Among the Mad (15 page)

“What sort of procedure? Did they say?”

“Well, I asked, and of course it don’t mean a thing to
me. They said something about her being out for the count, and that she’d been
on insulin.”

“Insulin?” Maisie was aware of her raised voice, that
the men were now all looking at her.

“Is that bad, Miss? I mean, she’s never been a
diabetic or anything, so I wondered . . . ”

“No, don’t worry. It was just me, a bit surprised,
that’s all—nothing for you to worry about. Look, I’ll go back to the office—I
should have a reply from the doctor I telephoned at the Clifton Hospital. I’ll
let you know tomorrow morning. Go home to your boys, Billy—is your mother with
them?”

“Yes, Miss. Right then, see you tomorrow.”

Maisie passed the telephone receiver to MacFarlane,
who placed it back on the cradle.

“Everything all right?” inquired Stratton.

“Um, yes . . . well, no, not with our Mr. Jennings.
Seems his premeditated suicide—or his departure, anyway—was thoroughly planned.
His room looks as if no one ever lived there. I would bet that, if you sent in
the boys to check for dabs, he’d have cleaned every surface and they’d come up
with nothing. My assistant and the landlord made a thorough investigation of
the small room, however, and they found one item of interest, which had slipped
behind a chest of drawers—a pamphlet from Mosley’s New Party.”

“Hmm—I still think the suicide has been a red herring
in this investigation,” said MacFarlane. “But I don’t trust that Mosley. He’s
been hobnobbing with the likes of the Italian, Mussolini, and there’s talk that
he’s thinking of setting up a Fascist Party here. There’s a recipe for terror,
if ever I came across it. Look, here’s what I want—you and Stratton, go along
to this meeting of nutcase Fascists tonight. Dress well, but not too well, look
well-to-do without flaunting it, if you know what I mean. Look, listen, and
find out who’s in this inner circle, and what they’re doing. And there’s
something else I’d like you to look into, Miss Dobbs.”

“Yes?”

“There’s a little coven of women who seem to have
taken it upon themselves to agitate for women’s pensions.”

“Yes, I know, sir. I’ve contributed to the cause.
However, I take exception to the idea that they are a coven. Surely prejudice
against women hasn’t reached the point where we make accusations of
witchcraft?”

“You’ve contributed to their cause?”

Maisie shrugged. “Why should an unwed woman not
receive a pension, when she pays the same contributions as a married man?”

“It’s not as if . . . ”

“Not as if what?”

“Well, anyway, we’ve heard word that there are
agitators among their number who aren’t prepared to wait—just as you’ll find in
any group. There’s always those who splinter off because they think if they
show how strong they are, they’ll get what they want. There are factory girls
in there following their leader, and I’ll bet some of them have the know-how to
handle those gases.”

“Sir, if I might make a bold statement, I think you’re
wrong, and we can’t afford to have anyone following weak leads.”

“And I think it’s one for you, Miss Dobbs, being a
woman. Apparently the girls are meeting tomorrow at lunchtime. Please wheedle
your way in—here’s the address.” He handed a slip of paper to Maisie. “And in
the meantime, Stratton, I want the Mosley group investigated. And the unions,
Colm.” He always referred to Colm by his Christian name, with due regard for
their years worked together.

“But . . . ” Maisie tried not to show her
exasperation.

“You need to go to your office?”

“Yes.”

“Stratton, divert to Fitzroy Square, then to her flat.
Miss Dobbs, you’ll have just enough time to assume some wealthy sort of
character while Stratton waits. You’ll be brought back to your flat later. All
right?”

“All right, sir,” echoed Stratton and Darby.

“Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes, that’s all right, however, Superintendent, I—”

At that moment the meeting was interrupted by a single
knock on the door. A detective sergeant entered the room, leaned toward
MacFarlane and whispered in his ear. The Superintendent nodded and stood up as
the messenger left the room. Reaching for his coat he turned to face Maisie,
Stratton and Darby.

“I was due to bring the Commissioner up to date, per
the Prime Minister’s request, but the situation has just become more grave. A policeman
in Hyde Park, close to Speakers’ Corner, has reported finding some fifty or so
birds, dead, on the path. I suspect this might be our man again, and if it is,
then he has gone a step further. As you probably all know, chlorine gas did not
kill birds in the war. But chlorine mixed with phosgene silenced birds across
the Somme Valley. The situation is no longer medium risk, if you didn’t know
already. This man knows what he’s doing. I expect another letter will be
received soon. Now, get to work.” He left the room.

STRATTON REMAINED in the Invicta while Maisie ran to
her office, retrieving the post on the way. There was a card from Dr. Elsbeth
Masters. She expressed pleasure at hearing from Maisie and suggested she visit
her at the Clifton Hospital the following day, indicating she would be
available after one o’clock. Maisie hoped that Doreen could deal with the
indignities of Wychett Hill until her release was secured. There was a greater
cause for her concern since the telephone conversation with Billy. Many of the
old therapies and treatments for depression and mental imbalances in women had
been less than humane. Maisie had been appalled observing some of the Faradism
treatments—electric shock—as doctors tried to encourage traumatized patients to
speak again or to lose the stammer that began when a young man saw his fellow
soldiers blown up alongside him. But there were other kinds of shock, and
insulin therapy had been used on women in mental institutions for many years.
The patient was given excessive amounts of insulin so that the body began to
break down under the pressure of toxic shock. It was thought that the shock
would, in effect, startle the brain and lead to a resumption of normal
behavior. In Maisie’s estimation it was barbaric, and the thought of Doreen
Beale enduring such terror made her doubly convinced that she must find a way
to have her discharged into more tolerable care as soon as possible. She had
pinned her hopes on Dr. Masters being able to provide a solution.

