“I think he’s a bit crazy himself, only he doesn’t restrict himself to a week of it,” said Stratton.
Maisie shook her head. “No, he’s all there. Doesn’t miss a trick. But I’ve never heard of a night like this, not from the Yard.”
“And I certainly haven’t.” Stratton reached for his glass of whiskey, which appeared to be the only beverage on offer.
MacFarlane cleared his throat as the hot cock-a-leekie soup was served. “I’ll now say the traditional grace, and for you Sassenachs, this is known as the Selkirk Grace.” He cleared his throat again. “Some hae meat and canna eat, and some wad eat that want it. But we hae meat, and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit.”
Courses followed speeches, and speeches followed more drinking. Maisie eventually bid farewell to MacFarlane, Stratton and Darby, and by the time she stepped into a taxi-cab it was the early hours of the morning. She arrived back at her flat, glad that she had made one glass of the amber liquid last several hours. As she opened the door into the hallway and switched on the light, she saw a plain brown envelope waiting for her—it had been pushed under her door. She picked it up, recognized the handwriting, and ran to the dining table, flicking on lights as she went. As luck would have it, she had discovered that one of the residents at the block of flats was a photographer, and to make extra money, he would develop film for friends and other associates. Maisie had taken a roll of film up to him as soon as she returned home from her weekend in the country with Priscilla and her family.
She spread out the photographs and began picking up each one in turn. The early prints revealed a lack of familiarity with the equipment, but later photographs demonstrated that she had become more adept at focusing the lens, at using the rangefinder. As she studied each successive image again, she smiled, and though the flat was chilly, she felt the residue of the evening’s warmth rekindled. Unwilling to wait until she could buy more frames, she brought a small box of drawing pins from the kitchen and began to pin photographs to the wall, and soon they flanked the painting of a woman alone on a windswept beach. Then she looked at each photograph once more. There were the Partridge boys sitting on the MG’s bonnet, and Priscilla and Maisie bearing the brunt of a snowball fight—she had passed the camera to Douglas and he was clearly a better photographer. There were photographs taken during walks, photographs taken of the boys in the garden. And as she looked at the prints, she felt as if the eyes that had looked into the lens were looking straight at her, and she knew she belonged.
Soon she would add more photographs. There would be Frankie and Jook, and Maurice. There would be photograph after photograph of the people she loved. But as was her way, Maisie could not help but think of Stephen Oliver again, and of Ian Jennings and those like them. She thought of the dispossessed who saw nothing but people moving to one side as they shuffled along the street, people who looked down as they passed so that they need not catch a glimpse of desperation lest it be a disease—something they might catch if they weren’t careful. Maisie grieved for the two men, despite their crimes. She grieved for the men they could have been, men who were complete in body and soul. And she grieved for their innocent victims.
Again her attention came back to the prints, this time to a single photograph of herself. She leaned closer to the image and concentrated on her own eyes. And she smiled, for at last she knew she had reclaimed her soul.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following friends and colleagues who became, in effect, my “pit crew” as I wrote Among the Mad. Holly Rose—thank you for being my first and number one writing buddy and reader. To my cannot-be-named “Cheef Resurcher” (yes, the spelling is a joke between us), who has given me so much valuable information on the inner workings and history of Special Branch—thank you. To my parents, Joyce and Albert Winspear—as always, thanks for fielding those questions about the London you knew and loved in the best of times and the worst of times.
Once again, deepest thanks to the terrific team at Henry Holt, especially John Sterling, Maggie Richards, and Kelly Lignos.
I can never extend enough gratitude to Amy Rennert, agent extraordinaire, friend and mentor.
And to the Bluesman—my husband, John Morell—thanks for your unfailing support. It means the world to me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JACQUELINE WINSPEAR is the author of An Incomplete Revenge—a New York Times bestseller—and four other Maisie Dobbs novels. She has won numerous awards for her work, including the Agatha, Alex, and Macavity Awards. Originally from the United Kingdom, she now lives in California.
MORE FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR JACQUELINE WINSPEAR
“Maisie Dobbs is a revelation!” —Alexander McCall Smith, author of The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
“Long before the Downton Abbey craze, Jacqueline Winspear was writing remarkable mysteries about life in England circa WWI.” —New York Journal of Books
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Among the Mad
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Jacqueline Winspear, Among the Mad
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