“Not a hospital for men with neurasthenia?”
“Strictly speaking, he wasn’t in the army. As I said, it was chaos. He went into an asylum.”
“What about his family?”
“Ah, yes. The family.”
“What do you mean?”
“The family—his mother and father—were shocked when they saw him. There he was, a young man, constantly drooling from the mouth, not able to control many of the basic human functions. He was shaking, and was so very sensitive to sound.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I understand. And did the parents try to have him moved? Was there a point at which he returned home?”
“No. In fact, his parents said that it was more than they could take on. By all accounts, they were committed to their work with orphaned children. Overcommitted, I would say.”
Maisie leaned back in her chair, as the truth dawned upon her. “They told people their son had died—didn’t they? It was the embarrassment, the possible humiliation of having their once brilliant son diminished.”
“Yes.” Gale looked up. “But he did get better, for a while.”
“To what degree?”
“To the degree that he could take lodgings in Oxford, and continue with research at the university. In fact, the regimen seemed to help him—the order, the necessary discipline of the scientist, seemed to bring an element of control to every aspect of his demeanor. And communication with his parents remained severed, as far as I know.”
“What happened to him?”
“A relapse. We brought him to work here.” He held up his hand. “I know, I know, you may ask about the integrity of such a decision, but you have to realize, he was a brilliant man, a genius. We needed him. We were testing antidotes to every gas used by the Germans, and we were also involved in analyzing those we knew they’d developed but hadn’t used. And we were working on our own weapons, everything from a biological agent to kill crops in Germany—the government thought we could starve the country to its knees—to gases and other nerve agents.”
“And it was too much for him—he had a breakdown.” Maisie offered the statement as speculation.
“Yes. In hindsight, it was to be expected. He was testing on dogs at the time, and the next thing we knew he had completely lost his mind again. Fortunately, one of our psychiatrists was here, and he took charge of the situation.”
“And he took him into care, didn’t he?”
Gale frowned. “How do you . . . you know, don’t you?”
Maisie sighed, and stood up to pace back and forth. “Dr. Anthony Lawrence, wasn’t it? He took charge of the situation by removing Stephen Oliver and taking him to one of the hospitals where he worked.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
Maisie paced again, then stopped in front of the desk. “And if I am not mistaken, Stephen Oliver recovered again, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And you needed him, so back he came once more. Until the next breakdown.”
Gale nodded. “He’s still locked away, poor man.”
Maisie shook her head. “On the contrary, I suspect he was released between six months to two years ago.”
Gale rested his head in his hands. “So it was Stephen, then. That dreadful substance we’ve just watched kill a dog is Stephen’s work.”
“I can’t say for certain, but I believe it could be.”
Without warning, and with no attempt at a knock, the door to Gale’s office was flung open.
“Sorry to interrupt this little meeting of scientific minds, but I need you.” Urquhart pointed at Maisie.
She held out her hand to Gale. “Thank you, Professor Gale,” she said, and turned to follow Urquhart, but looked back as she reached the door. “You knew it might be him, even before we brought the vial to you today. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I—I didn’t want to believe it. I knew he was unsettled, but I—you see so many people in my line of work, and so many of them are . . . are eccentric, and—he is a very brilliant man.”
“And very dangerous.” Maisie stepped into the corridor, as Urquhart, who had not heard the conversation between Maisie and Gale, stepped back into the office and informed the scientist that he would be in touch the following morning to check on “progress.” The staff at Mulberry Point would be working around the clock.
“WHAT’S HAPPENED?” Maisie inquired as she was hurried toward the waiting Wolseley.
“To his credit—because he’s never been one for playing the game with our department—Robbie has just been on the blower. His informers must have told him we were here, Miss Dobbs. Anyway, it transpires another letter has been received at the PM’s office. And this time the trouble could be big.”
“What did the man say?”
“That it will be a happier New Year for some, or something like that. Your boss man didn’t elaborate.”
“He’s not my boss.” Maisie climbed in the back of the motor car.
“Well, whatever he is, we’re on our way to see him now. You can pick up your little roller skate of a motor and follow us to Scotland Yard.”
The Wolseley set off again, and as they were cleared to leave the guard post, Maisie wondered if she should tell Urquhart that she thought she knew the identity of the letter-writer. She was about to tap him on the shoulder, but drew back. Something was stopping her from making such a claim. Even though it seemed most likely that Stephen Oliver was their man, it was as if a small voice within was urging her to wait, not to show her hand. She leaned back as the motor car accelerated once more, and wondered if the feeling was simply one of loyalty, that having worked with MacFarlane, she thought he should be the first to know of her discovery.
I always knew, always, that I would die alone. That there would be no caring relative, no wife, no mother, no love to say good-bye. So I will have to take some companions with me. For old time’s sake. Tonight, I will go to my death as if to a party. I wonder whether that woman who tried to save Ian, that Maisie Dobbs, is going to a party? I’d seen her before, seen her walking along to the station, or crossing the square. I know what she does. I thought she would have found me by now. Not so clever, that clever woman. She always gives something to the people who hold out their hands. Pennies for the children, pennies for the beggars, pennies for madmen. Yes, I’d like to take her with me. She would be good company, perhaps. But not Croucher, even though he feels sorry for me. Even though I am pitied. Pity. “It’s such a pity,” said a woman passing me on the street. I never saw her again. Never saw my mother again, not after she thought she had a madman for a son. Not that it would have made much difference. She barely even knew me.
