Among the Mad

  “I might know Tom Mosley very well.”

  “If you know him as ‘Tom’ and not ‘Oswald’ then you probably do—so why do you suspect me of an alliance where there is none?”

  MacFarlane shook his head. “I’ve never spoken to him in my puff, but I know where he is, whom he meets, what he does, who works for him. I know about his women. But you’re right, I have no reason to suspect you are at all involved with his followers.”

  “Then why ask me?”

  “Because I have to, because I don’t know yet what I’m dealing with. We have a letter, you are mentioned in that letter, and when stated demands are not met—government works at its own pace, and hardly at all over Christmas—six dogs are murdered. And it comes to something when Special Branch gets into the stopping of wickedness to all creatures great and small—I’d rather leave that to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. But the fact that chlorine gas was used to kill the beasts sends shivers up my spine, I can tell you. What, pray, is next?”

  As if on cue, there was a sharp double rap at the door.

  “Come!”

  “Sir, message for you.” The young detective, in civvies, passed a sheet of paper to MacFarlane, who read the note and frowned.

  “I’ll need my motor car, Bridges, and be quick about it.” He stood up, and as he walked toward the coat-stand he turned to Maisie. “Hope you’ve not any plans for going to a ceilidh this evening, Miss Dobbs. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Another letter?”

  “Yes, another letter. And with Colm Darby out with his contacts, and Stratton somewhere that doesn’t happen to be here, you might as well join me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Number Ten Downing Street.”

  “Oh, good lord!”

  “No, I would say the Right Honorable Gentleman has never been that good, not with the mess this country’s in, what with his shambles of a National Government.”

  Maisie took up her document case and wrapped her scarf around her neck, taking her gloves from her coat pocket as MacFarlane opened the door for her. “I am sure he speaks highly of you, too, Chief Superintendent.”

  A SINGLE LAMP illuminated the front door to Number Ten Downing Street as the police vehicle drew to a halt alongside the entrance. The uniformed driver and a plainclothes man alighted first, opening the passenger doors for MacFarlane and Maisie only after they had checked the street and nodded to the constable at the door, who had replaced the usual night watchman on Christmas Eve. By the time they reached the door, it was open and they were ushered inside.

  “Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane and . . . ” The private secretary looked at Maisie, then at MacFarlane.

  “Miss Dobbs, Psychologist and Investigator, is working for me on this case. I asked her to join us.”

  “Very well. If you would come this way, the Prime Minister is already in the Cabinet Room with the Lord President of the Council, Mr. Baldwin, and the Minister for Pensions, Mr. Tryon. Gerald Urquhart from Military Intelligence Section Five is with us, as is the Commissioner of Police.”

  “Yes, I know—he summoned me.”

  “Good. Now then, here we are.”

  Though well used to meetings with important clients, Maisie felt her heart race and her hands begin to shake. But just before they were shown into the Cabinet Room, she closed her eyes for a mere three seconds and imagined her father’s garden at Chelstone. Years before, when she was a girl, her mentor, Maurice Blanche, had taken her to his own teacher and friend, Basil Khan, who instructed Maisie in the stilling of the mind. It was with Khan’s guidance that she learned that through the art of bringing calm to everyday thought one could delve deeper into levels of knowledge that were available only to those for whom true silence held no fear. And it was Khan who taught her that, in those situations where one became unbalanced in thought due to fear or exhaustion, one only had to bring a picture into the mind’s eye of a place where one had known peace. So Maisie saw her father’s garden, his embracing smile, and his arms opened wide to hold her. And she was calm.

  Having barely noticed her surroundings while being escorted to the Cabinet Room, she was able to look around her self as introductions were made. Upon first taking office in 1924, Ramsay MacDonald had been appalled at what he deemed a distinct lack of both bookcases and works of art in the Prime Minister’s Downing Street residence. Now shelves of books flanked the fireplace, as well as racks of maps, so that when world affairs were under discussion, the relevant map could be pulled out and referred to. On this occasion, all present were quite familiar with the geography of London.

  Once again MacFarlane introduced Maisie, who held out her hand to each man present and took theirs in a firm grasp. She thought the Prime Minister quite resembled photographs she had seen in the newspapers and she could see how his physical appearance might inspire all manner of caricatures. His gray hair waved out from a left parting, and it seemed that the dour Scot eschewed hair oil. His small eyes were partially obscured by round spectacles, and there were deep furrows between his brows. His moustache was thick and broad, and he demonstrated an eccentricity in his choice of clothing—a wing collar with a black tie, a long jacket that would have been more appropriate in an Edwardian drawing room, and a pocket watch with a long fob. He clenched a barely lit pipe between his teeth. Despite this, she admired him, for it was no secret that Britain’s first Labour Prime Minister was the illegitimate son of a maidservant, who as a young man had taken it upon himself to continue his education after leaving school at the age of twelve.

  Ramsey MacDonald turned and took his customary seat at the table, in front of the fireplace. The secretary indicated the company to be seated.

