Among the Mad

  “It’s completely against all protocol for handling this sort of thing,” said Stratton, as he opened a door for Maisie on the way to her motor car. “This stuff should be under armed guard.”

  “And attract the attention of newspapermen, anarchists and—perhaps—the man who killed a junior minister of His Majesty’s government?”

  “I should come with you.” Stratton seemed almost terse when he spoke.

  Maisie stopped and faced him. “Look, don’t worry. I shall drive straight to Oxford and go immediately to see Professor Gale. I know he will be in his rooms because I checked his teaching and tutorial hours last time I saw him, and doubtless Billy has contacted him by now, telling him to expect me.”

  “I wish you’d change your mind and let me come with you,” offered Stratton.

  Maisie shook her head, and they continued talking as they walked.

  “We’ve got everyone out on this one,” said Stratton, “but if I can see my way clear to looking into the Oliver lead, I’ll get to it—if only to help put your mind at rest. Nothing like nosing after a suspect only to find he’s dead.”

  They reached Maisie’s MG, whereupon Maisie set her document case behind the passenger seat, and settled into the motor. She started the engine as Stratton added, “Do be careful, won’t you?”

  “I’ll be all right. Now then, MacFarlane will be bellowing along the highways and byways of Scotland Yard for you, so you’d better get a move on back up to his lair.”

  THE GRAYNESS OF noontime held all the promise of a bitter, frostbitten night, one that she would rather spend at home in front of the fire with a book, and not at a party. Though her wrap was wound around her shoulders and up to her neck, and she wore gloves, she was still cold as she followed the A40 route out of London and on toward Oxford. The going was slow at first, but just as she was able to pick up speed on the outskirts of London, she became aware of a black motor car maintaining a certain distance behind the MG. It was close enough to keep her within sight, but not so close as to encourage a second look. At first she decided to pay little attention, but it became apparent—when she passed another vehicle, sped up or slowed down—that the motor car was following her. She took care to keep up with other traffic on the road, and accelerated when one vehicle pulled onto another road, or peeled off toward a shop. She began planning her exit from the MG when she reached Oxford—she wanted to be able to reach Professor Gale’s office before she was approached by the occupants of the motor car, which she thought might be a Wolseley Straight Eight, a vehicle much faster than her own.

  To her chagrin, the pack ahead soon dissipated, and now with no other cars immediately in front or behind, the Wolseley gained speed, pulled around her and braked, leaving just enough room for her to brake in turn without crashing into the rear. She locked the MG’s doors and waited as a man emerged from the back of the jet-black vehicle. It was Urquhart. He strolled toward her without urgency and came alongside the MG, whereupon he leaned over so that his face seemed to fill the side window, and smiled. Maisie opened the door and turned sideways to look him in the eye.

  “I’m in a bit of a hurry, Mr. Urquhart. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Urquhart smiled. “I am sure you can do better than that, Miss Dobbs. Indeed, I’m surprised you can be so calm, seeing as you’re in possession of a volatile substance that could probably do us all a mischief.” He brought his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Now then, where do you think you’re going with your precious cargo?”

  “I am on my way to meet an eminent scientist who I am sure will be able to identify the constituent properties of the substance. It will not tell us who the junior minister’s killer is, but it might point us in a given direction.”

  “Yes, I know all that.”

  Maisie gave no evidence of surprise, and simply looked ahead. “May I continue now?”

  “No. Well, not in the direction you were going, Miss Dobbs.” Urquhart looked up as a vehicle slowed down and pulled around them, the driver shaking his fist at the inconvenience. “First of all, if you would be so kind as to open the passenger door, I’ll be accompanying you.” Maisie leaned across and unlocked the door. Urquhart continued talking as soon as he was settled. “Bit cramped in here, isn’t it?”

  “It suits me, thank you very much.”

  “No need to be like that. Now then, follow the Wolseley, if you will. He’ll pull over as soon as we find a suitable place for you to park, then we’ll continue on in a bit more comfort.”

  “And may I ask where we’re going?”

  “Mulberry Point. And do not be unduly concerned about your appointment—Professor John Gale will be meeting us there.”

  Maisie said nothing as the journey continued, and as Urquhart promised, they stopped only once, to leave the MG safely parked next to a post office. After Maisie was settled in the saloon’s back seat, they sat in silence as the Wolseley’s driver took the motor car to top speed on its way past Reading to Little Mulberry. Maisie was tired. The days since Christmas had been long and the visit to the Foundling Hospital in Redhill already seemed more than just a few hours ago. She listed back and forth, in and out of wakefulness, and only when Urquhart spoke did she realize that she had given in to sleep.

  “We’re here, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Yes, yes, good.”

  Urquhart looked around and smiled. “Look, Miss Dobbs, I really don’t know why you’re worried about us. We’re all on the same side, you know—we just work in different ways. Big Robbie does things his way and we do things our way. And no one gets anywhere when they’re keeping secrets.”

  “Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane has said the same thing.”

  “Hmm, which is why you were on your way to Oxford with a valuable sample of heaven knows what and I wasn’t kept in the picture.”

