Among the Mad (34 page)

“So what are you saying, Miss Dobbs?”

“That there are others like our man. Most of them will
never do what he has done, but others will be moved to do something. They might
cut themselves off from those who love them, they might be cast out by
relatives to live on the streets, or they could be alone, as alone as they have
always been. They might take their own lives, because what is in their minds
cannot be borne a second longer, or they could make their families’ lives a
misery, with jagged moods keeping everyone on tenterhooks as they try to
placate the demon inside the man. They might have a short temper, followed by a
time of regret, of extreme affection. They could be drinkers, or resort to
narcotics to ease mental and physical anguish. Or they might just exist, until
they die.”

“But somewhere,” said MacFarlane, “there’s a man who
is a time bomb, who wants to be seen and heard.”

“Yes.”

“And that man may sooner or later cause damage on a
bigger scale.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“And we’ll never know who he is until it happens.”

The three were silent for some moments, each alone
with their thoughts.

MacFarlane slapped his knees and stood up. “Well, this
will never get the eggs cooked. Come on, Stratton, we’d better get back to the
Yard.”

Maisie came to her feet. “You traveled all this way
for such a short meeting?”

“We thought it best to come to see you personally with
the news,” said MacFarlane. “And we wanted to discuss the outcome with you—and
not on the telephone.”

Stratton shrugged. “And I think we’ve got a lot more
to chew on now.”

Maisie nodded. “I do have one more thought.”

“And what might that be?” MacFarlane raised his
eyebrows.

“Bring in Catherine Jones to identify the body, just
to make sure. I know you’ve already heard from a very credible source, but I’d
be interested to know whether the man in the morgue is the same man she saw and
spoke to at one of the meetings, the one she told me about.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. I’ll see what can be
done. Thank you, Miss Dobbs.”

“Thank you for coming, Chief Superintendent, Inspector
Stratton. Let me see you out.”

Frankie came to the sitting room upon hearing the door
open and the company bid their farewells. Both Stratton and MacFarlane shook
his hand again, and as they left, MacFarlane informed Maisie that they would be
in contact if she was to be consulted again, though her presence at the inquest
would be required.

As the black Invicta made its way toward Chelstone’s
main gate, Maisie watched the rear lights become smaller and smaller.

“Come on, love, let’s sit by the fire now, eh?”
Frankie was solicitous in his tone, setting his hand on Maisie’s shoulder with
a gentle touch, as if to apply greater pressure would hurt her.

“It’s all right, Dad. Don’t worry—I’m all right.”

But Frankie remembered the early days of Maisie’s
recovery, after she came home from France in 1917. And still fresh in his mind
was her breakdown during a return journey to France just fifteen months
earlier. Even though she seemed more at peace now than at other times in recent
years, he often found it best to move with care around his daughter, as a
person might negotiate an unknown path in the dark.

EIGHTEEN

January 3rd, 1932

As sometimes happened following a visit to Kent, the
city had a chill to it that went beyond a sense of the air outside. Though
Maisie loved her flat in Pimlico, there was a warmth to her father’s cottage,
to being at Chelstone, that made her feel cocooned and safe. And she felt
wanted. The flat was hers to do with as she wished, and to do exactly as she
pleased within those walls, but sometimes she felt it still held within it the
stark just-moved-in feeling that signaled the difference between a house and a
home. Of course, it still was not fully furnished, and there were no ornaments
displayed—a vase, perhaps, that a visitor might comment upon and the hostess
would say, “Oh, that was a gift, let me tell you about it . . . ” There were no
stories attached to the flat—but how could there be, when she was always alone
in her home. There were no family photographs, no small framed portraits on the
mantelpiece over the fire in the sitting room as there were at her father’s
house. She thought the flat would be all the better for some photographs, not
only to serve as reminders of those who were loved, or reflections of happy
times spent in company, but to act as mirrors, where she might see the
affection with which she was held by those dear to her. A mirror in which she
could see her connections.

Maisie went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She
rarely kept much in the way of food in the flat, for fear that it might spoil
during the long days of her work. The pot of soup made on a Sunday night would
set her up for a few suppers at least, and sometimes she would bring home fish
and chips, which she would eat from the newspaper, not seeing the point in
setting the table just for one. And except for the times she joined Priscilla
and her family for the evening meal, she was alone. Most of the time, though,
she was not lonely, just on her own, an unmarried woman of independent means,
even when the extent of the means—or lack thereof—sometimes gave her cause to
remain awake at night. She knew the worries that came to the fore at night were
the ones you had to pay attention to, for they blurred reasoned thought, sucked
clarity from any consideration of one’s situation, and could lead a mind around
in circles, leaving one drained and ill-tempered. And if there was no one close
with whom to discuss those concerns, they grew in importance in the
imagination, whether they were rooted in good sense or not.

Having taken her cup of tea while sitting on the floor
in front of the fire with a copy of The Times spread out in front of her,
Maisie recognized that she was restless. Yet again, the case concerning the man
who was not Stephen Oliver began invading her thoughts. To a point, she had
accepted that he might never be identified. In fact, as it stood, chance
favored such an incomplete conclusion. But she wasn’t so sure, and could not
draw back from a curiosity about the man’s state of mind, and how he might have
felt in the months leading up to the attack on the dogs. And more than
anything, she wondered if one could take leave of one’s senses, even if one had
no previous occasions of mental incapacity, simply by being isolated from
others. Is that what pushed the man over the edge of all measured thought? Were
his thoughts so distilled, without the calibrating effect of a normal life led
among others, that he ceased to recognize the distinction between right and
wrong, between good and evil, or between having a voice and losing it? And if
that were so, might an ordinary woman living alone with her memories, with her
work, with the walls of her flat drawing in upon her, be at some risk of not
seeing the world as it is?

