Among the Mad

  “Come on, sit down, Billy.” Maisie took Billy by the arm. “I’ll telephone Dr. Masters again right now, to see if there’s been any progress. I’ll ask if she can bring any more urgency to getting Doreen transferred.”

  “I feel as if I’m giving up, Miss. Nothing seems to be going right for us, does it? Just when we think we might be on our way up the river, so help me a bleeding great wave comes and knocks the stuffing out of all of us. And the boys know it, it’s taking its toll there, make no mistake.” He sighed, taking in such a deep breath that it sounded as if it might be punctuated by a bronchial cough, but was not, for he continued talking. “Time was, I would look at all them poor sods walking for work, lining up for subsistence, and think, ‘At least we ain’t got that to put up with.’ But now I don’t. I don’t feel better off anymore, because we’ve been playing with a rotten deck of cards, me and Doreen.”

  “It’ll be all right, Billy, I promise. Look, you go and put the kettle on for a fresh cuppa, and I’ll telephone Dr. Masters.”

  Billy nodded and set about collecting the tea tray, and when he left the room, Maisie picked up the telephone receiver. She had not wanted to place the call while he was in earshot, in case the news was other than they had hoped for.

  “Dr. Masters?”

  “Yes—oh dear, it’s you, Maisie. I have been meaning to get in touch since yesterday, but I am clinging on to sanity myself. We always have more admissions at this time of year. Christmas and New Year, I am sure, sends everyone around the bend. Now then, you’ve called about Mrs. Doreen Beale—that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Do you have news for me?”

  “Good news. We can admit her in the New Year, but we have to wait for the seasonal influx to be whittled down.” Maisie could hear a shuffling of papers. “Right, here we are: we’ll admit her on Monday, January the fourth. An ambulance has been arranged to bring her up from Wychett Hill—I have to complete some documents and then admissions will expedite matters.”

  “Oh, Dr. Masters, thank you.”

  “Not at all, not at all. Sounds like the poor woman was in a dreadful state, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, and she has since suffered through more procedures.”

  “I’ll assess her as soon as she arrives. We’ll look after her, not to worry.”

  “Thank you, again, Dr. Masters.”

  “Yes, as soon as I heard your voice, I knew you were ringing to ask about either Mrs. Beale’s transfer or the business of Anthony Lawrence.”

  “Is there something else you can tell me about Dr. Lawrence?”

  Dr. Masters sounded distracted, as if other matters to hand were claiming her attention.

  “Oh, yes, I’d just heard from him for the first time in years when you came to see me, hadn’t I?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It wasn’t about much, really. He is writing a book, about the effects of nerve agents and other such weaponry on the human psyche. Naturally, he wants to draw upon some of the work we did together years ago, so he sought permission to reuse material from several papers we co-authored at the time.”

  “I see. Was he worried that you might publish first?”

  Masters laughed. “If he was, his mind is at rest now. I do not feel the need to leave any legacy other than my work with my patients. When I have given papers at meetings of my peers, it is to advance the work of us all. Oh dear, I really must rush in a minute or two. What was I saying? Oh yes, this field is changing all the time. In years to come, we will be laughed at and, though I hate to say this, I believe that any book hitherto written on this subject—and on the issue of what the public refers to as ‘shell-shock’—is tainted by political interests.”

  “Even with someone as eminent as Dr. Lawrence? When I worked with him I thought he was one of the best at his job.”

  “And so he was—and still is. But when you have dedicated your life to your work, when you have more of that life behind you than in front of you, you start to think of ways in which your reputation can live on after you’ve gone.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.”

  “Frankly, as soon as I’m gone, I’m gone, and that’s all there is to it. In the meantime, I must now bring this conversation to an end, but if Mr. Beale is with you, may I have a quick word?”

  Billy had just walked into the room, so Maisie held out the telephone receiver to him and mouthed the words Doctor Masters.

