tomorrow. I know
it’s a Sunday, but I can’t see the PM making any offers as a result of the
letter, so we’ll still be on the case, come what may. The PM, by the way, has
cut short the festive season with his family, and returned from Chequers.” He
turned to Maisie. “Do not rule out the possibility that we may have to convene
here as a matter of urgency at any time over the next couple of days. In the
meantime, you are on your own, but you are on our clock.”

Maisie held out her hand to MacFarlane. “I’ll be in
touch, Detective Chief Superintendent.”

STRATTON ESCORTED MAISIE home in the Invicta. When the
vehicle pulled up yards from the main entrance to the block of flats in
Pimlico, Maisie turned to Stratton.

“I can walk from here, Inspector.”

“Are you sure?”

“The main door is just along this path, so if you
wish, you can sit here to ensure I go in without being accosted.”

“I’ll do that.” Stratton opened the door and stepped
from the vehicle, then held out his hand to assist Maisie. “And let’s not
forget your luggage,” he added, reaching back into the motor car.

“Thank you, Inspector.” Maisie took the brown leather
suitcase. “May I suggest I telephone your office at Scotland Yard
tomorrow—certainly it will not be before six o’clock in the evening.”

“And at what time should I send out the cavalry, if I
do not have word from you?”

“You’ll hear by eight, Inspector—how does that sound?”

“Perfectly acceptable. May I ask what your next move
will be?”

Maisie began to turn toward the modern building with
glass doors leading to the flats within. “To be perfectly honest with you, I’m
not sure yet. But I know it will involve as much speculation as detection.”

“I’ll be out with my men knocking on doors between
Lewisham and Camberwell tomorrow—and I’ll be in touch if there’s news.”

Maisie bid good-bye, waving from inside the small
foyer before entering her flat. The radiators had been left on low, yet she
could still see her breath condense in the air before her. She was tired and
wanted nothing more than to go to bed, so without removing her coat, she took
her suitcase into the bedroom and then went into the kitchen to put on the
kettle for a hot water bottle.

Once settled under the covers, sleep did not come as
she had hoped, and instead Maisie lay awake listening to the sounds of the
night. Foghorns up and down the river, a motor car in the distance. It was a
quiet night, a Boxing Day night. Soon the year would be done, soon it would be
1932. And as she edged her way into sleep, Maisie wondered if there would be
any developments in the case, come morning. Another letter, perhaps? Or would
the threat be revealed as a hoax, with no more said and her involvement with
MacFarlane and Special Branch at an end? But as she shivered, despite the
soothing hot water bottle held close, she had a distinct feeling that there
would be more news on the morrow, and it would not be good.

December 27th, 1931

Billy was at his desk when Maisie arrived at the
office the following morning. She was surprised to see him, and could not help
but notice that he seemed even more drained than he had the day before.

“Billy, what are you doing here on a Sunday? You don’t
have to give up your Sunday just because I’m working on an urgent case.”

“Well, I thought you might need a hand, and what with
one thing and another . . .” He placed some papers in a folder, and shrugged.

Maisie thought it best not to press the point, and
suspected that the situation at home might have deteriorated even more. She
began talking about the case while removing her coat, hat and gloves.

“Billy, do you remember the coster who came to my aid
in Charlotte Street on Christmas Eve?”

“I could recognize him in a crowd, if that’s what you
mean. Don’t know the man’s name—I was too worried about you, Miss, to tell you
the truth. Mind you, I reckon I could find him, if that’s what you want.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want. He may have seen the
dead man before, know who he is, or at least have some nugget of information
for us.”

“Come to think of it, when I went back to find your
document case, I don’t recall seeing him again. Mind you, the police were
moving people on, and he did say something about getting his horse out of
there, that she was good and solid, but he didn’t want to push it because even
though she’d not bolted when the bomb went off, she was on her toes and a bit
skittish.”

“Do you think there will be anyone down at the market
this morning? I know it’s a Sunday, but there’s sometimes someone around, a
caretaker or watchman, someone who might know the man we’re looking for.” She
sat down behind her desk.

“Tell you what, I’ll nip down and have a look around.
As you say, there might be a caretaker or someone like that. Could even be a
copper on the beat who can put a name to the face, if you know what I mean.”

Billy turned to gather his overcoat from the hook
behind the door, continuing the conversation as he went. “I reckon I’ll be back
by twelve, then get on with that Barker case. Will you be here, Miss?”

“Probably not. I have a distinct feeling that I’ll be
talking to MacFarlane today—he’s the Special Branch chappie I told you about.
But in the meantime, I think I’m going to have to engage in speculation simply
to get some names in the hat of people who might have sent the threatening
letter.”

