Among the Mad (32 page)

The men emulated their boss, drinking the toast back
in one, while Maisie closed her eyes, tilted her head, and took but a single
mouthful while trying not to cough.

“That’s it, lass, get it down you, it cleans out the
tubes—and it’ll help you sleep tonight. Anyone for another?” He waved the
bottle, then poured a second measure each for Stratton and Darby.

Maisie cleared her throat, which was burning. “I
wonder, Chief Superintendent, may I use your telephone?”

“Stratton, show Miss Dobbs to the next office—give her
a bit of privacy. If someone wants to place a telephone call when the New Year
is still in swaddling clothes, you can bet it’s personal.”

“I can find my way next door. I won’t be long.”

Closing the door of the empty office behind her,
Maisie went to the desk, lifted the telephone receiver, and placed a call to
Priscilla’s house. The telephone at the Holland Park mansion was answered by a
housekeeper, and Maisie was asked to wait while Mrs. Partridge was summoned.

“I do hope you have an excellent excuse.” Priscilla
sounded terse, and—as Maisie expected—upset.

“Actually, Priscilla, I have an excellent excuse, only
I can’t tell you about it, not yet, not now.”

Priscilla’s tone softened. “You sound exhausted,
Maisie.”

“I am a bit. How are you? How’s the party?”

“Lovely, as parties go. We’re still at the champers,
still dancing, still weaving our way into the New Year with all the glee we can
muster.”

Whether it was the whiskey or the events of the day,
Maisie felt emotion well in her voice. “I’ve missed seeing you, Priscilla.”

“Oh, darling, I’ve missed you too, my friend. Are you
sure you can’t come tonight? We’re still going strong, and breakfast won’t be
served until half-past four to finish off the celebrations, then everyone can
go home.”

Hearing the eagerness in Priscilla’s voice, Maisie was
loath to upset her once more. “Pris, I—I’ll see how I feel when I get back to
the flat. But don’t bank on it.”

Maisie thought she heard Priscilla weep, and there was
a pause before her friend spoke again.

“I suppose I’m being terribly selfish, aren’t I? I
just find the new year so trying. All that looking forward and saying, ‘Happy
New Year’ and I’m standing here wondering what might happen before December the
thirty-first rolls around again. I feel as if I’m under siege.”

“Hush, Pris, hush. Go back to your party, shine that
smile of yours at your guests, and though I can’t promise, perhaps I’ll get a
second wind by the time I get home.”

“Happy New Year, Maisie.”

“You, too, Pris. You too.”

MAISIE RETURNED TO MacFarlane’s office, where the men
continued to discuss the case. With one ear to the conversation, Maisie picked
up the diary and began to read.

My name’s not important anymore. I am not a person, not
the person I was, and I can’t remember who that person was anyway. I did what
my country asked of me, I stepped forward to do my bit, and then, when I came
home, they didn’t want me anymore—well, except for my mind. No one wanted me,
no one wanted to see me, or speak to me. They wanted me tucked away in a place
where they wouldn’t have to see me ever again. I am the man they sent to war, I
am the man who went forward at their battle cry. And there are thousands of me,
so many hundreds and thousands of me, all of us back here, but never to return
home. Home doesn’t even exist for us . . .

“Well, you can’t sit there and read all night.”
MacFarlane held out his hand for the dead man’s diary, and instructed Stratton
to escort Maisie to her MG, which had been brought to the Yard by a detective
constable.

“Will you need me here tomorrow, Chief
Superintendent?”

MacFarlane shook his head. “No, shouldn’t think so.”
He looked at Maisie and smiled. “You’ve done a bloody good job, Miss Dobbs. We
might not know that man’s name, but we do know he was our letter-writer, and we
do know he was our murderer. You brought him down before he killed in a way
that doesn’t even bear thinking of, ever. You should go home and rest.”

Maisie shook hands with Colm Darby and with MacFarlane,
who might have held her hand for a second longer than was necessary.

