Among the Mad (29 page)

Maisie sighed, and stood up to pace back and forth.
“Dr. Anthony Lawrence, wasn’t it? He took charge of the situation by removing
Stephen Oliver and taking him to one of the hospitals where he worked.”

“Yes, that’s it.”

Maisie paced again, then stopped in front of the desk.
“And if I am not mistaken, Stephen Oliver recovered again, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And you needed him, so back he came once more. Until
the next breakdown.”

Gale nodded. “He’s still locked away, poor man.”

Maisie shook her head. “On the contrary, I suspect he
was released between six months to two years ago.”

Gale rested his head in his hands. “So it was Stephen,
then. That dreadful substance we’ve just watched kill a dog is Stephen’s work.”

“I can’t say for certain, but I believe it could be.”

Without warning, and with no attempt at a knock, the
door to Gale’s office was flung open.

“Sorry to interrupt this little meeting of scientific
minds, but I need you.” Urquhart pointed at Maisie.

She held out her hand to Gale. “Thank you, Professor
Gale,” she said, and turned to follow Urquhart, but looked back as she reached
the door. “You knew it might be him, even before we brought the vial to you
today. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I—I didn’t want to believe it. I knew he was
unsettled, but I—you see so many people in my line of work, and so many of them
are . . . are eccentric, and—he is a very brilliant man.”

“And very dangerous.” Maisie stepped into the
corridor, as Urquhart, who had not heard the conversation between Maisie and
Gale, stepped back into the office and informed the scientist that he would be
in touch the following morning to check on “progress.” The staff at Mulberry
Point would be working around the clock.

“WHAT’S HAPPENED?” Maisie inquired as she was hurried
toward the waiting Wolseley.

“To his credit—because he’s never been one for playing
the game with our department—Robbie has just been on the blower. His informers
must have told him we were here, Miss Dobbs. Anyway, it transpires another letter
has been received at the PM’s office. And this time the trouble could be big.”

“What did the man say?”

“That it will be a happier New Year for some, or
something like that. Your boss man didn’t elaborate.”

“He’s not my boss.” Maisie climbed in the back of the
motor car.

“Well, whatever he is, we’re on our way to see him
now. You can pick up your little roller skate of a motor and follow us to
Scotland Yard.”

The Wolseley set off again, and as they were cleared
to leave the guard post, Maisie wondered if she should tell Urquhart that she
thought she knew the identity of the letter-writer. She was about to tap him on
the shoulder, but drew back. Something was stopping her from making such a
claim. Even though it seemed most likely that Stephen Oliver was their man, it
was as if a small voice within was urging her to wait, not to show her hand.
She leaned back as the motor car accelerated once more, and wondered if the
feeling was simply one of loyalty, that having worked with MacFarlane, she
thought he should be the first to know of her discovery.

I always knew, always, that I would die alone. That
there would be no caring relative, no wife, no mother, no love to say good-bye.
So I will have to take some companions with me. For old time’s sake. Tonight, I
will go to my death as if to a party. I wonder whether that woman who tried to
save Ian, that Maisie Dobbs, is going to a party? I’d seen her before, seen her
walking along to the station, or crossing the square. I know what she does. I
thought she would have found me by now. Not so clever, that clever woman. She
always gives something to the people who hold out their hands. Pennies for the
children, pennies for the beggars, pennies for madmen. Yes, I’d like to take
her with me. She would be good company, perhaps. But not Croucher, even though
he feels sorry for me. Even though I am pitied. Pity. “It’s such a pity,” said
a woman passing me on the street. I never saw her again. Never saw my mother
again, not after she thought she had a madman for a son. Not that it would have
made much difference. She barely even knew me.

The pencil began to scratch, so the man took up his
knife and whittled away slivers of wood until more lead was revealed. Then he
licked the lead, and began to note a series of numbers and letters. John Gale,
or another scientist, might have understood the notations. The man stuck out
his tongue as he wrote, and onto the paper, alongside the numbers and letters,
drops of spittle punctuated a new formula, one that he had been twisting and turning
around in his mind for days.

FIFTEEN

Maisie held the letter by the corner of the page, and
brought it closer to the light to read.

“Written in pencil, again—and see here, there’s the
same evidence of moisture.”

Colm Darby nodded, adding, “It’s definitely the same
man.”

“Yes . . . ” Maisie was thoughtful as she read.

I have no further use of this life, of this body, or
of this mind. But before I go, before I decline the opportunity to step forward
into another year of sidelong glances and piteous abuse, I will make my mark.
You will be sorry, so sorry not to have listened to me. I wanted only to be
heard, only to be heard on behalf of those who cannot speak, the men whom war
has crippled and poverty has silenced. There will be no parties, no gathering
of joyous anticipation for us, the forgotten. So I will stop the big party. For
Auld Lang Syne.

