Among the Mad (25 page)

“You don’t have to thank me, Billy. But I do need the
number for the Foundling Hospital, wherever it is in Surrey.”

Ten minutes later, Maisie was calling a Dr. Rigby at
the Foundling Hospital at its new location in Redhill. She would see him
tomorrow morning, at nine.

AT MAISIE’S INSISTENCE, Billy left early to return
home. Even though Doreen would be moved to a hospital according to her
recommendation, where she believed the care to be more humane, it was still an
asylum. She hoped her instinct had served her well, and that Doreen would make
progress and begin her slow ascent from the depths of her instability to make a
good recovery.

Maisie placed two manila folders, each containing a
collection of papers, in her battered old leather document case; put on her
navy blue woolen coat, her cloche and her gloves, and then pulled a pale blue
cashmere wrap—a gift from Priscilla when she was in France—around her shoulders
for additional warmth. She looked around the office, turned off the lights,
locked the office behind her, and left the building.

A dirty ochre smog clung to her in the cold winter
darkness as she walked to the MG, and the thick air seemed to lift up the
click-clack of her shoes on flagstones, only to bring the echo back to her as
if she were being followed. Once she would have been disconcerted by such a
sound, would stop to listen, might even have called out, “Who’s there?” Now she
was more confident in her surroundings, she knew the streets, the shopkeepers,
and if she were worried, she could run into the Prince of Wales public
house—someone would help her if help were needed.

Reaching the MG, Maisie unlocked the door and placed
her bags on the passenger seat before starting the motor. As she was about to
take her seat, she saw a lame man come out of the swirling pea-souper smog, and
with a shuffle and clump he moved past her. He did not wear a cap, and Maisie
could not see the detail of him, but he moved with a deliberate slowness, as if
his balance might fail him. There was a sour odor as he passed, a dank blight
that the homeless carried with them, and she thought she might go after him and
press a coin or two into his hand, for he was indubitably a man who had been to
war, and it was the least she could do. But he had passed, the hard metal tip
of his cane clattering against the pavement as he vanished into the noxious
blend of smoke and fog.

I don’t think I can stand another year of
invisibility, another year of being one of the unseen. We make our way along
the streets and are passed by as if we have no place, no value and worth. Ian
could not bear such an existence anymore. He had only two friends, me and the
man at the bookshop, who he thought did not even know his surname, even though
he wrote it in a ledger each time he borrowed a book. Of course, he knew
Croucher, and Croucher did what he could. And I know, now, that Ian was right.
No one wants to see the broken, in body or in mind. We are better off kept out
of sight in cold, sterile wards of efficient nurses, and doctors who only know
you by the notes at the end of your bed. Or we are better off dead.

I thought some sign that I had been heard might follow
my letters. I did not want to take life. I have seen too much death. But now it
seems I have only one more opportunity to raise my voice. To be heard. The end
of the year is almost upon me. There’s only one thing left to do. St. Paul’s,
on Old Year’s Night. For Auld Lang Syne, my dears. For old times’ sake.

THIRTEEN

It was almost eight when Maisie arrived home. And even
as she was looking forward to preparing a light supper, with perhaps a small
glass of sherry to warm her from the inside out, she had a feeling that she
would not be alone this evening.

“Miss Dobbs?” Robbie MacFarlane’s voice reached her
before his large frame emerged from the smog as she stepped from her motor car.

“Chief Superintendent?”

“I hope you don’t mind me coming to see you at your
home.”

“Not at all—has something happened?” She squinted
beyond him in the darkness, to see if a police vehicle awaited the detective.
He was alone.

“No, no, not yet.” He seemed unsure of his words,
almost stuttering his response to her question. “You telephoned the Yard today
and I wanted to make sure everything was in order.”

“Yes. Look, would you care to come in? It’s no good
standing out here to talk, is it?”

“Thank you. I don’t want to impose, but . . .”

“Come on.” Maisie walked toward the main door of the
building, opened the outer glass door leading to a foyer that on a clear
summer’s day would be bathed in light streaming through the windows, illuminating
the center staircase. Once inside, she turned left toward the door to her
ground-floor flat. “It’s nothing grand, but it’s home.”

MacFarlane closed the door behind him and followed her
along the hallway as she turned on the lights and walked into the drawing room.
She ignited the fire, drew the blinds, and placed her document case and
shoulder bag on the dining table before offering to take MacFarlane’s overcoat
and hat.

“I’ll put them in the box room at the end of the
passage—the main pipe for the heating runs up the wall there, so the room is
always warm, whether I’ve turned up the radiator or not.”

“Very nice flat, if I may say so, Miss Dobbs.”

“Thank you. I’m happy here. Do take a seat.”

MacFarlane sat down on one of the chairs close to the
fire, and looked around the room. Above the mantelpiece was a watercolor
painting of a woman on a beach, looking out to sea—a woman who resembled
Maisie—and on the far wall behind the dining table was a simple woven tapestry.
It was a blend of vibrant reds, golds, mauves, blues, yellows and greens and
brought together wave after wave of color to depict a sunset across summer
countryside.

“Interesting taste in art, Miss Dobbs.”

“The watercolor was a gift, and the tapestry is one of
my own—it’s very simple, I’m not an expert at all.”

“But you’re an artist.”

“Oh, no. Not me.” Maisie paused. “Look, Detective
Chief Superintendent, I must confess I have barely eaten a thing all day and I
am famished. I have a hearty soup already prepared, some bread and cheese—would
you care to join me?”

MacFarlane turned to face her, and the color rose in
his cheeks. “Thank you, yes, I’m a bit peckish myself.”