“It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” said Stratton, as
they made their way to Maisie’s motor car.

“Yes, but we have our man.”

“You were right to follow that lead, Miss Dobbs.”

“And you were right to follow every other
lead—MacFarlane could not limit his resources to just one possibility. He
couldn’t put all his eggs in one basket—and who knows when one of those groups
might decide to up the ante and choose a more violent method of making a point,
though I doubt whether the women fighting for equal pensions will resort to
dynamite or chemical weaponry.”

They reached the MG. “Well, happy New Year, Miss
Dobbs—and a safe one. I daresay we will be in touch in due course. There’s
still much to do on this case. For a start, we’ll be bringing in your Dr.
Anthony Lawrence to identify the body tomorrow.”

“Of course.” She paused. “I’m sorry you’ll be missing
a day with your son though.”

Stratton shrugged. “Name of the game, Miss Dobbs. I’ll
make it up to him.”

Maisie smiled and as she took the driver’s seat of her
motor car, she looked up at Stratton. “Happy New Year, Inspector.”

Stratton stood back as Maisie eased the MG out onto
the road. She drove home on all but empty streets, as the bells of London
continued to peal, and those who could afford such levity raised another glass
to 1932.

SETTLING BACK INTO a soothing hot bath, Maisie
considered Priscilla’s party and how much her friend had wanted her to be
there. For her part, the last thing Maisie wanted was to see Priscilla with
another drink in her hand to dull the fear in her heart. Even so, Priscilla was
her dearest friend, and to Maisie, close associations always mattered. She sighed,
closed her eyes, and thought about her day from beginning to end, and again saw
Croucher running for his bus, and the final meeting with the man he had
befriended, perhaps when he recognized his solitary condition. Men like
Jennings and Oliver—she had assumed it was Oliver, though they had yet to find
any letters or documents to confirm the killer’s identity—were both
incarcerated by their wounds, the latter being a man who had lost all semblance
of rational thought, and in whose head the battle continued to rage, day after
day. He had been an intelligent man, a man thought “brilliant” by his peers,
and yet had taken up weapons to fight on behalf of those passed on the street
and forgotten when war was done.

As the bathwater began to cool, Maisie’s thoughts
moved to Billy’s wife, and it occurred to her that Doreen and Priscilla
suffered from variations of the same affliction. But whereas Doreen was caught
in the past’s quicksand, trapped in a world where she ached for a daughter who
was dead, Priscilla feared the future. She had fought the onslaught of grief in
Biarritz, a place removed from the connections of her girlhood, where the only
early memories were happy recollections of family holidays. Unlike England,
Biarritz held no reminder of her parents’ terror upon hearing of the loss of
their sons, of her own sorrow when she received news that her brothers were
dead. But now she had returned to the country from which her siblings left for
war. Now she feared for her own sons, for the eldest, who would be on the cusp
of manhood before the decade’s end. And her fears were taking her back in
time—a time when drink dulled the ache in her soul.

Priscilla had been safe in the world she controlled in
Biarritz, as safe as a patient in a hospital. But now she was back in the thick
of London society, and it was clear she was floundering. And she needed a
friend.

Maisie stepped from the bath, toweled herself dry,
then put on the black day dress that also served as suitable garb for a
cocktail party. She had no gown to wear, but she was sure Priscilla wouldn’t
mind. Either that or Priscilla would drag her off to her dressing room to find
something she considered more suitable. But that was all right, Maisie would
allow her friend the indulgence of having all her guests in evening dress.
After styling her hair, applying some kohl to her eyes, just the faintest dash
of rouge to her cheeks, and red lipstick, she put on her black leather shoes
with straps that buckled at the side, followed by her coat and hat. She pushed
a handkerchief, some money and the lipstick into a black clutch bag, picked up
her keys, and left the flat. It was a quarter to two in the morning when she
set off for Holland Park.

