Among the Mad (20 page)

“I beg your pardon, however—”

“However,” Maisie continued, aware that she may have
sounded overprotective, “I do indeed have a sense of our letter-writer.”

“And would you care to let me have a glimpse of your
sense?”

Maisie rested her forearms on the desk. “Mr. Urquhart,
your manner has done nothing to endear you to me, though I realize you did not
come here in search of my friendship. If it weren’t for the fact that I believe
we have little time to find the letter-writer—who has proven already that he
has the wherewithal to do the sort of damage to life that brings a chill to the
bone—I would not be continuing this little chin-wag. But we have no time to
lose. I will make no secret of the fact that I do not intend to wash my hands
of this case, even though I really do need to concentrate on work that brings
in an income.”

“We’ll pay for information.”

“Yes, you will.”

Urquhart took a deep breath and exhaled. “Miss Dobbs,
tell me what you know of this man we’re all after. We have our own specialists
working on this case, but we . . . we feel that you may have a greater
knowledge.”

Maisie leaned back and looked across at Billy, who
seemed to be on the edge of his seat as he followed the back-and-forth volley
of words. She stood up and walked from the desk to the middle of the room, then
walked back again. She continued pacing as she spoke. “The man we are looking
for has most probably been released from a secure institution during the past
two years, though there should be a margin for error—remember, this speculation
is not an exact science.” She paused to look out of the window, then began
walking back and forth again. “In general, such a man would most probably have
remained close to the institution in question, not making any significant moves
to another region, unless there were family there to receive him, so I think we
can expect him to have been previously in care in one of the London hospitals
for the mentally ill, or a home specifically for soldiers with a psychiatric or
emotional affliction. He is, I would say, poorly nourished, and has few, if any
friends. He has some difficulty with physical adroitness and most probably
suffers from night tremors and hallucinatory dreams. He is a haunted man.”

“How can he handle chemicals with volatile properties
if he has tremors and such like?” Urquhart was writing in a notebook, but
paused and looked up at Maisie as he asked the question.

“Training. I would say that this man has some sort of
training, perhaps as a chemist, an engineer, physicist. He might have been a
doctor. He is an educated man—though I suspect he might come from lowly
beginnings, and that there were other losses in his life. In my experience—and
I am sure you are fully apprised of my professional experience—the men who
suffered the most from the various war neuroses were those who had some
difficulties in childhood, though that is by no means prescriptive.”

She took her seat again, folding her arms as she faced
Urquhart and looked into his eyes. “He’s lonely, but at the same time is weary
of company, has barely the will to communicate with others. He might have one
friend, one person he trusts, but I am not sure. He feels disenfranchised. He
may have tried to get work, but was turned away—we might even assume he has
obvious wounds that are not attractive, scars and the like. He may be unable to
control spittle when he talks. There are many manifestations of psychological
wounds that are not pleasing to the eye, and those tics and so on are not
something that people want to see, or want their customers to be exposed to. If
you watch a man thus afflicted walk down the street, you will see the people
coming toward him part as a river divides when it reaches an island. It becomes
easier for him to go out after dark.”

Urquhart was silent for several moments. “This means
going through a lot of records. And what if he’s moved in from somewhere else?”

Maisie sighed. “I didn’t say this was a certain bet.
It’s a template, an idea rooted in my own understanding of the gamut of war
neuroses, and also in the conversations I’ve had with experts at two
hospitals.”

“And they don’t recognize the description you’ve given
us?” Urquhart leaned back in his chair, resting his arm along the back of a
vacant chair next to him.

“The description I’ve given you could probably match
hundreds of men still held in asylums, but, to answer your question—no, they
don’t, not specifically, otherwise I am sure we would have the person in a cell
by now.”

“Do you think he might be part of one of these
troublemaking organizations—the unions, the Fascists? Sounds like he would be
drawn to them.”

“I believe he is a solitary person, one who would not
be welcomed into such company. But he might have tried to join, perhaps while
looking for a suitable vehicle for his discomfort, his anger.”

“So he might be in with one of these mobs of
anarchists?”

“He could. Perhaps.” She drew back from the desk and
leaned into her chair. “His body might also be disfigured. A curvature of the
spine, lameness, and it might come and go, so he may well be listed as having
physical disability.”

“Blimey, we’ll be going through records from now to
kingdom come!”

“Yes, you’re right, it may take a while.” Maisie
picked up a pencil on the table and tapped it on her palm.

“And you’ve nothing else to add? Names?”

“No, no names for you. I am sure you have contacts at
the psychiatric hospitals and you can have your men in there faster than I can
visit all of them.”

Billy cleared his throat. “I’ll see you downstairs,
then, Mr. Urquhart.”

Urquhart stood up and extended his hand toward Maisie,
who remained seated.

“I trust you’ll contact me should you acquire
knowledge that will help us.”

“I have made the same promise to MacFarlane, so I must
trust that he will inform you of all useful information that comes his way.”

