Among the Mad (14 page)

“I think I know where there are two lending
libraries.”

“Right, you go straight there. Describe ‘Ian’ and see
if you come up with anything. I’ll go to Charing Cross Road and visit each
bookshop. I’ll meet you in the caff on Tottenham Court Road—you know the one,
where they never say ‘I beg your pardon’ before they pick up your cup and
saucer to wipe the table—at about, oh, half-past five?”

Billy nodded. “Right you are, Miss.”

STARTING AT THE TOP of Charing Cross Road, Maisie
began to work her way down the street, going into each bookshop and engaging
with the proprietor or assistant in a warm manner, before asking for a book
recommended to her by her friend, Ian, who hadn’t been well of late. In W.
& G. Foyle, Ltd., Maisie consulted the most recent catalogues, and lingered
for a few moments to peruse the Solar Radiation and Physical Culture catalogue,
which featured a rowing machine for forty-nine shillings and sixpence, a sum
that Maisie thought amounted to highway robbery. She shrugged and moved on,
inquiring in each department before leaving the shop.

She had continued on her way down Charing Cross Road,
and was about to lose faith in her plan—the thought crossed her mind that she
was acquiring an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the street’s antiquarian book
trade—when she opened the door of Tinsley and Sons, Booksellers. The shop was
ill lit and somewhat cluttered, with an overflow of books stacked upon every
available surface and each step of a cast-iron spiral staircase situated at the
back of the shop. A man of about forty-five years of age was at the top of a
ladder dusting the shelves.

“Just browsing, or can I help you with something in
particular?”

“Browsing, thank you very much. I was advised to come
here by a friend.”

The man continued dusting, speaking as he went on with
his task. “Always pleased when people recommend us. What’s your friend’s name?”

“Ian, he—”

“Ian?” The man stopped dusting and began to climb down
from his somewhat precarious perch. “You know Ian? Wounded in the war—lost a
leg and the other one’s a bit gammy?”

Maisie nodded and cast her eyes down. “I’m here, in
part, to remember him.”

“Remember him? Is he all right? Haven’t seen him since
before Christmas, and he was a regular.”

“He’s dead, Mr.—”

“Tinsley. This is my shop.” He pulled up a chair for
Maisie and one for himself, close to the potbellied stove that held court in
the middle of the floor. “What happened?”

“He took his own life, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, what a shame, what a terrible thing.” He shook
his head. “Mind you, I can’t say the news comes as a surprise, after all, he
was in such pain. Not least in his mind, I think. And reading helped, took him
away from his everyday life—as it does for so many.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.” Maisie took off her
gloves as the chill outside left her bones. “And he certainly loved your shop.”

“Well, I did what I could for him. I knew he couldn’t
afford much and he was such a voracious reader. I would lend him books, in
return for some cataloguing, that sort of thing.” He leaned back to take a
ledger from his desk. “Here, you can see how many books he read in November
alone.”

Maisie took the large, leather-bound book from
Tinsley’s hands and looked at the page indicated: Ian. She could barely read
the last name, but thought it looked like Jennings. Flat 15a, Wellington
Street, Kennington. A location close to the route of the number thirty-six bus
as it made its way along Kennington Park Road.

“Was his surname Jennings?”

Tinsley took a pair of spectacles from a pocket in his
knitted pullover. “I must admit, I never really looked at the name—in fact, I
trusted him, so I didn’t check the books. Let me see—yes, he was up to date.
Brought back the last one in early December. And that’s why I was a bit
surprised at his absence, because I can’t imagine him without a book, though I
am sure he used libraries. I mean, look at this, he must have been reading one
book every two days, something like that.”

She ran her finger across the page. “Until December,
when he only read two books.”

“Yes, I’ve hardly seen him throughout the month, which
is why I’ve been concerned. I thought I might go to his lodgings, but it seemed
rather presumptuous to do so, and then of course, December can be so busy.” He
took back the ledger and placed it on the desk.

“Can you recall him saying anything after November
that might have accounted for the absence?”

Tinsley removed his spectacles and returned them to
his pocket. “I seem to remember him saying he’d met an old colleague again, and
they’d sort of struck up a friendship.”

“I’ve been away from London lately, so I’ve hardly
seen Ian,” said Maisie. “I wonder who the old colleague was?”

“He never mentioned the man’s name, and I can’t
remember exactly what he said about him. I just thought Ian would come along
again when he wanted a book, do some work for me, and we’d carry on as usual.
He liked to discuss literature, and I was grateful for the company. It can get
quiet sometimes.”

At that moment the doorbell sounded the arrival of a
customer, and the man stood up. Maisie thanked him and, before he could say
more, left the shop and made her way toward Tottenham Court Road.

“MISS, I RECKON I’ve got it!” Billy was already at the
café and waved as Maisie approached the table where he was seated.

She leaned forward and whispered, “Ian Jennings?”

“Flat 15a, Wellington Street, Kennington,” added
Billy. He stood up to go to the counter to buy two cups of tea. “And I thought
I was being dead clever. Got all his particulars from the Boots library—bit of
a regular, he was. Took out a book or two a week.”

“And he read a book every two days or so from a shop
on Charing Cross Road.”

“Blimey, he must’ve been a clever one.”

Maisie nodded. “He was—and I’m gasping for that cuppa,
Billy.”

*  *  *

SO AS NOT TO BE LATE, Maisie ran from the underground
station to Special Branch headquarters at Scotland Yard, where she bumped into
Stratton as she entered.

“Steady on there, people running in this place end up
in the cells if they’re not careful.”

“Sorry—I’m a bit late and didn’t want to incur
MacFarlane’s wrath.”