  Setting down the tea tray, Billy took the receiver and listened to the news regarding his wife, and Maisie moved away toward the case map, which was now pinned to the table by the window. She looked at her assistant and believed she could see the lines diminishing from around his eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you, Dr. Masters, really I don’t.” He rubbed his forehead to hide his tears as he spoke, then said good-bye and ended the telephone call.

  “Almost there, Billy,” said Maisie, as she heard the receiver returned to its cradle.

  “Miss Dobbs, I thought she was going to be in that Wychett Hill place forever, I really did.” He brought Maisie a cup of tea. “I don’t know how to thank—”

  “You don’t have to thank me, Billy. But I do need the number for the Foundling Hospital, wherever it is in Surrey.”

  Ten minutes later, Maisie was calling a Dr. Rigby at the Foundling Hospital at its new location in Redhill. She would see him tomorrow morning, at nine.

  AT MAISIE’S INSISTENCE, Billy left early to return home. Even though Doreen would be moved to a hospital according to her recommendation, where she believed the care to be more humane, it was still an asylum. She hoped her instinct had served her well, and that Doreen would make progress and begin her slow ascent from the depths of her instability to make a good recovery.

  Maisie placed two manila folders, each containing a collection of papers, in her battered old leather document case; put on her navy blue woolen coat, her cloche and her gloves, and then pulled a pale blue cashmere wrap—a gift from Priscilla when she was in France—around her shoulders for additional warmth. She looked around the office, turned off the lights, locked the office behind her, and left the building.

  A dirty ochre smog clung to her in the cold winter darkness as she walked to the MG, and the thick air seemed to lift up the click-clack of her shoes on flagstones, only to bring the echo back to her as if she were being followed. Once she would have been disconcerted by such a sound, would stop to listen, might even have called out, “Who’s there?” Now she was more confident in her surroundings, she knew the streets, the shopkeepers, and if she were worried, she could run into the Prince of Wales public house—someone would help her if help were needed.

  Reaching the MG, Maisie unlocked the door and placed her bags on the passenger seat before starting the motor. As she was about to take her seat, she saw a lame man come out of the swirling pea-souper smog, and with a shuffle and clump he moved past her. He did not wear a cap, and Maisie could not see the detail of him, but he moved with a deliberate slowness, as if his balance might fail him. There was a sour odor as he passed, a dank blight that the homeless carried with them, and she thought she might go after him and press a coin or two into his hand, for he was indubitably a man who had been to war, and it was the least she could do. But he had passed, the hard metal tip of his cane clattering against the pavement as he vanished into the noxious blend of smoke and fog.

  I don’t think I can stand another year of invisibility, another year of being one of the unseen. We make our way along the streets and are passed by as if we have no place, no value and worth. Ian could not bear such an existence anymore. He had only two friends, me and the man at the bookshop, who he thought did not even know his surname, even though he wrote it in a ledger each time he borrowed a book. Of course, he knew Croucher, and Croucher did what he could. And I know, now, that Ian was right. No one wants to see the broken, in body or in mind. We are better off kept out of sight in cold, sterile wards of efficient nurses, and doctors who only know you by the notes at the end
of your bed. Or we are better off dead.

  I thought some sign that I had been heard might follow my letters. I did not want to take life. I have seen too much death. But now it seems I have only one more opportunity to raise my voice. To be heard. The end of the year is almost upon me. There’s only one thing left to do. St. Paul’s, on Old Year’s Night. For Auld Lang Syne, my dears. For old times’ sake.

  THIRTEEN

  It was almost eight when Maisie arrived home. And even as she was looking forward to preparing a light supper, with perhaps a small glass of sherry to warm her from the inside out, she had a feeling that she would not be alone this evening.

  “Miss Dobbs?” Robbie MacFarlane’s voice reached her before his large frame emerged from the smog as she stepped from her motor car.

  “Chief Superintendent?”

  “I hope you don’t mind me coming to see you at your home.”

