Among the Mad (16 page)

“We must build up our home markets, we must insulate
ourselves from current world conditions and build a better Britain. You cannot
build a higher civilization and a standard of life which can absorb the great
force of modern production if you are subject to price fluctuations from the
rest of the world which dislocate your industry at every turn, and to the sport
of competition from virtually slave conditions in other countries.”

His speech continued on apace, as he covered all
aspects of life, from defense of the country and using military force only to
protect Britain’s shores, to the centralization of power, until he began to
draw his oration to a close.

“What I fear much more than a sudden crisis is a long,
slow, crumbling through the years until we sink to the level of a Spain, a
gradual paralysis beneath which all the vigor and energy of this country will
succumb . . . ”

Another disturbance at the back of the hall claimed
Maisie’s attention, and as she turned, she saw a man beaten, his wife kneeling
to his aid, and then both of them pulled out of the building. In her heart she
knew that this was not the place where they would find a clue to the identity
of a man who would kill to ensure his message was heard. But it was not a
wasted evening, because she had seen evidence that there was indeed another man
who would halt at nothing to achieve power. Such a man should be stopped at all
costs.

Maisie nudged Stratton. “I think I’ve seen enough.
Mosley is all but foaming at the mouth.”

Stratton leaned down to whisper, “You’re right. I
don’t think there’s anything for us here. Too obvious. This man, or his
followers, would not resort to threats and quiet killing. They’re performers
and they want to demonstrate power—despite their talk of inclusion.” He looked
past Maisie. “Come on, let’s go.”

Maisie stepped out of the row, followed by Stratton,
and together they crept to the back of the room and opened the curtain that
formed a barrier between the entrance and the main hall.

“Leaving so soon?” A man stepped forward from
alongside the door.

“Yes, afraid so,” said Stratton. “My wife is not
feeling very well, so we thought it best to leave. Pity, though, great chap,
isn’t he?”

The man looked at Maisie, who held her hand to her
stomach, then he stepped aside for them to pass.

“Perhaps we’ll see you again, Mr. and Mrs.
Hutchinson.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will. Good night.”

They left the meeting hall and walked down the road,
Maisie’s hand resting on Stratton’s arm. They did not speak until they were
sure Mosley’s men on guard outside the church hall were out of earshot.

“Do you think Mosley sanctioned what we just saw?”
asked Maisie.

Stratton shook his head. “I doubt he’s given his
blessing, but he may be turning a blind eye—you know, ‘what the eye doesn’t
see’ and all that.”

“But that’s approval by default. My guess is that his
blind eye will lead to more violence if those men are allowed to continue in
such a thuggish vein, then he’ll be in trouble.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Stratton looked across the
road as the lights on the Invicta came on. “Ah, here’s the motor car.” He
whistled and four men emerged from the shadows as he stepped away from Maisie
to speak to them. “You know who to take in, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. Don’t wait until the end. Go now,
softly-softly. Buckman and Smith are on the other side of the hall, and the
van’s around the corner. Take those thugs in one at a time and nail them for
assault and battery—and that’s just the start. Did you get the names of the
victims?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ll see you back at the Yard.”

The first man nodded and opened the door of the motor
car. Stratton took Maisie’s hand as she stepped aboard, and sat down next to
her, looking out of the back window as the Invicta drove away.

“Time to take you home, Miss Dobbs. You’ll be seeing
your protesting women tomorrow.”

“Another bark up the wrong tree.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re making your way up your own path
on this one.”

She smiled, but said nothing.

When they arrived outside the block of flats in
Pimlico, Stratton alighted first and held out his hand to steady her as she
stepped onto the pavement. She thought Stratton held on to her hand for one
second too long, and drew back from him to take her keys from her bag.

“Good night, Inspector. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

“Good night, Miss Dobbs.”

MAISIE WALKED TOWARD the glass front door, and when
she turned saw that Stratton was still standing by the Invicta, watching until
she was inside with the outer door locked once more. She waved one last time,
and then stepped toward her flat, key in hand.

Later, as she sat cross-legged in front of the
fireplace, a dressing gown covering her loose pajamas, she closed her eyes to
meditate on her day, and to clear her mind for tomorrow. She now knew the
identity of the man she had seen blow himself to pieces on Christmas Eve, but
she knew nothing about him, except that he loved books and had been wounded and
gassed in the war. He had met a friend, a neatly turned-out man, in Soho
Square, and he had recently become reacquainted with someone who might have
been an old colleague. Could there be two men, and were these men connected?
And what of Ian Jennings? Who was he? Where had he come from, who knew him—who
might have grieved for him?

Thoughts of grief brought back memories of Simon, of
his passing, so recent and still so raw. Simon Lynch was the army doctor for
whom she had burned a candle for so long, even though he was no more than a
shell of the man who had stolen her heart. It was a strange death; after so
many years he had simply slipped away. She felt as if she had been in mourning
since the war, but only allowed to grieve for the past few months. Of course,
there were the years when she did not see him, when she could not face the memories,
or the terror of reflection upon the explosion that had wounded them both. She
shook her head, as memories of France in wartime merged with Christmas Eve’s
tragedy and flooded her mind’s eye.

Somewhere, most likely in London, a desperate man was
planning another attack—of that she was sure. The dead creatures were just the
beginning, until his demands were met or he was found. And as she knew too
well, the latter was the only option, because the government would never act
upon the petitions of someone considered a madman. She thought of her father,
who held strong views on such subjects.

“You know, Maisie, that when you look at one of these
politicians, you’re looking at a thief, a liar and a murderer, that’s the way I
see it.”