“I doubt you’ll do that, Miss Dobbs. Darby thinks
that, as far as Robbie MacFarlane is concerned, you can do no wrong.”

Maisie stopped. “What on earth do you mean?”

Stratton turned his wrist to consult his watch. “I,
however, can do wrong—come on, we’ll be late.”

Together Maisie and Stratton made their way toward
MacFarlane’s office, only to find Colm Darby making notes on several sheets of
paper.

“Darby.” Stratton nodded as they entered the room.

“Stratton, Miss Dobbs. Any luck today?”

Maisie was about to speak when the door opened with a
thud against the wall, and MacFarlane entered the room. His face reminded
Maisie of a storm-laden sky, dark and brooding, while lines around his eyes
spoke of the pressure to find a man who had proved that he could and would kill
to be heard.

“Stratton! What have you got for me?”

“Sir, our narks within Mosley’s party are coming up
with precious little, I’m afraid, though we do have evidence to support the
existence of an inner group who might be up to no good.”

“Can you infiltrate further?”

“I understand money talks. Oh, and apparently there is
some kind of recruiting meeting for those interested in the party, at a church
hall in Kilburn this evening. This inner circle will be in attendance, and I
understand they are a more militant strain.”

“Hmm.” MacFarlane took up a penknife set alongside a
collection of pens and pencils on his desk, opened the blade, closed it again,
then opened it once more. He snapped it shut, set it down, and looked at Darby.
“Colm? Anything?”

“It’s quiet, gov, to be sure. I’ve got my informers,
but the IRA have had trouble regrouping lately. My only lead is a mere
hairsbreadth of information to the effect that there’s something of a move to
recruit men who aren’t all there upstairs, men who might have recently been
discharged from an institution, for example. They offer them a sense of
belonging, claim their loyalty, then set them off to do their dirty work.
Apparently, the theory is that someone who’s not dealing with the whole deck,
if you know what I mean, can be easily directed, and won’t have the same qualms
about killing as a sane person.”

Maisie cringed. The suggestion that the insane might
be used to kill had not occurred to her.

“And as to union sympathizers,” Darby continued,
turning to Stratton, “again, there’s a group within the Red Party of Britain,
real Bolsheviks, who could up the ante. Mind you, they’ve never been known to
keep quiet about who they are. In the meantime, I’ve got someone on it.”

MacFarlane opened and closed the penknife again, and
looked to Maisie for an account of her progress.

“And I know the identity of the Christmas Eve suicide.
I discovered his name before coming over here.” Maisie was aware of the
attention of all three men as she spoke. “My assistant is paying a visit to his
lodgings before going home this evening. If there is anything to report, he’ll
make a telephone call to this office. I would imagine we might hear from him
soon.”

MacFarlane looked up. “Name?”

“Ian Jennings. At least, that was the name given to a
bookseller he befriended, and at a lending library in Soho—the man was an avid
reader. According to the people who had made his acquaintance, he had lost one
leg below the knee in the war, and the other leg was crippled with shrapnel
wounds. Apparently, he also demonstrated symptoms associated with a gas
poisoning.” Maisie scraped back her chair, pulled a selection of colored wax
crayons from her document case, and approached the case map, which was still
pinned to the wall. MacFarlane leaned back in his chair to watch her make
notations, linking various pieces of evidence with red lines and a question
mark above a stick figure she named “the Gas-Man.”

“Ian Jennings began spending time with a friend—he
might have been an old colleague—in December. Could this man be our
letter-writer? Or could the friend be associated with either Mosley’s group,
the Irish, or the unions?” She turned to Darby. “I agree with you—I think we
can scale back any surveillance of the latter, though obviously we want to keep
in touch with informers.” Looking across at Stratton, she continued, “Jennings
might have been recruited by the Fascists—certainly their rhetoric might resonate
with a man living on the edge.”

At that moment the telephone rang.

“MacFarlane!” The Superintendent bellowed, his usually
tempered brogue unleashed on the operator. He held out the receiver to Maisie.
“Your man.”

Maisie reached for the telephone. “Billy?”

“Miss, I’m just leaving Kennington.”

“Right you are. Did you find anything?”

“The landlord lives in the house—old gaff, it is,
split into about six rooms that he lets out. Bit grim. You could hold a cup to
the walls and have enough water for tea in a minute.” He coughed. “There’s a
right old pea-souper tonight, Miss.” He coughed again and she heard him thump
his chest. “Anyway, I talked to the landlord, slipped him a couple o’ bob, and
he led me upstairs to the room. Says that he was thinking of going in, but the
rent’s not due for a few days, and even though he hadn’t seen Jennings since
before Christmas, who was to say he wasn’t coming and going? Mind you, I don’t
know how that poor man managed those stairs, even though he was only up one
flight.” Billy coughed once more. “So, he let me in and we both stood there,
just staring, because the place looked like it had never been lived in. Neat as
a pin, it was—apart from the mold, of course. But the bed had been stripped and
the blankets folded, the furniture had all been wiped. You’d’ve thought that it
was ready to be let out again—in fact, it probably is by now.”

“And you didn’t find one thing, one scrap of paper,
old photographs, anything?”

“Not until I looked behind a chest of drawers. Found a
pamphlet there, about that bloke, Mosley. Looked like it had fallen down the
back, not hidden there on purpose.”

“Yes, it would appear so, from your description. The
tidiness in the room gives me pause, though.”

“Very creepy, if you ask me.”

Maisie sighed. “Right you are, Billy. You go home—and
bring the pamphlet into the office tomorrow morning, please.”

“Miss—”

“Yes?” Maisie looked around at the three men, who were
waiting for her to complete the call.

“I telephoned Wychett Hill, before I made the call to
you. Turns out Doreen is resting—that’s what they said—following a
‘procedure.’”