“How will you do that?”

“By coming up with a template of the kind of person
who would do such a thing—if they are serious. And we’ve assumed some link to
the Charlotte Street suicide, as you know.”

“Why is that, Miss? Why do you think they’re
connected?”

“That’s a good question, Billy—and it comes down to
me. The letter mentioned me by name, and the fact that it came hot on the heels
of my being seen to approach a man who then killed himself in a very visible
manner, as if to make some sort of point, has drawn the two together.”

“Makes sense,” Billy continued as he wound a scarf
around his neck. “So what kind of person do you think he is?”

“That he has made a threat at all indicates a level of
disengagement with everyday life. He’s also drawn attention to the plight of
old soldiers and wants to see something done about their situation. We know
there are so many still suffering with their war wounds at a time when a job is
hard to find for those sound in mind and body, but not everyone will be pressed
to make a threat in such a way.”

“You see that on the streets, Miss, men limping from
one line to another waiting for work, but I reckon most people just moan to
their mates, their missus, or they join one of them associations, you know, to
try to get something changed.”

“But this suffering has been going on for some years,
yet this person has only just made his move. Of course, he could have been
simmering for a long while, but at the same time I am going to stick my neck
out and assume—at this stage, in any case—that the person we are seeking is a
man who has either lost the support of a family or was released from an
institution in the past two years. Frankly, if it’s the former, it makes the
job nigh on impossible, but if it’s the latter, I might at least be able to get
hold of some names.”

“Still looking at a lot of people, though.”

“I’ll narrow it down to London—Dr. Lawrence gave me
enough information to suggest that there is cause for a man to linger in the
region of the hospital, unless he had a home to go to in another area.” Maisie
paused, slipping the cap of her fountain pen on and off as she considered her
plan for the day. “The truth is, Billy, that if the man does carry out his
threat, if there is an ‘or else,’ it might give us more information to work
with. And I have avoided coming back to the fact that he mentioned me by name.
Why? How does he know me?”

“Do you think he might be a danger to you, because if
that’s the case—”

Maisie looked at Billy, who stood in front of her desk
as if wavering between leaving her alone and remaining with her. She leaned
back in her chair.

“I didn’t want to say anything, but on the day of the
suicide, as we were leaving Charlotte Street with Detective Inspector Stratton,
I had a distinct feeling that I was being watched.”

Billy leaned forward. “And I didn’t want to say
anything either, Miss, but I kept looking back, something was making me
shudder. I put it down to the noise, you know, reminding me of being back
there, in the war, but it felt right strange, make no mistake.”

“I have to entertain the possibility that we were
followed back to the square, and that I may have been followed since. And
there’s something else.”

“What’s that, Miss?”

“People in this situation, people who make threats, or
carry them out, have also been known to harbor a desire to be seen, to be
apprehended. They want to be caught so that they can be heard. There’s
something about that attention.”

“Not another one hiding in plain sight, Miss. We seem
to get our share of those, don’t we?”

“I don’t know if he’s in plain sight, but he may be
closer than we think. In the meantime, I am going to prepare my template and
then see if I can fill it with a few names.”

“And I’ll be off down to the market.”

“Keep your eyes and ears sharp, won’t you?”

MAISIE WORKED ON after Billy left. She had
deliberately not asked about Doreen. If she inquired each day, it might give
the impression that she was interfering in the family’s domestic affairs. Even
though she had come to know the Beales well and bore a great affection for
them, on this occasion Billy’s pride made it difficult to reach out a helping
hand. It seemed to her that, in his manner, Billy seemed to think she had done
enough for them already. Nonetheless, she worried about them, and particularly
about Doreen’s melancholia, which she realized was having an untoward effect on
the children. Maisie knew only too well that the path of grief could not be
scripted and was one taken alone, even if one grieved with family.

At half-past eleven the telephone rang, and before
Maisie could give the number, Billy began speaking.

“Miss, I don’t know if this is important, I mean, I
don’t think the police know about this, but it seemed a bit funny to me.”

“What’s that, Billy?”

“I was having a bit of a chat with this bloke I know
who works down here at the market. Talk about having a stroke of luck—turns out
he had a bit of a row with the wife and came over to the market for some peace
and quiet, that’s how I came to get talking to him. Anyway, his son works down
at Battersea Dogs and Cats Home, a bit of a job on the side. Turns out that
when he goes in to feed them this morning, in this one section six of the dogs
were dead. He said he’d never seen anything like it—this stuff like beaten egg
whites coming from their mouths, and their eyes popping out of their heads.
They’d died gasping for air and choking on their own blood. Terrible sight it
was for the poor young fella.”