“Come on, Dad, that’s not like you.”

“No, I mean it. Look—they take our money, they lie
through their teeth, and then they send our boys off to their deaths, don’t
they? And all the time, they’re in clover, never a day’s risk or a day
wanting.”

EIGHT

December 29th, 1931

Maisie had been to Wychett Hill in the past, and as
she turned the MG into the driveway, she looked at Billy in the passenger seat,
and saw the tension in his jaw when he, too, looked up at the clock tower. She
thought the years had tempered neither her memory of the asylum nor the reality
of the building itself. Wychett Hill was a fine example of ornate Victorian
construction that seemed both austere and ostentatious at the same time, like
so many hospitals opened in the middle of the last century, including the
Princess Victoria, the domain of Anthony Lawrence. But there was something even
more foreboding about Wychett Hill, situated as it was on the North Downs in
Surrey, where clouds congregated all too gray and all too ready to threaten
with cold breezes and rain-filled air.

“Spooky sort of place, ain’t it, Miss?”

“It gives me the shivers.”

Billy turned to her as she negotiated the final sweep
toward an area dedicated to the parking of motor vehicles. “I appreciate you
bringing me here, Miss. It would have taken so long otherwise, what with the
trains, then the walk from Tattenham Corner. I would never’ve been able to do
it without leaving at the crack of dawn.”

“I know. But don’t worry about it—I’m concerned about
Doreen’s well-being too, you know.”

“Yes, I know, Miss.” Billy bit his lip and looked out
of the window, then down to the base of an adjacent wall. “You’re all right on
this side, I reckon that’ll do you.”

Maisie braked and turned off the engine. “Look at that
rain, it’s really coming down now. Thank heavens for the humble umbrella, eh?
Come on, we’d better run for it.”

“You wait there, Miss.” Billy turned up the collar of
his raincoat, pulled his flat cap down deep on his forehead, grabbed the
umbrella, and alighted from the vehicle. With the umbrella unfurled, he came to
the driver’s side and opened the door for Maisie, who was pulling a scarf
around her neck, tucking it into the collar of her mackintosh.

“Thank you, Billy.” Clasping her black document case
in her left hand, she locked the MG and nodded to Billy. Together they ran to
the main entrance, and were assaulted by the anticipated hospital smells of
disinfectant and urine.

Maisie ran her hands across her shoulders to flick
rain from her mackintosh, and stamped her feet. She looked around her and
sighed. What had she ever done to deserve spending so much time in hospitals?
But her choice of a professional life steeped in matters of life and death must
of course include the place to which humans are tended in a time of sickness,
whether that sickness was of the body or the mind, or both.

“That was a big sigh, Miss.”

“Oh, I know, Billy. I was just wondering how many
hospitals I will set foot in, in my life. Remember I’ve an appointment with Dr.
Elsbeth Masters at the Clifton Hospital this afternoon.” She shrugged. “Every
one has its own mood, its own feel. Yet I could be put into a hospital
blindfold and know where I was—there’s the smell, the sounds, and if you touch
the brick outside, or the plaster inside, there’s always that same sensation.
It’s as if the suffering, the hope, the grief expended had seeped into the
walls.”

“And don’t forget that reek of cabbage boiled until
it’s nothing but sopping wet shreds.”

Maisie laughed. “You’re right, the smell of overcooked
vegetables.” She looked around. “Now then, where do we go from here?”

“It’s this way, Miss.” Billy checked the time on his
wristwatch and led the way up a staircase flanked by a cast-iron filigree
banister, the top rail rough and cold to the touch.

In the distance Maisie heard a scream, then moaning.
She heard footsteps moving back and forth, and echoes from the various wards
ricocheting off the brick walls and sliding along the banister, so that it
seemed as if the building itself had taken on a certain volatility, and a
visitor might believe the staircase would begin to shake at any moment. Billy
continued to lead the way to one of the women’s wards, then stopped alongside
locked double doors with frosted glass at eye level. He pulled a cord to the right
of the door and soon a nurse came to let them in.

“Mr. Beale. I’m here to see Mrs. Doreen Beale.”

The nurse nodded, looking Maisie up and down as she
allowed her to pass.

“And this is a very good friend of ours, Miss Maisie
Dobbs.” Having introduced Maisie, Billy glanced back and forth along the row of
beds. “Where’s my wife?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Beale, she’s in a recovery ward.
She’s as well as can be expected, but don’t expect her to be able to speak.”

Billy turned on the nurse, his mounting distress revealed
by the swollen vein at his left temple. “What do you mean, ‘don’t expect her to
speak’? What’s the matter with her?”

Maisie set her hand on Billy’s forearm and smiled at
the nurse. “My friend is very concerned about his wife, as you can imagine. Perhaps
you could describe her situation as we walk along to see her—has she been taken
to a room on her own, by chance?”

The nurse relaxed her shoulders, and pursed her lips,
frowning at Billy, but appeared more accommodating as she spoke to Maisie.
“There was a little op, and she was, well, she was making a bit of a fuss
afterward, so we had to put her on her own for a while so she wouldn’t start
the rest of them off.”

Maisie glanced on either side of her as they walked
along the ward. The “rest of them” seemed to be catatonic, with mouths open or
staring into the distance. She suspected that peace and calm were achieved with
various pills and medicines. The aroma of sour dairy suggested that some had
been put on a milk diet, which Maisie thought had been discontinued a decade
earlier. As they approached a third set of double doors, the nurse took a chain
from her pocket and selected a key. She slotted the key in the lock, rattled
the left door toward her and turned the key back and forth until she was able to
unlock the door.