She shook her head and stood up, pacing in front of
the fireplace. Then, with barely a moment’s thought, Maisie ran to the hallway,
took her coat and hat from the stand, picked up her keys, and left the flat to
walk to the telephone kiosk close to her home. She stepped inside, lifted the
receiver, slipped coins into the slot, and dialed a number. As she waited for
the connection, she wiped condensation from the panes of glass with the back of
her begloved hand. She did not care to be in such a small space without being
able to see outside, even if she could see only darkness.

“The Partridge Residence.”

“May I speak with Mrs. Partridge?”

“One moment, please. May I say who’s calling?”

Maisie gave her name, suspecting the housekeeper had
almost added, “At this time of night.”

“Maisie, darling, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Priscilla, I’ve just arrived back at the flat and was
thinking about your party, and how little we’ve seen each other lately—and we
didn’t get that much time for a good talk at the party, did we? I wonder, are
you at home tomorrow? Perhaps I could drop in for elevenses—will you be there?”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, fine . . . no, nothing wrong with me.
Elevenses, then?”

Maisie thought she could hear Priscilla smiling.
Priscilla was given to dramatic pauses in conversation, pauses that extended to
her use of the telephone. Maisie had always maintained that a caller could hear
the expression on her friend’s face.

“Of course, that’s splendid news—do come. I feel as if
I’ve caught some of the crumbs falling off the table when you come to visit.
You won’t change your mind, will you?”

“Am I really that bad?”

“Well, you do get a bit carried away with that work of
yours. But I’m glad you’ll come—we might even pop out to the shops. January
sales. Time for that?”

“Yes, I think I might have time. See you tomorrow,
Priscilla.”

Maisie set the receiver back on its cradle, pulled up
her collar, and set off into the night again, this time with a warmth in her
heart as she thought about seeing Priscilla the next day.

January 4th, 1932

“All right, Billy, so as I said, you should leave by
eleven to go to the Clifton—didn’t they say Doreen would be arriving there at
twelve?”

“That’s what they thought, yes.” Billy paused, a frown
creasing his forehead. “Look, Miss, are you sure? I mean, I’ve had a lot of
time off lately, so I expect to see it docked from my wage packet.”

Maisie shook her head. “We’ve had a good month, and
the Scotland Yard bill will set us in good stead. It was a nice start to the
year—financially, that is. And Doreen being at the Clifton will make it easy
for evening visiting, won’t it, though I am sure Dr. Masters has some advice
about not overtaxing Doreen.”

“I’m going to be talking to her about that today,
Miss.”

“Good, now—”

Maisie was interrupted by the telephone ringing.

“Fitzroy—”

“Miss Dobbs.”

“Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane.”

“We’re having a bit of a tête-à-tête here today, what
you might call a postmortem on the investigation in which your assistance
proved to be invaluable. Would you care to join us at, oh, eleven o’clock?”

“I’m sorry, Chief Superintendent, but I have a
previous engagement. Would two o’clock do?”

Billy looked across at his employer.

“We’ll do it this afternoon, then. See you at two.”

“Right you are, see you then.”

Maisie rolled her eyes as she replaced the receiver.
“That man was definitely being sarcastic. ‘In which your assistance proved to
be invaluable.’” She recounted the conversation to Billy.

“Sounds like you put him in his place, Miss.”

Maisie shrugged. “I’ve an important engagement this
morning, and did not want to cancel it for MacFarlane or any other client. Not
this time.”

MAISIE SAT AT one end of the sofa in Priscilla’s
sitting room. Her friend had taken the other, so they resembled bookends, both
with shoes kicked off and their legs folded to the side.

“ . . . and before you arrived, the funny bit was when
Tinker Osborne—do you know him? Bit of a lark, I must say, though if you read
him in Punch, you would wonder why the government hasn’t had him done away
with—anyway, as I was saying, the funny thing was when he thought he could
balance a bottle of champers on his nose. Normally that sort of thing just
bores me rigid, but you should have seen him, tottering all over the place,
especially as he came with that crashing bore Judith Burton, you know, the
daughter of, oh, what is his name—yes, the architect, Otto Burton.”

Maisie smiled, though she could not imagine finding
Tinker Osborne in the slightest bit amusing.

“It was a good New Year, Priscilla.”

“All in all, not a bad one. Of course, predictably, I
glanced up at the staircase as the hour approached, only to see my three
toads—in pajamas, mind—sitting on the stairs and watching everything through
the banister. I nudged Douglas and he waved them down, so they joined us for
the celebrations and even had a little tipple each—won’t hurt them, a little
drop of champers. No wonder they were asleep by the time you arrived.”

Maisie nodded, watching Priscilla as she sipped the
last of her coffee and set her cup and saucer on the side-table before glancing
over toward the drinks cabinet.

“How are you feeling now? I’ve been worried about you
since you came to my office.”