Among the Mad (10 page)

“MAURICE?”

“Maisie—how lovely to hear from you. I am sorry you
were not able to remain at Chelstone long enough to come and see me. Your
father tells me that you were summoned by our friends at Scotland Yard early
yesterday morning.”

“Yes, that’s right. Christmas seems weeks ago already.
I’ll come over to the Dower House next time, I promise.”

“I will hold you to your word. Now then, I have a
sense that you have not telephoned to speak of missing me during the festive
season—what can I do for you?”

“Maurice, do you have any contacts at Mulberry Point?”

There was a moment’s silence on the line.

“Their work is most secret, Maisie. And given the
nature of that work, I am now concerned upon hearing of your need to speak to
someone at the laboratories.”

“It is urgent, Maurice. I am in pursuit of—and I think
it’s fair to say this—a most volatile person, and one who has access to some of
the more chilling weaponry.”

“Is there a threat to the general population?”

“Yes, in all honesty, I believe there is, though I
cannot gauge the level of that threat.”

Maisie knew that, if she were with Maurice, she would
see him reaching for his pipe and tapping it on the chimney breast alongside
his favorite wingback chair. He would place the pipe in his lap, then with his
free hand lean toward the pipe stand again and lift his tobacco pouch. He
continued to speak, even though, as she well knew, he was filling the bowl of
his pipe, readying to light it as soon as the telephone call ended.

“Indeed. I see your dilemma. In that case, you should
telephone the University of Oxford and speak to Professor John Gale. He’s both
a chemist and a physicist. He also has a relationship—yes, that’s the best word
to describe it—with Mulberry Point, and would keep counsel regarding your
conversation. He was involved with the Special Brigades during the war.”
Maurice cleared his throat. “Following the first chlorine gas attacks by the
Germans, the military virtually plundered the universities of engineers and
physicists, effectively requisitioning brains and research to not only find an
antidote, but to develop their own weapons. Britain was woefully behind the
enemy in terms of research at the time. John—we are old friends—also has links
to Imperial Chemical Industries. As you know, they were founded about five or
six years ago, to some extent on the back of our experiences with the use of
chemicals on the battlefield.”

“Thank you, Maurice. May I use your name as an
introduction to Professor Gale?”

“I will telephone him myself as soon as we are
finished, so that he expects your call.”

“Thank you, again.”

“One more thing—do take care. If this man, whoever he
is, has enough knowledge to use gas, he may go further. Take every precaution
when close to suspects and wherever the man you are pursuing has left his mark.
Keep your hands and arms covered, use a mask—as if you were back in the
operating theater, Maisie.”

“Not to worry, Maurice. I remember only too well the
precautions we had to take. I’ll be careful.”

“MACFARLANE!” the voice was brusque, and Maisie
imagined the Detective Chief Superintendent answering his telephone in haste
while barking orders to a subordinate.

“This is Maisie Dobbs.”

“Ah, Miss Dobbs.” His tone softened. “What have you
got for me?”

“I believe it’s something important, Detective Chief
Superintendent—and I couldn’t reach Detective Inspector Stratton.”

“Fire away.”

Maisie described the lead via Billy’s contact, and her
visit to Battersea Dogs and Cats Home. She recounted the discussion with Dr.
Hodges, and her own observations when confronted with the carcass of the
deceased dog.

“And there’s no other explanation for the dogs to have
died in this way?”

“Dr. Hodges is testing now, but he is convinced it’s
either chlorine gas or something similar. He was in the Royal Veterinary Corps
in France, so he knows what he’s seeing. And I’ve seen it too, when I was a
nurse, though obviously I am not au fait with the insides of a dog.”

“Not ‘au fait,’ eh?”

Though Maisie shook her head at the hint of sarcasm,
she sensed that it was spoken in jest, a gentle teasing, perhaps, to lessen the
tension.

“And you’ve instructed Hodges not to speak of this to
anyone.”

“I asked him to think up a dog’s disease that has
similar symptoms.”