  “Not at all—has something happened?” She squinted beyond him in the darkness, to see if a police vehicle awaited the detective. He was alone.

  “No, no, not yet.” He seemed unsure of his words, almost stuttering his response to her question. “You telephoned the Yard today and I wanted to make sure everything was in order.”

  “Yes. Look, would you care to come in? It’s no good standing out here to talk, is it?”

  “Thank you. I don’t want to impose, but . . .”

  “Come on.” Maisie walked toward the main door of the building, opened the outer glass door leading to a foyer that on a clear summer’s day would be bathed in light streaming through the windows, illuminating the center staircase. Once inside, she turned left toward the door to her ground-floor flat. “It’s nothing grand, but it’s home.”

  MacFarlane closed the door behind him and followed her along the hallway as she turned on the lights and walked into the drawing room. She ignited the fire, drew the blinds, and placed her document case and shoulder bag on the dining table before offering to take MacFarlane’s overcoat and hat.

  “I’ll put them in the box room at the end of the passage—the main pipe for the heating runs up the wall there, so the room is always warm, whether I’ve turned up the radiator or not.”

  “Very nice flat, if I may say so, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Thank you. I’m happy here. Do take a seat.”

  MacFarlane sat down on one of the chairs close to the fire, and looked around the room. Above the mantelpiece was a watercolor painting of a woman on a beach, looking out to sea—a woman who resembled Maisie—and on the far wall behind the dining table was a simple woven tapestry. It was a blend of vibrant reds, golds, mauves, blues, yellows and greens and brought together wave after wave of color to depict a sunset across summer countryside.

  “Interesting taste in art, Miss Dobbs.”

  “The watercolor was a gift, and the tapestry is one of my own—it’s very simple, I’m not an expert at all.”

  “But you’re an artist.”

  “Oh, no. Not me.” Maisie paused. “Look, Detective Chief Superintendent, I must confess I have barely eaten a thing all day and I am famished. I have a hearty soup already prepared, some bread and cheese—would you care to join me?”

  MacFarlane turned to face her, and the color rose in his cheeks. “Thank you, yes, I’m a bit peckish myself.”

  “Right then. There’s a bottle of sherry in the sideboard, and some glasses, so do pour us both a glass—just a small one for me. And before you ask, there’s nothing stronger—in fact, there’s nothing else—so you won’t find a single malt lurking away in the back.”

  “Sherry will be quite welcome.”

  Maisie stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the stove. What on earth was she thinking? Inviting the detective to stay for supper? What would he think? What would anyone think? A stockpot of soup, made the day before, sat on the top of the stove. She pulled it toward the larger burner and lit the gas-ring, then held the match close to the gas jets in the oven. She brought a wedge of cheese from the larder, along with a cottage loaf, placing the cheese on a wooden board and the bread in the oven. The bread was not in the first flush of youth, so she hoped a warming would soften it up. She brought knives and spoons from a drawer in the dresser, a tablecloth and cloth napkins from another drawer, and set the dining table for two.

  “There you are, Miss Dobbs.” MacFarlane held out a glass of sherry.

  “Thank you, Chief Superintendent.” She took the glass and held it up in a toast. “To the New Year.”

  “Aye, it’s not long now. To 1932.”

  “Do take a seat in front of the fire. The soup will be ready soon—it’s oxtail with carrots, potato and onion.” Maisie returned to the kitchen, brought out two large soup plates, took a quick taste of the broth, and ladled the soup onto the plates. She set the hot bread on the wooden board alongside the cheese and took the board to the table. After she’d brought in the soup, she returned to the kitchen, opened the back door and lifted a porcelain butter dish from a covered pail, which also contained a half bottle of milk.

  When he was summoned to the table, MacFarlane smiled and thanked Maisie again. “Miss Dobbs, this is kind of you.”

  Maisie nodded. “Dig in, Chief Superintendent, or it will get cold.”