The pencil began to scratch, so the man took up his knife and whittled away slivers of wood until more lead was revealed. Then he licked the lead, and began to note a series of numbers and letters. John Gale, or another scientist, might have understood the notations. The man stuck out his tongue as he wrote, and onto the paper, alongside the numbers and letters, drops of spittle punctuated a new formula, one that he had been twisting and turning around in his mind for days.
FIFTEEN
Maisie held the letter by the corner of the page, and brought it closer to the light to read.
“Written in pencil, again—and see here, there’s the same evidence of moisture.”
Colm Darby nodded, adding, “It’s definitely the same man.”
“Yes . . . ” Maisie was thoughtful as she read.
I have no further use of this life, of this body, or of this mind. But before I go, before I decline the opportunity to step forward into another year of sidelong glances and piteous abuse, I will make my mark. You will be sorry, so sorry not to have listened to me. I wanted only to be heard, only to be heard on behalf of those who cannot speak, the men whom war has crippled and poverty has silenced. There will be no parties, no gathering of joyous anticipation for us, the forgotten. So I will stop the big party. For Auld Lang Syne.
“What are we supposed to do
—police every drunken party in London on Old Year’s Night?” MacFarlane paced in front of the gathering—Stratton, Darby, Urquhart and Maisie.
“We can stop the public affairs—the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral will be packed tonight, and I wouldn’t mind betting that’s our man’s bull’s-eye.” Urquhart made his suggestion with a shrug.
“You could be right,” said Stratton. “Public gathering at St. Paul’s was supposed to be banned, and still hundreds come—but we can have mounted police on duty and turn people away.” Stratton looked toward MacFarlane, as if putting a question to him.
“Turning away the inebriated on the eve of the New Year has never been a wholly successful venture.” MacFarlane paused. “But it’s a start.” He clapped his hands together. “Right, then, I want all known venues of public gathering on December the thirty-first to be closed down. Turn the punters away and tell them to get on home.”
“Gov, you’ll have a riot or two on your hands,” said Darby.
“Better that than have tomorrow morning’s papers telling the world that a crowd of London revelers has been killed by a mystery substance—a nerve gas, if that’s what he’s going to use. At least we can explain a riot without causing wider public chaos.”
“Robbie, I’m off back to HQ now,” said Urquhart. “I’ve had men all over London for the past few days, and I want to know what I’ve got at my end. I’ll be in touch.”
“We’ll be on each other’s toes again, Gerry.”
“I know—I’d rather it that way and not risk leaving a stone unturned.”
“Aye, you’re right. Be in touch.”
Urquhart left the room, and as she heard the door click behind her, Maisie cleared her throat.
“I may have a lead on the letter-writer. I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I would be remiss if I did not bring this information to your attention for want of more corroboration.”
“Go on, Miss Dobbs.” MacFarlane turned toward Maisie, his attention followed by that of Stratton and Darby.
Describing the visit to Mulberry Point, Maisie recounted her conversation with John Gale. MacFarlane, who was standing in front of his desk, folded his arms and leaned back, causing a pile of papers to fall to one side. He made no move to set them straight, but attended to Maisie’s words with a nod or a raised eyebrow. He waited until she had finished before she spoke.
“I would have warned you that Urquhart was on your tail, if I could have—but even though he gets under my skin, he has resources at his fingertips that I don’t, and whether we like it or not, we do cross purposes at times, so we’ve got to try to work in tandem—and that means we pedal in different directions, most of the time. Now then . . . ” He looked at the floor for a moment and rubbed his chin. “Miss Dobbs, I want you to go to your Anthony Lawrence and see what you can find out.” He looked around at the clock. “Bloody hell, time flies. Not even six hours to go before Big Ben strikes twelve—and half of London gone home.”
“I’ll leave now.” Maisie stood up ready to leave.
“Your man should be here. Beale. Where is he?”
Maisie shook her head. “I hope he’s on his way home. I would prefer it if he were with his family on Old Year’s Night.”
“Going soft on the help?”
Maisie collected her hat and gloves, ignoring the comment. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something to report—I want to catch Dr. Lawrence before he leaves for the evening.”
She left Scotland Yard with haste, making her way with as much speed as she could in the direction of the hospital known as “the Bin.”
MAISIE WAS PLEASED to find Mr. Croucher in the porters’ office. Even though the man had never been particularly cordial to her, he was a familiar face.
“Oh, Mr. Croucher—is Dr. Lawrence here?”
“No, Madam. Dr. Lawrence has taken leave, won’t be back for another two days.”
“Oh, dear. Look, I need to see the record of one of his former patients. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
Croucher shook his head. “Can’t do that without Dr. Lawrence.”
“May I see Matron?”
He shook his head again. “Sorry, Madam, you’ll have to come back after the new year now.”