“What’s happened since, do you know?”

“Apparently, they’ve got the vet in there today
looking at the bodies, just in case it’s a disease that spreads. But when he
told me about it, you know what it put me in a mind of?”

Maisie felt her body shudder with cold. “I know what
you’re going to say, Billy—chlorine gas.”

“I knew you’d know. You’d’ve seen it, eh? Chlorine
gas.”

“Stay right where you are—I’ll pick you up at Covent
Garden tube in twenty minutes. We’ll go straight to Battersea and see if we can
talk to anyone there. I want to find out how someone might get in after they’re
closed—and if they were open on Boxing Day. They might have been—there always
seem to be more strays on the street at this time of year.”

“If it is what we think it is, that’d be terrible,
wouldn’t it? I mean, not just for the dogs, but because it means that someone
can do this sort of thing. It could be people next, couldn’t it?”

“I know.”

“Oh, and Miss—”

“Yes?”

“The coster—name of Bert Shorter. Got the name of the
pub where he drinks, down the Old Kent Road.”

“Good work. Now then—I’m on my way. See you at the
tube, on the Long Acre side.”

FIVE

“Miss Dobbs and Mr. Beale?” The smell of disinfectant
and bleach wafted out of the room where surgical procedures were performed, as
the veterinary surgeon closed the door behind him, still clutching a towel with
which he continued to wipe his hands.

“Yes, thank you for seeing us, Mr. Hodges,” said
Maisie.

“I can’t think why you might be interested in our six
deceased dogs.” He threw the towel into a basket at the side of the door.

Maisie stepped forward. “We heard that there were
untoward symptoms prior to death, and—in confidence—given the nature of my
work, I was interested, from a purely professional standpoint, you understand,
as I explained to the administration clerk. The symptoms seem to mimic a
condition I’ve seen before, so I was curious—”

“That’s interesting, because they mimic something I’ve
seen before. I was in the Royal Veterinary Corps during the war and one of the
most terrible things I ever encountered was the effect of poisonous gas on both
man and beast. In terms of canine sickness, I just can’t imagine what disease
or virus would mimic those markers for chlorine gas.”

“Then that’s what you’re looking at—swollen lungs,
fluid, the albumen-like saliva and severe blistering?”

“That’s it.”

“May I see a specimen, Mr. Hodges?”

“Well, it’s not regular, but . . . ” he faltered,
rubbing his chin. “Oh, all right. I understand you’ve just made a nice
contribution to our establishment here, so I should say it would be in order
for you to come in.”

“I’ll stay here, Miss, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s all right, Billy.” Maisie turned to the
veterinary surgeon. “Shall we?”

The spaniel-like mongrel of a dog lay on the cold
metal operating table, its chest open to reveal the viscera. The head lay to
one side and, crusted around blistered lips, a foamy substance had dribbled
from the carcass to the table. The veterinary surgeon drew Maisie’s attention
to the lungs, pointing with a scalpel.

“I don’t know how familiar you are with the physiology
of the average canine, but the lungs here are swollen to about four times the
normal size, an expansion due to the intense pressure of fluid building up as a
response to inflammation and blistering. The dog was doing its damnedest to
suck in air and stay alive. Now, see here”—he indicated where the incision
extended to the base of the throat—“the blistering is closing off the
windpipe.”

“Just as it did with soldiers in the war.” She looked
up at Hodges. “I was a nurse in France, so I’ve seen my fair share of gas
cases.”

“Yes, of course, you would have.” He set down the
scalpel, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, lifted the animal’s head with one
hand, and pulled out the tongue with the other. “And here’s the blistering
again—froth and pus-filled.” With gentle respect he rested the head on the
table once more, stroked an ear, then walked to a sink to remove the gloves and
wash his hands, leaning forward and lathering the soap to cleanse every crevice
in his skin. “I just wish I knew what had caused it. Never seen anything like
it, not the usual sort of thing we come across here—and we have some poorly
animals in this establishment. No, this is not your usual kettle of fish.”

“I realize this question might elicit some concern,
which is why I have taken care to ensure your confidentiality. Can you test to
confirm exposure to gas?”

“To tell you the truth, in some ways, I don’t need
to—at the moment I’m trying to find some evidence to indicate it wasn’t,
because my first thought was, ‘Bloody hell, they’ve been gassed!’ Then I pulled
myself together and began searching for another cause, because I can think of
no good reason why anyone would want to gas a poor innocent creature, and how
would they gain access?” Hodges sighed. “But the truth is that I know this has
been caused by chlorine gas and, yes, though I can test to corroborate my
suspicions, I am confident of the outcome.”