  They had been eating in silence for some minutes when the detective set down his spoon. “It’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal.”

  “Too busy?”

  “For the most part.”

  Having sated her initial hunger, Maisie spoke again. “You wanted to know why I telephoned you today.”

  “Yes, indeed, that’s why I came here.” MacFarlane lifted his spoon and dipped it into his soup once more.

  Maisie thought back to Billy’s comments and wondered if there was more to the visit. Surely anxiety to see the case closed had led him to wonder why she had placed a call to him, which inspired him to wait for her at her flat—though he could have come to her office, instead. But the flat was more convenient to Scotland Yard, so it made sense that he would wait for her here.

  “I don’t know yet if my inquiry will carry weight, but I was not ready to dismiss Catherine’s story today, about the man who had come to their meeting.”

  “I am sure there are dozens of nutters out there looking to join the agitators, Miss Dobbs. It’s the need to belong to a group, isn’t it? I’ve come across it before, and you’ve heard Colm Darby talk about it. Boys and men who’d never been in trouble, but they’ve been out on the edge somewhere, and they find family of sorts among men who would exploit them. One minute they are tired, lonely, misunderstood—some of them are misfits, in their way—and then they discover they are among people who give them a feeling of attachment. The next thing you know, they are up to their eyes in crime of some sort or another. The man described by Catherine Jones sounds the same—someone not quite right, someone who is shunned, so he tries to join this lot, only they don’t take to him and he’s on his own again. I’ll concede there’s a chance that he’s our man, but it’s also more than likely that the inventive Catherine is trying to ingratiate herself with us and thereby hoping to receive due consideration when it comes to sentencing. Seen it many times, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m looking into it anyway.”

  “Good.” MacFarlane reached for the bread knife and sawed two thick wedges of crusty loaf, sliding one onto Maisie’s plate with the knife.

  “Thank you.” She began to butter the bread, placed a sliver of cheese on top, and continued. “Apparently he referred to himself as a ‘foundling.’ The term is a bit old-fashioned, and was enough to pique my interest. I remembered the Foundling Hospital, the one built by Thomas Coram in the 1700s. It only moved out of London about four or five years ago, and now it’s in Redhill. I’m going there tomorrow, to see if I can look at their records. There are a couple of members of staff who have been with the hospital for over thirty years.” She paused. “And yes, I know it’s a bit of a leap of faith, but if I assume that our man is, say, in his mi
d-thirties, I can perhaps isolate the years when he might have been there. And if his name really is Oliver, that gives me more to go on.”

  “And if you come up with nothing?” MacFarlane did not look up as he swept a scrap of crust around the edge of the bowl to soak up the last of the broth.

  “I’ve asked Mr. Beale to compile a list of other orphanages—the Barnardo homes, for example.” She watched as MacFarlane finished eating. “Would you like some more?”

  He smiled. “That was a lovely bit of broth—and if there’s more in the pot, I’ll take it.”

  Maisie reached for his bowl and went to the kitchen, returning with a second helping, which she set in front of him. She continued outlining her plan. “I have been back to see one of the doctors I worked alongside years ago, when I was a nurse—I told you about him. He’s an expert in the care of men who have suffered war neurosis, and he also has experience in working with men and women who have been exposed to weapons such as gas, nerve agents and so on—in wartime and in the laboratory.”

  “And what does he say?”

  “Surprisingly little. He is writing a book at the moment, which might account for his reticence to speak. But he was most helpful at first, giving me vital information with which to outline a template of the kind of person we’re looking for.”

  “Ah, yes, the template.”

  “I know you think I’ve wasted time.”

  “We’ve all wasted time, Miss Dobbs. When you don’t know where you’re going you run around in circles at first, whacking the bushes to see what vermin come out. Rather than a specific template, it’s the scatter method of acquiring clues. Shake out every nasty piece of work you ever came across and see what sticks to the bugger.”