  “Now, I have received a letter today—as has Mr. Baldwin, as has Mr. Tryon, each of us sent identical letters—to the effect that London will know a terror never before unleashed if certain demands are not met.” The secretary placed the letters on the table in front of Urquhart, MacFarlane, Robinson—the Police Commissioner—and Maisie Dobbs. Forgetting protocol, Maisie did not wait and was first to reach for the letter addressed to the Prime Minister. If MacFarlane brought her here, she meant to do her job.

  MacFarlane looked at her and, though she could not be sure, she thought he might have winked. “What do you think, Miss Dobbs?”

  Maisie cleared her throat and turned to the Prime Minister. “A letter-writer reveals much about himself in the manner of his script. That helps us to draw a picture of who he might be, where he might live, what his habits are. It helps us to narrow down the places where we might look. At first glance, the handwriting shows many of the markers noted by myself and Detective Inspector Darby when the first letter was received by the Home Secretary.” Maisie looked at Robinson. “Sir, seeing as the three letters are identical in content, might it help if I read one aloud?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course, please continue, Miss Dobbs.” He glared at MacFarlane.

  Maisie stood up so her words might carry without anyone straining to hear, and hoped that the shaking in her voice was not too obvious.

  “You didn’t listen, did you? You sat, fat, by your Christmas Day fires, with your turkey and plum pudding inside you, and you ignored my warning.”

  Maisie looked up for a second, to see how the writer’s words were being received, then she cleared her throat and went on.

  “And while you ate and drank, there were people without. There are people on the streets and among them are men who gave legs, arms and minds for you. And now look at you—you who thought I was nothing, a nobody. Will you do that now? Will you, The Rt. Honorable Prime Minister, do something about us all? Or you, Mr. Minister of Pensions? And Mr. Baldwin, how about you? Or will you scrap among yourselves for your power? I think you know what I can do, the power I wield. Or is the life of mere animals not worth a measure of your time? I will not allow those to suffer who have suffered enough already, but you know what I want and what I can do. I can
be hell itself, unless my demands are met. I want every man who served to receive a full pension he can live on—wounded or not. That’s where we will begin, Honorable Gentlemen. That is where we will begin. I hope you can come to your senses before another day has passed.”

  Maisie placed the letter on the table, and sat down, smoothing her skirt as she took her place once more. She was relieved that she had chosen to wear her smart burgundy costume this morning, and not an older ensemble.

  “Thank you, Miss Dobbs,” said MacDonald. He looked at the Commissioner and Urquhart, then MacFarlane. “Gentlemen, your measure of the seriousness of this threat? Are the people of London at risk? When can I expect word that this man is behind bars, and what precautions will you be taking in the meantime?” He looked at his watch, then at his private secretary.

  “Five minutes, Prime Minister.”

  The Commissioner cleared his throat. “I have been briefed by Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane that there is a medium risk, that you can expect word within twenty-four hours, and we will be increasing the number of men on the streets.”

  Maisie raised her eyebrows.

  “Can I have a word?” Baldwin leaned forward. His manner was easier than that of the Prime Minister, with more resonance to his voice. “Thank you for the summation of your plans, Commissioner, but if I may address the Detective Chief Superintendent”—he looked straight at MacFarlane—“what is medium risk and is twenty-four hours attainable? We’re used to looking over our shoulders, but will I need a neck brace?”

  “Sir, ‘medium risk’ means we do not believe all of London will be flattened by midnight. However, we know already that this man has the means to cause some harm if he so chooses. Given what must be an amateur capability, damage—and let us be clear, we are talking about chemical weaponry—would be limited to about a quarter of a mile. And that’s if it isn’t a windy day when he takes it into his head to unleash his cocktails on a greater area than Battersea Dogs and Cats Home.” MacFarlane coughed and cleared his throat, paused for a second, and looked at Baldwin, then the Prime Minister. “And to the matter of twenty-four hours, I would say that it is attainable. We are looking at the Irish, the Fascists, the possibility of a very disgruntled Bolshevik union man—or men. We’re following recently released criminal elements, and of course we might have a lunatic on our hands.”

  Feeling a dryness at the back of her tongue, Maisie held her hand to her mouth and coughed. She wondered whether such intimidating circumstances always compromised a speaker’s voice, because the visitors to the Prime Minister’s residence were either clearing their throats or coughing every time they spoke. “If I might add a word—” She was aware of the men turning to look at her, and for a heartbeat it seemed as if the hands of time were turning through treacle, for their heads appeared to move so slowly and she could hear her own heartbeat throbbing in her ears. She took another deep breath. “As we’ve been speaking, I have had an opportunity to glance at the letters—and they obviously bear greater inspection—however, the manner in which the script has been executed suggests to me that this man is more desperate than he was two days ago. I suspect he is in some pain, and the penmanship suggests he is cold, very cold. Physical deprivation will enhance his emotions, so I would say that we are on something of a knife edge in terms of the threat.”

  The men looked at one another as MacDonald thanked Maisie for her summation of the situation, pushed back his chair, and addressed the group. “I expect a report in twenty-four hours. I want to know that London is safe, that my cabinet is at no risk of harm. Do what you have to do, Commissioner.”

  Along with the other visitors, Maisie stood up as the Prime Minister left the room, followed by Baldwin and Tryon.