Until then, though, Maisie knew she had to endure the
New Party meeting this evening. Later, while Stratton waited outside her flat
in the Invicta, she dressed in a plain black skirt, her burgundy jacket,
matching black hat with a burgundy ribbon, and black shoes. Dark clothes seemed
to be the order of the day with Mosley’s followers. Her hair had grown longer
since the summer, and though it was still styled in a bob, it was less boyish,
and in that regard, followed fashion, though Maisie was not generally
interested in such distractions.

Although she was not convinced that this avenue of
investigation represented good use of her time, she could not avoid the
possibility that the man who committed suicide may have attended one of the
meetings. After all, she was the one maintaining that a link between the dead
man and the threats could lead them to the door of a man who had already made
good on his warnings that he would kill.

Stratton opened the door of the motor car as Maisie
emerged from the block of flats. “You think this is a complete waste of time,
don’t you, Miss Dobbs?” he said, as she reached the Invicta.

“I confess, I do. Even with the pamphlet found in
Jennings’ room, I think we’re barking up the wrong tree, and we don’t have much
time to sniff out the right one. And, to be perfectly honest with you, I still
wonder why I am involved at all.”

“You are successful in your investigations, and you’ve
been consulted by the Yard, particularly given your association with Maurice
Blanche. I would have thought you would be delighted to be taken seriously by
MacFarlane. He’s a maverick, to be sure, and—if you want my opinion—I believe
he’s brought you in to shake things up, to challenge the way we do things, to
inspire new ways of looking at a given problem.”

“Then why does he appear to dismiss my ideas?”

“Because that’s how he goes about his work, he likes
us to keep asking questions. And I seem to remember you saying that a question
has the most power before we rush to answer it, when it is still making us
think, still testing us.”

“Yes, of course, I’ve said that many a time, and
especially when I’ve been called in to lecture your new detectives. Touché,
again, Detective Inspector Stratton.” Maisie wiped condensation from the inside
of the window. “I think we’re here.”

The meeting place was a church hall constructed of
gray granite. The entrance hall had a pitched roof, with carved eaves just
visible through the smog. The front doors, shaped like those of the neighboring
church, were open, and two men flanked the entrance. Another man sat behind a
desk situated at the back of the meeting room. Stratton gave their names as Mr.
and Mrs. Hutchinson, and as they walked in, Maisie automatically linked her arm
through his. Stratton smiled down at her, and she blushed, hoping he had not
seen her reaction to an unfamiliar feeling that touched her. It was not that
she harbored feelings for Stratton, but rather that she was reminded of a sense
of belonging, one that she had not felt for some time, not since she ended her
relationship with Andrew Dene—and even then, there was always a sense of
detachment. She wondered if the death, just a few months ago, of her beloved
Simon had perhaps released her in some way.

“Let’s take these seats before someone else claims
them.” Stratton pointed toward two available places at the end of a row of
hard, straight-back wooden chairs. “If we’re seated at the back, and on the end
of the row, we can make a quick departure before the end, if we so wish.”

“I take it you have other men here, should they be
required?”

“Yes. They’re ready if I give the signal to move on
the leaders.”

Maisie nodded, and began to read the pamphlet handed
to her as they entered the room. Following a message of welcome, the pamphlet
outlined the New Party’s manifesto, much of it based upon a document known as
the “Mosley Memorandum,” which supported more power to the government and
advocated a strong national policy to overcome the country’s economic crisis.
Though Mosley’s party had not been as successful in the October general
election as he might have hoped, the party was regrouping, and the wording of the
pamphlet suggested a deeper engagement with the tenets of Fascism. Maisie
closed the pamphlet. She had read enough.

As more people came into the church hall, Maisie
looked around to survey the scene. Many of those attending the meeting were
well turned out, and she thought they would be the target of requests for
contributions. There were others, poorly dressed, with hollow cheeks and sunken
eyes, people who wanted for a good meal and a warm room. She turned back and
was just about to comment to Stratton on the broad spectrum of followers, when
a scuffle broke out at the back of the room. Raised voices drew attention to
the entrance, where several men had grabbed another man and were punching him
to the ground.

“I’ve got as much right to be here as anyone else.”
The man’s shouts attracted more attention, and Maisie was not the only one to
witness two of Mosley’s followers pushing him out.

Stratton looked at Maisie, and without words they
agreed not to intercede. Instead they would continue to observe. First Maisie
would keep an eye on the door, then, without attracting attention, Stratton
would look around the room, all the time giving the impression that they were
waiting for the meeting to begin.

“I think I know what they’re doing,” said Maisie.

Stratton nodded. “At first I thought they were getting
rid of the rougher element, but they’re not, are they?”

“No. If I’m not mistaken, they’re not letting in any
people who look as if they might be Jewish. It’s appalling.”

Stratton cleared his throat and nodded toward the
front of the room. “Here we go.”

A man walked up the steps to a small stage, where he
talked about the New Party, and about their leader, Sir Oswald Mosley.
Encouraging everyone to stand up, he then elevated his voice to introduce the
politician Maisie had seen just once before, and whose manner had caused her to
shiver. Oswald Mosley’s eyes seemed as black as his hair, which was swept back
close to his skull accentuating his high forehead. His moustache was narrow and
clipped, and seemed as controlled as his manner of dress. He wore a
well-tailored black suit, with a white shirt and black tie. Nothing was out of
place.

Maisie closed her eyes as he began to speak and felt
again the sense of foreboding as his words rallied those present to his cause.
Even though his manifesto reflected what so many wanted to hear, Maisie felt
that she was witnessing a man whose ideas for the country might one day, if
allowed, become not so much a government, but a regime. She looked at the
assembled crowd, watched their eyes seem to catch fire with Mosley’s rhetoric.