“What are we supposed to do—police every drunken party
in London on Old Year’s Night?” MacFarlane paced in front of the gathering—Stratton,
Darby, Urquhart and Maisie.

“We can stop the public affairs—the steps of St.
Paul’s Cathedral will be packed tonight, and I wouldn’t mind betting that’s our
man’s bull’s-eye.” Urquhart made his suggestion with a shrug.

“You could be right,” said Stratton. “Public gathering
at St. Paul’s was supposed to be banned, and still hundreds come—but we can
have mounted police on duty and turn people away.” Stratton looked toward
MacFarlane, as if putting a question to him.

“Turning away the inebriated on the eve of the New
Year has never been a wholly successful venture.” MacFarlane paused. “But it’s
a start.” He clapped his hands together. “Right, then, I want all known venues
of public gathering on December the thirty-first to be closed down. Turn the
punters away and tell them to get on home.”

“Gov, you’ll have a riot or two on your hands,” said
Darby.

“Better that than have tomorrow morning’s papers
telling the world that a crowd of London revelers has been killed by a mystery
substance—a nerve gas, if that’s what he’s going to use. At least we can
explain a riot without causing wider public chaos.”

“Robbie, I’m off back to HQ now,” said Urquhart. “I’ve
had men all over London for the past few days, and I want to know what I’ve got
at my end. I’ll be in touch.”

“We’ll be on each other’s toes again, Gerry.”

“I know—I’d rather it that way and not risk leaving a
stone unturned.”

“Aye, you’re right. Be in touch.”

Urquhart left the room, and as she heard the door
click behind her, Maisie cleared her throat.

“I may have a lead on the letter-writer. I’m not one
hundred percent sure, but I would be remiss if I did not bring this information
to your attention for want of more corroboration.”

“Go on, Miss Dobbs.” MacFarlane turned toward Maisie,
his attention followed by that of Stratton and Darby.

Describing the visit to Mulberry Point, Maisie
recounted her conversation with John Gale. MacFarlane, who was standing in
front of his desk, folded his arms and leaned back, causing a pile of papers to
fall to one side. He made no move to set them straight, but attended to
Maisie’s words with a nod or a raised eyebrow. He waited until she had finished
before she spoke.

“I would have warned you that Urquhart was on your
tail, if I could have—but even though he gets under my skin, he has resources
at his fingertips that I don’t, and whether we like it or not, we do cross
purposes at times, so we’ve got to try to work in tandem—and that means we
pedal in different directions, most of the time. Now then . . . ” He looked at
the floor for a moment and rubbed his chin. “Miss Dobbs, I want you to go to
your Anthony Lawrence and see what you can find out.” He looked around at the
clock. “Bloody hell, time flies. Not even six hours to go before Big Ben
strikes twelve—and half of London gone home.”

“I’ll leave now.” Maisie stood up ready to leave.

“Your man should be here. Beale. Where is he?”

Maisie shook her head. “I hope he’s on his way home. I
would prefer it if he were with his family on Old Year’s Night.”

“Going soft on the help?”

Maisie collected her hat and gloves, ignoring the
comment. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something to report—I want to
catch Dr. Lawrence before he leaves for the evening.”

She left Scotland Yard with haste, making her way with
as much speed as she could in the direction of the hospital known as “the Bin.”

MAISIE WAS PLEASED to find Mr. Croucher in the
porters’ office. Even though the man had never been particularly cordial to
her, he was a familiar face.

“Oh, Mr. Croucher—is Dr. Lawrence here?”

“No, Madam. Dr. Lawrence has taken leave, won’t be
back for another two days.”

“Oh, dear. Look, I need to see the record of one of
his former patients. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

Croucher shook his head. “Can’t do that without Dr.
Lawrence.”

“May I see Matron?”

He shook his head again. “Sorry, Madam, you’ll have to
come back after the new year now.”

“This is a matter of life and death, Mr. Croucher—may
I please see Mrs. Kennedy?”

“Madam, I’ve told you—” Croucher seemed to soften, as
if reconsidering his obstructive stance. “Look, I’m sorry, it’s Old Year’s
Night and Mrs. Kennedy isn’t here anyway—it’s late you know. Normally she’d be
here all hours, but—”

Maisie could feel her stomach become tense. Time was
ticking away toward midnight. “Mr. Croucher, I appeal to you to help me—do you
know if there was a man here by the name of Oliver? Stephen Oliver? A former
patient.”