“Right then. There’s a bottle of sherry in the
sideboard, and some glasses, so do pour us both a glass—just a small one for me.
And before you ask, there’s nothing stronger—in fact, there’s nothing else—so
you won’t find a single malt lurking away in the back.”

“Sherry will be quite welcome.”

Maisie stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the
stove. What on earth was she thinking? Inviting the detective to stay for
supper? What would he think? What would anyone think? A stockpot of soup, made
the day before, sat on the top of the stove. She pulled it toward the larger
burner and lit the gas-ring, then held the match close to the gas jets in the
oven. She brought a wedge of cheese from the larder, along with a cottage loaf,
placing the cheese on a wooden board and the bread in the oven. The bread was
not in the first flush of youth, so she hoped a warming would soften it up. She
brought knives and spoons from a drawer in the dresser, a tablecloth and cloth
napkins from another drawer, and set the dining table for two.

“There you are, Miss Dobbs.” MacFarlane held out a
glass of sherry.

“Thank you, Chief Superintendent.” She took the glass
and held it up in a toast. “To the New Year.”

“Aye, it’s not long now. To 1932.”

“Do take a seat in front of the fire. The soup will be
ready soon—it’s oxtail with carrots, potato and onion.” Maisie returned to the
kitchen, brought out two large soup plates, took a quick taste of the broth,
and ladled the soup onto the plates. She set the hot bread on the wooden board
alongside the cheese and took the board to the table. After she’d brought in
the soup, she returned to the kitchen, opened the back door and lifted a
porcelain butter dish from a covered pail, which also contained a half bottle
of milk.

When he was summoned to the table, MacFarlane smiled
and thanked Maisie again. “Miss Dobbs, this is kind of you.”

Maisie nodded. “Dig in, Chief Superintendent, or it
will get cold.”

They had been eating in silence for some minutes when
the detective set down his spoon. “It’s been a long time since I had a
home-cooked meal.”

“Too busy?”

“For the most part.”

Having sated her initial hunger, Maisie spoke again.
“You wanted to know why I telephoned you today.”

“Yes, indeed, that’s why I came here.” MacFarlane
lifted his spoon and dipped it into his soup once more.

Maisie thought back to Billy’s comments and wondered
if there was more to the visit. Surely anxiety to see the case closed had led
him to wonder why she had placed a call to him, which inspired him to wait for
her at her flat—though he could have come to her office, instead. But the flat
was more convenient to Scotland Yard, so it made sense that he would wait for
her here.

“I don’t know yet if my inquiry will carry weight, but
I was not ready to dismiss Catherine’s story today, about the man who had come
to their meeting.”

“I am sure there are dozens of nutters out there
looking to join the agitators, Miss Dobbs. It’s the need to belong to a group,
isn’t it? I’ve come across it before, and you’ve heard Colm Darby talk about
it. Boys and men who’d never been in trouble, but they’ve been out on the edge
somewhere, and they find family of sorts among men who would exploit them. One
minute they are tired, lonely, misunderstood—some of them are misfits, in their
way—and then they discover they are among people who give them a feeling of
attachment. The next thing you know, they are up to their eyes in crime of some
sort or another. The man described by Catherine Jones sounds the same—someone
not quite right, someone who is shunned, so he tries to join this lot, only
they don’t take to him and he’s on his own again. I’ll concede there’s a chance
that he’s our man, but it’s also more than likely that the inventive Catherine
is trying to ingratiate herself with us and thereby hoping to receive due
consideration when it comes to sentencing. Seen it many times, I’m afraid.”

“I’m looking into it anyway.”

“Good.” MacFarlane reached for the bread knife and
sawed two thick wedges of crusty loaf, sliding one onto Maisie’s plate with the
knife.

“Thank you.” She began to butter the bread, placed a
sliver of cheese on top, and continued. “Apparently he referred to himself as a
‘foundling.’ The term is a bit old-fashioned, and was enough to pique my
interest. I remembered the Foundling Hospital, the one built by Thomas Coram in
the 1700s. It only moved out of London about four or five years ago, and now
it’s in Redhill. I’m going there tomorrow, to see if I can look at their
records. There are a couple of members of staff who have been with the hospital
for over thirty years.” She paused. “And yes, I know it’s a bit of a leap of
faith, but if I assume that our man is, say, in his mid-thirties, I can perhaps
isolate the years when he might have been there. And if his name really is
Oliver, that gives me more to go on.”

“And if you come up with nothing?” MacFarlane did not
look up as he swept a scrap of crust around the edge of the bowl to soak up the
last of the broth.

“I’ve asked Mr. Beale to compile a list of other
orphanages—the Barnardo homes, for example.” She watched as MacFarlane finished
eating. “Would you like some more?”

He smiled. “That was a lovely bit of broth—and if
there’s more in the pot, I’ll take it.”

Maisie reached for his bowl and went to the kitchen,
returning with a second helping, which she set in front of him. She continued
outlining her plan. “I have been back to see one of the doctors I worked
alongside years ago, when I was a nurse—I told you about him. He’s an expert in
the care of men who have suffered war neurosis, and he also has experience in
working with men and women who have been exposed to weapons such as gas, nerve
agents and so on—in wartime and in the laboratory.”

“And what does he say?”

“Surprisingly little. He is writing a book at the
moment, which might account for his reticence to speak. But he was most helpful
at first, giving me vital information with which to outline a template of the
kind of person we’re looking for.”

“Ah, yes, the template.”

“I know you think I’ve wasted time.”

“We’ve all wasted time, Miss Dobbs. When you don’t
know where you’re going you run around in circles at first, whacking the bushes
to see what vermin come out. Rather than a specific template, it’s the scatter
method of acquiring clues. Shake out every nasty piece of work you ever came
across and see what sticks to the bugger.”