Maisie nodded. “But you’re right, you must confirm
before you reach a conclusion.”

“And who would do this? Who would take leave of his
senses and punish an animal in this way—especially with a weapon of war—and a
particularly nasty one at that. This is a place where abandoned dogs and cats
are supposed to find shelter and, we hope, a good home, eventually.” Hodges
seemed thoughtful for a moment as he looked at the dog splayed out on the
table. “The sad thing is that so many of our dogs are enlisted for military
purposes. A good many served in the last war, you know, carrying messages, first-aid
packs, patrolling, and generally keeping up morale. I’d love to get my hands on
whoever’s responsible.”

Maisie looked up at the veterinary surgeon, the pained
expression revealed in the lines around his eyes, and touched him on the
sleeve. “Don’t worry, I’ll do that for you. I’ll find out who did this. It’s
best to do all you can not to let news of these deaths travel too far, and in
the meantime continue with your tests. I hope you don’t mind me asking if, just
for now, you wouldn’t mind making up an ailment that would result in similar
symptoms.”

“Of course, I can see your point. I should probably
tell the police,” said Hodges as he pulled a sheet across the spaniel’s
carcass.

“I’ll inform them, Mr. Hodges. Although I generally
work independently, I am currently seconded to Scotland Yard for a period of
time.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. “Here’s my card. You
can reach me at this telephone number if you have any more observations you
think might interest me, and if I am not there, you can send a postcard or
telegram to my address. And please, remember that this must be held in tightest
confidence.”

Hodges regarded Maisie once more, tapping the card on
the edge of the table. “If a man could do this to a dog, he might do this to a human
being, mightn’t he? Is that at the heart of your interest?”

“I should hope it doesn’t come to that. Scotland Yard
has some of its best detectives on this case, and no doubt you will be hearing
from them in due course after I’ve made my report.” Maisie turned to leave.
“Keep this to yourself, Mr. Hodges. London can be a desperate sort of place at
the best of times—we don’t want to make it more so.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep mum.”

“SMELLY OLD GAFF, THAT,” said Billy as they left the
dogs’ home.

“Well, they do a good job there, and they do their
best.”

“I must say, it’s something I wonder about, you know,
when there’s so many people wanting for a good meal in this country and here
they are, looking after dogs and cats.”

They walked along the street toward Maisie’s motor
car, both wearing winter coats, hats and scarves to keep the cold wind at bay.
“It may seem that way, I agree—” Maisie was about to go on, then checked
herself. She wanted to say she believed that it was in the act of taking care
of animals and showing respect for all life—especially when in need of support
ourselves—that a certain dignity is sustained, a self-respect so often
compromised in troubled times. But she knew it was not the time to voice such
sentiments, especially to a man who walked through the slums of London to get
to work each day, and who was himself so deeply troubled. She shrugged. “Well,
I suppose it comes down to a belief that people who care for animals are more
likely to be compassionate toward their fellow human beings. Something like
that.”

“Yeah, which doesn’t say much for whoever killed them
dogs, does it?”

“I’m not sure what it says, Billy.”

“I mean, I know you’ve always said that inside the
villain is a victim, but sometimes I find that hard to swallow, y’know?”

Maisie nodded. “I’ve only come across the truly evil
on two occasions, while working for Dr. Blanche. And there’s something in the
person’s eyes, as if they were born with it, as if it were a crippling disease
and not something caused as a result of experience.”

“You make me shiver, Miss.”

“It should make us all shiver. I would venture to say
that there is no overcoming that sort of ill character.”

“But what about the rest, what about the others who do
terrible things, how come they aren’t evil, I mean, what caused them to be like
that?”

Maisie shrugged and stopped for a moment. “It’s
different in each case, but if you go back to the root, I would venture to say
it has to do with care. Those people don’t feel cared for, don’t feel
enfranchised. In many cases they are simply invisible. But that’s only my
opinion, not the last word on the matter.” She stamped her feet. “Come on,
let’s get going. It’s freezing!”

Maisie dropped Billy at Covent Garden tube station
once more. She instructed him to work on finding Bert Shorter, adding that she
would see him at the office later. In the meantime, she planned to return to
Fitzroy Square and place a telephone call to Stratton, and if he was not
available, she would ask for MacFarlane. And she would telephone Maurice Blanche.
Yes, she wanted to speak to Maurice now because she needed a door opened to a
very locked establishment. She could think of no other place to discover how a
civilian might procure chlorine gas or, indeed, garner the skills to handle
such a substance, than the place she had heard much about but never been near:
Mulberry Point, the military testing laboratories for chemical weaponry, close
to the village of Little Mulberry in Berkshire.