Croucher sighed, looked down at his ledger, and shook
his head. “Don’t mean a thing to me—never heard the name, and I see everyone in
and everyone out, so I would know.”

Maisie looked at him, his balding head, his sagging
jowls. It seemed as if his job represented his only opportunity to assert
himself.

“Thank you, Mr. Croucher. You have been most helpful.”

Maisie turned to leave, but as she opened the main
doors, she turned back to look through the glass at the porters’ office. Across
the counter, she could clearly see Croucher putting on his overcoat and hat. He
seemed rushed, and it appeared he was giving another porter instructions for
his absence—she could see him pointing to a timetable of sorts on the wall,
stabbing it with his forefinger to make a point. She knew from the way he moved
that his departure was the result of a sudden decision, he seemed flustered and
was still calling out instructions as he opened the door that led from the
office into the entrance hall. He walked quickly toward the door. Maisie
stepped to one side, partially hidden by a bush so that she could not be seen
in the shadows. Croucher was in a hurry. He came out into the cold air and
pulled up his collar before making his way down the steps. Then he was gone,
all but vanished into the thickening smog.

Maisie ran to the MG, started the engine, and drove
along the road until she caught sight of Croucher again, lumbering toward a
bus. He leaped on board just as it was about to pull away from the stop.

Keeping her distance, she followed the bus for some
time, then waited when Croucher stepped off and caught another, which rumbled
along the Marylebone Road. She was certain that Croucher would lead her to the
man who had written the letters—the man who had taken innocent life, both
animal and human. What kind of man was he? Someone who was abandoned, and had
in turn abandoned life, to the extent that life was easy to take? She
remembered conversations with Maurice, when they had talked about the nature of
the killer, how some kept their secret close to them, like a seed planted deep
in the soil, waiting for the perfect time to bloom—for the perfect time to be
revealed. Some secrets could be hidden for years, while there were those who
yearned for their secret, their crime—whether of passion or premeditation—to be
discovered. Waiting for truth to come out. She had known case after case where
the perpetrator instigated his own discovery—the stupid mistake, the blatant
error, or the confession made to someone who might tell. Slipping through the
MG’s gears as the bus stopped again, she wondered if this killer wanted to be
discovered, wanted to be noticed, to be acknowledged. He might want to be
stopped before he killed again.

Once more Croucher stepped off the bus, walking a
quarter of a mile to another stop. This was not an unusual journey—she knew
that if Billy did not walk a good way to work to save money, he would be taking
three buses instead of one. Now, watching Croucher from her parked motor car,
the engine idling, Maisie wondered whether his pacing back and forth in front
of the bus stop, his constant glancing up at the clock on a nearby church, was
borne of nerves or the cold. She studied his movements with careful attention
and noticed the nervousness to his gait. She recognized the fear. He’s on his
way to warn him. To let him know we’re on to him. He’s going to see—Stephen
Oliver? She looked around for a telephone kiosk, and saw one illuminated just
yards away from the MG. Leaving the motor running, she left the MG and stepped
toward the kiosk. She opened the door, lifted the receiver, and dialed Scotland
Yard, all the time keeping her eyes on Croucher as she asked to speak to
MacFarlane.

“Yes!”

“It’s Maisie Dobbs.”

“Have you made any progress?”

“I’m calling from a telephone kiosk, on the Marylebone
Road, going toward Euston Road. I’ve followed a man called Croucher—hospital
porter. I think he’s on his way to see our man.”

“And what makes you think that?”

Maisie paused, wondering whether brutal honesty would
stand her in good stead. “I can just feel it—is that good enough for you?”

“Makes a lot more bloody sense to me than all that
scribbling across the walls. We’ll find you. Don’t take any chances.” The
telephone clicked.

Maisie returned to the MG in time to see another bus
come along, and Croucher jump on board. She pulled in behind the bus and
followed it along Marylebone Road. She began going through the events of the
past hour, since she first spoke to Croucher. Could his hasty departure from
the hospital have simply been due to her detaining him with questions? Did he
then have to run for a bus that he normally caught with some ease, given the
time his working day ended? She wondered if she could be wrong in her
conjecture, but shook her head. No, she knew where he was going.

Now she could barely see ahead of her in the thick pea-souper,
and if it weren’t for the bus and street lights casting their smudged shadows
around and ahead of her, she might not have seen him jump off the rear platform
of the bus and make his way along the Euston Road, then turn into Warren
Street. At that moment, she felt an icy sensation at her neck, a feeling she
knew came as a warning, tingling to attract her attention when all was not
well, when something was not quite as it should be. It had alerted her on many
an occasion, and now as it turned to a radiating pain, she wondered if the
writer of the letters, if the madman himself, had been under her nose all the
time.