  Maisie bit her tongue, even though she thought of several suitable retorts.

  A soldier emerged from a guardroom as the Wolseley drew alongside a barrier. He looked inside the vehicle as Urquhart pulled a wallet from his inside pocket and opened it to reveal his identification.

  “Meeting Professor John Gale.”

  The soldier checked Urquhart’s credentials, and read the letter provided by Urquhart, which was from Military Intelligence, Section Five.

  “And is this Miss Dobbs, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  The soldier peered across to the back seat. Maisie smiled, and though it was overcast, she thought the soldier blushed.

  “Right you are, sir. Know your way?”

  “Yes, Corporal. Thank you.”

  The motor continued on, and with the window still open, Maisie could smell the sharp freshness of countryside, of cold air across barren fields, and in the distance she heard the bleating of sheep.

  “Here we are.”

  As soon as the Wolseley rumbled to a standstill, the driver came around and helped Maisie out of the vehicle.

  “Follow me,” instructed Urquhart, as he walked toward a series of low hut-like buildings that Maisie could see were well lit—and well guarded.

  Urquhart led the way to the first building, where a soldier asked to see identification. When the uniformed man was satisfied that they were who they claimed to be, with a salute he allowed them to pass. A man in a pair of white overalls and a mask pulled down around his neck met them in the makeshift reception area. In the distance, coming from another low hut, Maisie could hear dogs barking.

  “John’s this way,” said the man. “He’s waiting for you in the lab, along with Christopher Anton and Walter Mason, both scientists under his guidance.”

  “Very good,” said Urquhart.

  They were shown into an anteroom adjacent to the laboratory, where they were joined by Professor John Gale.

  “Miss Dobbs.” He extended his hand to Maisie and smiled. “All very cloak and dagger, isn’t it? Sorry about that.” He turned to Urquhart, said the man’s surname and nodded his head in acknowledgment, and the
n brought his attention back to Maisie. “Now then, Miss Dobbs, I understand you have something for me. My colleagues and I are anxious to start work.”

  Maisie reached into her document case and retrieved the brown paper bag. She held it out to Gale. “The vial is inside.”

  “Very good.” He moved to leave, then turned back again. “Would you like to observe? You’ve worked in laboratories as a student, so you are well used to the environment. We have protective clothing available for you.”

  Anxious not to spend time in conversation with Urquhart, and anticipating that he would decline such an invitation—she was always surprised at how many men in his sort of position could not bear to be in a laboratory—Maisie nodded. “Yes, I would be most interested.”

  Urquhart shook his head. “I’ll go for a cup of tea and a bite to eat until you’ve got something for me—and don’t worry, I know the way to the canteen.”

  Maisie followed Gale along a corridor, which she realized was a connecting route between two huts. All the buildings were linked in this way, she suspected.

  “Here you are. Put this pair of overalls on—there’s a dressing room over there. Make sure the sleeves come right down to your wrists. You’ll find masks, et cetera, in there.” He pointed to a cupboard, then nodded toward another door. “We’ll be in that laboratory.”

  Having taken the necessary precautions, Maisie joined the three scientists, and was introduced to the other two men in turn. She stood to one side and watched as the vial was removed and placed inside a glass tank that looked as if it had been designed to house goldfish. There were holes for the scientists to reach through, and soon all but a small amount of the powder was divided onto a series of glass slides, and secured with a clear substance. Maisie did not interrupt to ask questions; instead, she continued to watch as each man took two slides and went to work, first placing the slides under his microscope.

  Gale called her to his side. “What we are looking for at the outset is the nature of the substance. Can we identify the constituent particles? How does it behave, and is there movement? Then, when we’ve each compiled a series of notes, we take samples into the experimentation room.”

  “Experimentation room?”

  “Yes, my dear. Might not be something you want to watch—we expose animals to the substance and we see what happens. There’s enough here, and remaining in the tank, to replicate something of the effect it had on the man who died—even though he was exposed to a greater dose.”

  Maisie nodded, but said nothing.

  “You can talk to me while I’m working if you like, Miss Dobbs. In fact, I sometimes find that if I am having a conversation I discover more in what I am seeing. I think it has to do with letting the trained side of my brain do the work while the judgmental side of my brain is occupied with fielding questions.” Looking into his microscope, he frowned. “Hmm, this is a sophisticated little stash of something, isn’t it?”

  Maisie cleared her throat. “Professor Gale, I wonder, did you ever know of a young man called Stephen Oliver?”

  In the laboratory’s bright lights, Maisie saw color drain from Gale’s face. She wondered if he would tell the truth.

  “Stephen Oliver?” He moved the slide he was handling to one side, and Maisie noticed his hands were shaking. “Well, yes, I certainly remember him. Very, very bright young man. One of those who came out to France—I told you about it, after the gas attacks and help was needed in identifying the substances and in developing antidotes. His work was invaluable.”

  “I have heard that he was killed.”

  Gale nodded, and set the slides in an enamel kidney-shaped bowl, along with the remaining powder, still in the vial.