“This is a matter of life and death, Mr. Croucher—may I please see Mrs. Kennedy?”
“Madam, I’ve told you—” Croucher seemed to soften, as if reconsidering his obstructive stance. “Look, I’m sorry, it’s Old Year’s Night and Mrs. Kennedy isn’t here anyway—it’s late you know. Normally she’d be here all hours, but—”
Maisie could feel her stomach become tense. Time was ticking away toward midnight. “Mr. Croucher, I appeal to you to help me—do you know if there was a man here by the name of Oliver? Stephen Oliver? A former patient.”
Croucher sighed, looked down at his ledger, and shook his head. “Don’t mean a thing to me—never heard the name, and I see everyone in and everyone out, so I would know.”
Maisie looked at him, his balding head, his sagging jowls. It seemed as if his job represented his only opportunity to assert himself.
“Thank you, Mr. Croucher. You have been most helpful.”
Maisie turned to leave, but as she opened the main doors, she turned back to look through the glass at the porters’ office. Across the counter, she could clearly see Croucher putting on his overcoat and hat. He seemed rushed, and it appeared he was giving another porter instructions for his absence—she could see him pointing to a timetable of sorts on the wall, stabbing it with his forefinger to make a point. She knew from the way he moved that his departure was the result of a sudden decision, he seemed flustered and was still calling out instructions as he opened the door that led from the office into the entrance hall. He walked quickly toward the door. Maisie stepped to one side, partially hidden by a bush so that she could not be seen in the shadows. Croucher was in a hurry. He came out into the cold air and pulled up his collar before making his way down the steps. Then he was gone, all but vanished into the thickening smog.
Maisie ran to the MG, started the engine, and drove along the road until she caught sight of Croucher again, lumbering toward a bus. He leaped on board just as it was about to pull away from the stop.
Keeping her distance, she followed the bus for some time, then waited when Croucher stepped off and caught another, which rumbled along the Marylebone Road. She was certain that Croucher would lead her to the man who had written the letters—the man who had taken innocent life, both animal and human. What kind of man was he? Someone who was abandoned, and had in turn abandoned life, to the extent that life was easy to take? She remembered conversations with Maurice, when they had talked about the nature of the killer, how some kept their secret close to them, like a seed planted deep in the soil, waiting for the perfect time to bloom—for the perfect time to be revealed. Some secrets could be hidden for years, while there were those who yearned for their secret, their crime—whether of passion or premeditation—to be discovered. Waiting for truth to come out. She had known case after case where the perpetrator instigated his own discovery—the stupid mistake, the blatant error, or the confession made to someone who might tell. Slipping through the MG’s gears as the bus stopped again, she wondered if this killer wanted to be discovered, wanted to be noticed, to be acknowledged. He might want to be stopped before he killed again.
Once more Croucher stepped off the bus, walking a quarter of a mile to another stop. This was not an unusual journey—she knew that if Billy did not walk a good way to work to save money, he would be taking three buses instead of one. Now, watching Croucher from her parked motor car, the engine idling, Maisie wondered whether his pacing back and forth in front of the bus stop, his constant glancing up at the clock on a nearby church, was borne of nerves or the cold. She studied his movements with careful attention and noticed the nervousness to his gait. She recognized the fear. He’s on his way to warn him. To let him know we’re on to him. He’s going to see—Stephen Oliver? She looke
d around for a telephone kiosk, and saw one illuminated just yards away from the MG. Leaving the motor running, she left the MG and stepped toward the kiosk. She opened the door, lifted the receiver, and dialed Scotland Yard, all the time keeping her eyes on Croucher as she asked to speak to MacFarlane.
“Yes!”
“It’s Maisie Dobbs.”
“Have you made any progress?”
“I’m calling from a telephone kiosk, on the Marylebone Road, going toward Euston Road. I’ve followed a man called Croucher—hospital porter. I think he’s on his way to see our man.”
“And what makes you think that?”
Maisie paused, wondering whether brutal honesty would stand her in good stead. “I can just feel it—is that good enough for you?”
“Makes a lot more bloody sense to me than all that scribbling across the walls. We’ll find you. Don’t take any chances.” The telephone clicked.
Maisie returned to the MG in time to see another bus come along, and Croucher jump on board. She pulled in behind the bus and followed it along Marylebone Road. She began going through the events of the past hour, since she first spoke to Croucher. Could his hasty departure from the hospital have simply been due to her detaining him with questions? Did he then have to run for a bus that he normally caught with some ease, given the time his working day ended? She wondered if she could be wrong in her conjecture, but shook her head. No, she knew where he was going.
Now she could barely see ahead of her in the thick pea-souper, and if it weren’t for the bus and street lights casting their smudged shadows around and ahead of her, she might not have seen him jump off the rear platform of the bus and make his way along the Euston Road, then turn into Warren Street. At that moment, she felt an icy sensation at her neck, a feeling she knew came as a warning, tingling to attract her attention when all was not well, when something was not quite as it should be. It had alerted her on many an occasion, and now as it turned to a radiating pain, she wondered if the writer of the letters, if the madman himself, had been under her nose all the time.