“MAISIE, DARLING, I knew, just knew you would come!”
Priscilla’s eyes filled with tears as Maisie was led through the throng of
guests who had spilled out into the entrance hall, and shown into the drawing
room. Waving her cigarette holder in the air, Priscilla called out to her
husband. “Douglas, Douglas, look who’s here. It’s Maisie.”

As Douglas Partridge waded through the crowd toward
them, taking a glass of champagne from a maid as he went, Priscilla turned to
Maisie once again, linking her arm through Maisie’s and looking into her eyes.
“I know you must be terribly worn out, I can see it in your eyes, but . . . but
. . .” She began to cry, pulling her arm away from Maisie so that she could
squeeze the bridge of her nose to prevent the tears.

“Oh, Priscilla, don’t weep. This is your party, your
time to celebrate being here in London with your family. Come on, Pris, come
on, look, here comes Douglas.”

Douglas Partridge stood alongside his wife, rested his
cane against his thigh, and put his arm around her. “Tears of happiness, aren’t
they, darling?” Keeping his arm around Priscilla’s shoulder, he winked at
Maisie and leaned forward to kiss her on each cheek. “We’re so glad you could
come. Priscilla’s been looking forward to this evening for weeks. And it’s a
thumping good party, isn’t it, love?” He looked into his wife’s eyes, then
kissed her on the nose. “Now, I am going to leave you with your dearest friend
and see if I can find Raymond Grasslyn for a chat.”

Priscilla took a deep breath to temper her emotions,
and looked Maisie up and down, feigning bossiness. “Come on, five minutes in my
dressing room. I want to see you in a gown. You’re not in one of those Scotland
Yard morgues now—it’s a party!”

If it had been anyone but Priscilla, Maisie would have
been offended, but on this occasion, she nodded and laughed. “Oh, all right,
let’s get it over with.”

Fifteen minutes later, after Priscilla had pulled out
four gowns for her to choose from, Maisie came downstairs to renew her entrance
to the party wearing a gown of deep purple silk that reflected the color of her
eyes. The boat neckline and hem were embellished with bands of sequins, as were
the cuffs, which came to a point across the back of each hand. The dress was
narrow to the hip, where a sequined seam sat above a fuller skirt that fell in
soft folds to the floor. Maisie wore a pair of Priscilla’s diamond teardrop
earrings, and was relieved that she took the same size shoes as her friend,
because she was now wearing a pair of black satin pumps with a low heel.

“Now then,” said Priscilla. “Let’s introduce you.”

For the next hour, Maisie was introduced to guest
after guest, always with Priscilla at her side, and always presented as “My
dear friend Maisie,” or “This is my bestest ever chum, Maisie Dobbs.”

The dancing continued on, and though Maisie was weary,
she took to the dance floor several times and found that as the music played,
so her fatigue was beaten back. After thanking the gentleman who had asked for
what she hoped might be her last dance, she went again in search of Priscilla,
moving through the waves of people before reaching the bar. She always knew she
would find Priscilla close to the bar.

“May I have a large glass of water, please? And some
ice, if you have any left.”

The waiter poured water from a crystal jug into a
glass, which he passed to Maisie. She drank half the liquid and then turned to
her left, where Priscilla had her back to her and was regaling one of the
guests with stories of Biarritz. She tapped Priscilla on the shoulder.

“Oh, Maisie, are you having a lovely time?”

“Yes, I am—and I seem to be holding up against the
onslaught of sleep.”

“Good girl, not long now until breakfast is served.
The spread is being set up in the morning room even as we speak.”

“Pris, what’s your New Year’s resolution?” Maisie
asked the question, drank the remaining water, and set her glass on the bar.

“That came out of the blue,” said Priscilla.

“And what is it?”

Priscilla nodded to the waiter, who brought her
another glass of champagne. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it tomorrow.” She
took a sip from her glass. “You look as if you are about to tell me what it
should be.”

“Come with me, Pris.” Maisie took her friend’s glass
and placed it on another waiter’s tray as he passed.