“Good. Right then, I’ll get down there straightaway.
No army of blue, just me and a sergeant in the first instance. Can you come to
the Yard at six-ish?”

Maisie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Yes,
though I have to place some telephone calls. I have the name of someone who can
advise me further on the procurement of such chemicals. It might also help in
identifying the type of person we’re after.”

“We’re after a wicked bastard, Maisie.”

Maisie was taken aback. Was he testing her with his
language and his manner, trying to see whether she could be “one of the boys,”
able to work with Special Branch? More to the point, would he have been so
blunt with Maurice, who demanded and received the utmost regard from Scotland
Yard?

She sighed. If she countered to protect her opinion,
she might be seen as thin-skinned—yet she could not let the retort go without
comment. “You know, I am quite aware of the wickedness involved in the murder
of innocents, but I think it’s best if I reserve judgment on the perpetrator of
this crime. If I jump to conclusions too soon, I might well blind myself to the
right path when it’s in front of me.”

“Well said, but don’t forget, we could be dealing with
the Irish, the Fascists—I don’t trust that Mosley and his band of merry men—or
it could be Bolshevik union infiltrators pushing their luck. You name it, and
we’ve got it here, and along with the gangs, there’s not one in the clans of
malcontents that wouldn’t string up his own grandmother for their cause. I’ll
expect you at six.” He ended the conversation without farewell, leaving Maisie
looking at the telephone receiver.

“And good day to you too, Chief Superintendent,” said
Maisie to the receiver’s continuous dial tone, as she reached forward,
depressed the bar on the black telephone for several seconds to disconnect the
line, then lifted her hand and began to dial the professor’s telephone number
at home, given to her by Maurice.

“Professor Gale? My name is Maisie Dobbs . . . Oh, he
has? I am so sorry to have to disturb you on a Sunday, but I wondered if I
might drive up to Oxford tomorrow to see you—could you spare me an hour of your
time, perhaps? . . . Eleven? Yes, perfect. I’ll see you then. Thank you,
Professor.”

Maisie did not want to discuss any aspect of her work
with John Gale on an unsecured telephone line. She knew operators often
eavesdropped on calls, flagging one another when a “good one” came on the line,
to which they would all plug in and listen. She was sure Maurice had a secure
line, with telephone calls to his number routed via a special government
exchange. And the lines to Scotland Yard, especially to MacFarlane’s office,
would have been subject to the same level of security. But a telephone
conversation with a professor at Oxford would not have been safe, and the last
thing they needed was the mass confusion brought about by panic. She had
already seen, in her career, the terror that can be wrought by an epidemic of
fear.

MAISIE HEARD THE front door close with a thud,
followed by Billy’s uneven footfall on the stairs.

“Afternoon, Miss.”

“Did you find Bert Shorter?”

“I found out where to find him, but he wasn’t there. I
hung around for a while, but he didn’t turn up, so I thought I would come back
here.”

Maisie looked at Billy as he took off his coat and
went to his desk, where he began going through files and his daily list. She
chewed the inside of her lip for a moment, wondering whether to broach the
subject of Doreen’s health, then decided that now was as good a time as any.

“How’s Doreen, Billy? Will she be seeing the doctor?”

Billy sighed, shaking his head. “I’ve got a
confession, Miss.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk in front of
him, and could not meet Maisie’s eyes as he spoke. “She first saw the doctor,
you know, about how she was feeling and some of the things she was doing, a
couple of months after we lost Lizzie. I saw that she was having trouble and I
thought we should do something about it.”

“Oh, Billy, and you’ve been struggling all this time?”

“Well, it wasn’t too bad when we got away to Kent, but
as I’ve told you, as soon as we got back here, it all came rushing back again.
And I blame myself, I do.”

“What do you mean?” Maisie pulled a chair across the
floor so that she could sit in front of Billy’s desk.

“Well, look at what she’s had to put up with. First
there’s me hardly sleeping for years, getting up at night to go for a walk
because if I closed my eyes I didn’t like what I saw. Then because I was
hurting—and you remember this—I took some of that white stuff to help me. I
don’t know what I was thinking, really I don’t.”