  “If I remember rightly, he was one of the first to take the work into the field. We’d asked for volunteers to go out and examine men who were gassed, so we could find out more about their symptoms closer to the time of the event, so to speak. In effect, we asked him to go into battle, because he was even issued a gun.”

  “And that’s when he was killed?”

  Gale pointed to the small bowl. “Sorry, Miss Dobbs, but I must move on—the sooner we know what we are dealing with, the sooner we can be prepared if it’s used again, and on a greater number of people.” He summoned his fellow scientists, who noted where the substance was moved to and from; then they left the laboratory and made their way in the direction of the barking. Maisie followed until they reached a series of huts where, from the sounds and smells that issued from them, animals were kept. They went into an adjacent laboratory. When a dog was brought in, Maisie decided that, strong as she was, Gale was right—it was probably better she did not watch. She left the room and waited in the corridor outside.

  She could hear the men speaking to one another, and one of them speaking softly to the dog in a soothing manner. Then there was silence for some seconds, followed by a loud initial screech, then yelping. Maisie placed her hands over her ears and walked away, but soon the noise subsided. A bell rang outside, and as Maisie looked out of the window, into the gritty winter afternoon, she saw two men in overalls come to a side door and be given entry to the laboratory. They left moments later carrying the deceased animal between them, wrapped in sacking and a heavy rubber sheet.

  Maisie was joined by John Gale, who led her along the corridor. “We expect to have more to report tomorrow morning. At this stage we have, we believe, identified the constituent properties of the powder, and we will replicate it and test it again here. Then we will work on an antidote. But it all takes time—frankly, it usually takes months. But we are used to responding to government requests with some speed, so we have to make assumptions that, as scientists, we might not usually leap to until we are much further along in our work. Sometimes we get a lucky hit. It’s a bit like a game of darts. You’d like to be on firm footing, you’d like to stand and consider your shot, but if the other team is baying for you to go on, you just throw the dart and hope it hits the bull’s-eye.”

  “Do you know anyone who has the knowledge to develop an agent such as this?”

  Gale stopped in front of a sink, turned on the tap, and began to wash his hands, taking up a brush and scrubbing every crevice of skin. He looked up at Maisie. “We were just talking in the laboratory, and from what we have deduced thus far, the characteristics of this particular weapon—it is a weapon, no other word for it—required an innovator of some advanced ability. In fact, I would call him a genius.”

  “And there’s a thin line between genius and insanity, isn’t there?”

  Gale nodded and dried his hands on a towel, which he threw into a laundry bin alongside the sink.

  “Is that how you would have described Stephen Oliver?”

  “He was brilliant, but—”

  “Is that how you would have described him?”

  He put his hands to his face and pulled them down toward his chin, then rubbed the skin along his jawline. Instead of resembling an absentminded academic, John Gale bore the look of a man shouldering a great weight. He folded his arms and looked down at the ground before speaking to Maisie again.

  “Come along to my office, if you would, Miss Dobbs. We will have to go through a proper cleansing process first, though. When you go into the ladies’ changing room you’ll see a receptacle for your overalls, cap, gloves and mask, and there are instructions on the wall for you to follow. I will join you outside in the corridor. Hopefully that man Urquhart will still be occupied in the canteen.”

  Maisie followed the instructions to the letter, and when she emerged, Gale was waiting for her. He led the way to an office close to the first laboratory. Whereas his office at Oxford was colorful and cluttered, this office was spare, with few papers on the desk. A series of filing cabinets were each padlocked at the top, and Gale had taken out two keys to unlock the door to the office to gain entrance. He pulled up a chair for Maisie and flicked on an electric fire before taking his seat on the other side of his desk. He wasted no time in continuing the conversati
on.

  “Stephen Oliver was an interesting study, even before the war. He was seventeen when he came up to Oxford. His academic record was about as unbeatable as I have ever seen in my days as a teacher and scientist. On the other hand, he lacked what one might term ‘social skills,’ though he was a compassionate person, I would say.”

  “In what way did he lack social skills?”

  Gale shrugged. “There was this absolute finesse when working in the laboratory, and a fluency when delivering a paper or addressing a group of students, or even when engaged in defending a position regarding his research. But if you asked him down to the pub for a drink, you would have thought he had never been out. He was uncomfortable around women. I would imagine that, as a boy, his teacher might have observed, ‘This boy does not know how to play.’”

  “So you had known him for some time?”

  “Yes, he was one of my students. Later, he became involved in laboratory research and was already an accomplished scientist when the government effectively drafted us all in to deal with the crisis brought about by the enemy’s use of chemical weaponry.”

  “Tell me about his death.”

  “That’s where it gets . . . difficult.”

  “In what way?”

  “Stephen lost his mind in the trenches. Even before he went up the line, he was probably not dealing with the situation as well as most.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The percussion affected a lot of people—even the noise in the distance, the constant ba-boom, the shells sounding as if they were coming ever closer. I tried to overrule his offer to go to the front, but—it was chaos, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Yes, I know.” Maisie paused. “So, he came back from the trenches changed.”

  “War neurosis. Immediate repatriation to England, where he was placed in an asylum.”