  “Gentlemen.” The secretary stood by the door, his hand indicating the way, then he turned to lead the visitors from the building.

  Maisie reached forward to gather the letters and was about to hand them to MacFarlane when Urquhart leaned over and attempted to grasp the collected papers.

  “I’ll take those, if you don’t mind. Military Intelligence trumps the boys in blue.”

  “Oh, but I’m sure—”

  “Hang on to those, Miss Dobbs, we don’t want the Funnies getting above themselves, do we?” said MacFarlane.

  “Now look here, Robbie—”

  “I think we’d better catch up with the others. I for one do not want to be locked in here for the night. Now, why don’t you take one letter, Mr. Urquhart, so that you can conduct your own tests.” Maisie handed Urquhart the top letter, placing two in her document case as she walked at a brisk clip toward the front door, which was being opened by the private secretary. MacFarlane and Urquhart were behind her.

  With a dull thump the door closed at their heels and the three stepped onto the pavement at the same time as Robinson, already seated in his motor car, wound down the rear passenger window.

  “I’ll see you at the Yard, MacFarlane. Soon as you’re back.” The window wound up again, and the driver pushed the vehicle into gear and drove away.

  “Need a lift, Gerry?”

  “Much obliged, Robbie.”

  The Superintendent’s motor car drew alongside and Urquhart opened the door, holding out his hand to steady Maisie as she stepped on the running board and into the vehicle. MacFarlane sat next to her, and Urquhart pulled down the extra passenger seat in front of them.

  “I was surprised to see Miss Dobbs with you, Robbie—reckon that’s why the boss wants to see you pronto?”

  “I won’t be answering that question, my man, especially in the presence of Miss Dobbs, who happens to be a most valuable member of my group.”

  “Not on the force though, is she?”

  “That’s enough, Gerry.”

  Maisie leaned forward to speak, thought better of it, and instead rested back on the seat. As MacFarlane had suggested, disagreements between Special Branch and Military Intelligence were sometimes unavoidable as they often tilled the same ground, and the last thing she wanted to do was to get in the middle. She wasn’t sure why MacFarlane had taken her to Downing Street for what amounted to a “heads will roll” meeting. It was clear the government would never bow to a threat. But she had seen the handwriting, the stains on the paper, and she knew she would spend a restless night. There was work to be done, and she would need to be in Oxford in the morning.

  December 28th, 1931

  Maisie was surprised at having slept so well, given that she had arrived home late following what proved to be a heated meeting with Stratton, Darby and MacFarlane. The four had convened soon after the Chief Superintendent arrived back at Special Branch headquarters. She knew MacFarlane had been brought up short by his superiors, and was doubtless asked to explain why he had asked Maisie to accompany him to the meeting with the Prime Minister. It was a question she hoped to ask him herself, at an appropriate moment. What was clear was that the next twenty-four hours represented a race against the clock.

  Twenty-past six in the morning. Time to leave London. The air was damp, with a smog so thick she was glad to be traveling by train. Taking the circle line to Paddington, she came up from the underground into the busy station, where a throng of passengers rushed back and forth, or lingered, clapping hands together to keep warm as they waited for departure announcements. Maisie bought her third-class ticket and walked toward the platform, clutching her document case with her left hand as she turned the clasp to secure her shoulder bag.

  When she held out her ticket to the station guard, she glanced across and thought she saw Dr. Anthony Lawrence on the neighboring platform. She stopped to look again—after all, one gentleman waiting for a train can look much like another—but a train pulled in alongside the platform where the man was standing.

  Maisie approached a guard. “Excuse me—”

  “Hurry up, Miss, can’t keep people waiting.”

  “I’m sorry—but could you tell me where that train is going?”

  “The one just come in
on platform six?”

  “Yes.”

  The guard pulled out his watch. “That’ll be the twenty minutes past to Penzance.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Maisie walked along the platform, the Oxford train chugged into the station, steam punching out sideways as the locomotive slowed to a stop at the buffers. She took a seat alongside the window, close to the heater, and settled in for her journey, soon so deep in thought that she held no awareness of the carriage filling, or of the guard’s whistle and the lumbering side-to-side motion as the train pulled out of the station. She wondered where the doctor might be going on a working day. She knew the Penzance train stopped at stations in Berkshire and Wiltshire and then throughout the west of England on its way to Cornwall, and there were psychiatric hospitals in several places on the way, out in the country where men could be kept away from the noise and struggle of towns, cities and other conurbations. But really, even if it were Lawrence, it was nothing to do with her where he was going, was it?

  THE PORTER AT St. Edmund Hall escorted Maisie along a corridor of the medieval college, knocking on the door to John Gale’s rooms and announcing the visitor before allowing her to enter.

  “Miss Dobbs. Right on time, that’s what I like. Can’t bear people who are late, completely befuddles my day, especially as I’ve a lecture in an hour. Now come along, take a seat by the fire.”

  John Gale was almost six feet tall and somewhat thin; his gown seemed to hang on his shoulders. His hair, silver gray and swept back, was longer than was fashionable and, Maisie thought, it might be likely that the business of getting a haircut was something that slipped his mind until the skin around his collar began to itch with chafing.