“You can’t blame yourself. There are so many men, so
many families struggling as you have.”

“But then Lizzie died, and it tipped her—as I’ve told
you already. So I broke into the Canada money to take her to the doctor, and
now . . . ” He pressed his lips together, as if he might himself break down.

“Now what? What’s happened now?”

“I didn’t want to say anything, because I didn’t want
to worry you.”

“Billy—”

“They came for her early this morning, with the
ambulance.” He supported his head in his hands, and his voice cracked as he
continued. “Things got bad last night. I thought I’d make a cup of hot milk for
Doreen, to help her sleep.” Billy breathed as if he had been running, and held
his chest. “I had the saucepan on the stove, the milk was coming to the boil,
so I turned around to ask her if she wanted a bit of sugar in the drink—and
there she was with the carving knife in her hand, holding it over her wrist. I
tell you, Miss, she was just about to slice into her vein, and I nigh on cut
myself trying to stop her.” He paused and pressed his lips together for some
seconds, as if to stop himself breaking down in tears. “I banged on the wall to
the neighbor, and yelled for them to run for the doctor. I didn’t say what it
was, mind, but they ain’t stupid. They know. Anyway, the doctor came, took one
look at what’d been going on and said he had no choice but to commit her,
especially as there were children to consider. He gave her an injection of
something to knock her out, and said that if she kept on trying to hurt
herself, she might go for them too. So, she’s been committed. They’ve taken her
to Wychett Hill, out near Epsom. She’s been taken to the bleedin’ nuthouse.”

“Oh, Billy, it must have been much worse at home than
you’ve let on.”

“It’s been bad, Miss. And she’s got a temper on her
now, I can tell you.”

“What about the children?”

“When we got home yesterday I sent them over to me
mum’s for the night, you know, to give Doreen a bit of a break. What with all
the Christmas goings-on—you know how nippers can get. They’re still there. And
once she’d gone, the house was so quiet . . . and that’s why I came over here
to work. I’ll go and get the boys from their nan’s later.” He sighed, shaking
his head. “Part of me thinks she’ll get the help she needs and be back with us
in next to no time, and part of me wants to go down there, put my arms around
her and bring her home now. But there again . . . ”

“There again what?”

His voice cracked. “There’s a bit of me that’s just
relieved. I won’t have to worry about her. Won’t have to wonder if the boys’ve
been fed, or if they’ve been sent to bed with nothing inside them. And there’s
something else.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s got to get well, because if she’s not all right
upstairs”—he tapped the side of his head—“we won’t get into Canada.”

Maisie sat back in her chair. “Oh dear, of course.”

“You know, there’s times I think we’ve copped more of
a bad innings than we deserve, but then I look at what some other people have
to look at in life. They’ve no work, they’re still in pain with their war
wounds, they haven’t got pensions, and their kids are starving—and that’s if
they haven’t lost one or two into the bargain.”

Maisie stood up and paced to the window. “And they’ve
sent her to Wychett Hill? Why wasn’t she sent to the Clifton, where I used to
work, or the Princess Victoria? The Clifton’s closer, easier for you to
visit—and it’d be much better for Doreen.”

“The doctor said it was something to do with who could
take her, and the seriousness of her condition.” He shrugged. “I mean, I don’t
know the difference. They’re all asylums, as far as I’m concerned.”

Maisie began to explain. “No, not quite. Right at the
outset, the Clifton was designed to have a more welcoming aspect than the old
asylums. The wards are lighter, there are rooms where people can get together
to play games or read. They have an outpatient wing, so I would imagine that,
following initial treatment, if she were there, Doreen could be released with
regular checkup visits. They are far more modern, nothing like the
old-fashioned asylums. And it’s also a teaching hospital, so there are many new
methods employed, plus it’s in Camberwell, so it’s not stuck out in the country
and hard to get to. The patients don’t feel as if they’re being isolated away
from civilization, from everything they know.”