Urquhart walked to the door, where Billy was standing
ready to escort him to his motor car. He turned to Maisie as he set his hat on
his head. “You’ll hear from Robbie MacFarlane again, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Before Maisie could respond, he left the room and was
gone. Billy looked at Maisie and raised his eyebrows, then followed Urquhart
down the stairs and returned as the motor pulled away.

“The cheek of it!” Maisie came to her feet.

“Bet you’re glad he’s gone, Miss.”

“If he’d remained one second longer, I would have
boxed his ears.”

“He was a bit familiar, wasn’t he? It’s not on to talk
about the Chief Superintendent like that.”

“There’s probably no love lost between Special Branch
and Section Five.”

“You gave him a lot of information, I thought.”

Maisie reached for the telephone. “I can’t, ethically,
withhold information. We’re under the gun, simply as people who live in
London.”

“You think it’s that bad?”

Holding the telephone receiver in one hand, Maisie flicked
through a series of index cards. “Yes, I do. We have to keep looking, even if
we aren’t being paid.”

“Oh, I think there will be something for us.”

Maisie rested the receiver back in its cradle. “What
do you mean?”

“Well, I think Urquhart had a point. If you don’t mind
me saying so, I think the Chief Superintendent has taken a bit of a shine to
you—I could see it myself. He won’t see you go short.”

“That’s enough of that sort of speculation, Billy. Now
then, where was I? Oh, yes . . . ” She reached for the telephone once again,
but it rang as her fingers touched the receiver.

“Fitzroy five—”

“Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie turned away from Billy. “Chief Superintendent.
What can I do for you?”

“Our little Catherine the chemist says she wants to
see you again. Could you come back to the Yard? I can have a motor car pick you
up.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll come straightaway
by taxi-cab.” She replaced the receiver and turned back to Billy, and spoke to
him while keeping her head down as she leafed through papers on her desk.

“I have to go to Scotland Yard immediately, and I am
not sure how long I’ll be.”

“What do you want me to do, Miss?”

She looked up, now with less of a blush to her
complexion. “First job—review all current client work in progress, see where we
are, and make sure we have something to report to our clients. We can’t afford
to lose business. Next—compile a list of every single psychiatric hospital or
convalescent home in London. I’d like to know how we can get a roster of
patients who’ve been discharged over the course of the past two years.” She
took a key from her shoulder bag and opened the bottom drawer of her desk.
Taking out an envelope, she removed several pound notes and held them out to
Billy. “You may need this to ease the flow of information.”

“Right you are, Miss. Meet back here at the usual
time?” He held out Maisie’s blue woolen coat for her.

“Of course. See you later.” She smiled as she left the
room, but called back as she ran downstairs, “And, Billy, don’t wait if I seem
to be taking a long time. You should go home.”

Billy walked to the window to watch Maisie run down
the steps and toward Warren Street Station, then he turned to the bank of
wooden drawers that held the collection of index cards. There was much to be
accomplished before he saw his employer again.

AS MAISIE APPROACHED Scotland Yard, she counted four
police vehicles screeching away from the curb, bells ringing as both motor and
horse-drawn traffic pulled aside to let them pass.

“Oh, no . . . ” she spoke the words aloud as she ran
toward the main entrance, only to almost collide with MacFarlane, Stratton and
Darby as they left the building.

“Excellent timing, Miss Dobbs.” He pointed to an
idling black motor car. “There’s been another attack. We’ll brief you on the
way.”

Maisie took a seat alongside the passenger window,
while MacFarlane sat next to her and Stratton and Darby took the pull-down
seats to face them.

“Has anyone been killed?” Maisie knew that this time
the stakes would be ratcheted up a notch, that human life would be at risk.

“Yes. A junior minister with the Home Office, at his
flat on Gower Street. They’re cordoning off the street now and my instructions
are not to touch the body. Sir Bernard Spilsbury and his cohorts have been
called.”

“Do we know the cause of death?”

“He was found by a housekeeper, and from the
description—oh, merciful God help us . . . ” MacFarlane closed his eyes and
pressed his lips together as if in prayer. Both Stratton and Darby looked away,
mirroring each other’s unease.

“What has he used this time, Chief Superintendent?”
Maisie thought she knew the answer, even before it was spoken.

“I can’t fathom how he’s done it, but from the
description we’ve received, it has all the hallmarks of mustard gas.”

Maisie felt the color drain from her cheeks, her hands
become cold and damp, but she recovered quickly given the urgent circumstances.
“Not only must we not touch the body, but people should be evacuated until we
know the extent of possible exposure. And no one else should go into that
building without protective clothing—gowns, gloves and masks.”

“Don’t worry—I’ll get on to it as soon as we’re
there,” said Stratton. “I’ll have someone procure gowns and whatever else we
need from the hospital.”

MacFarlane was still deep in thought, talking as much
to himself as to the group. “Could someone, an ordinary person, not only
develop such a substance, but bring it to a private address and then kill
another person with it?”

Maisie responded. “It would be a difficult task, but
not insurmountable, especially for someone trained in the handling of volatile
matter. Until we have a laboratory analysis we don’t even know if it is mustard
gas—it might be something completely new, or certain compounds might have been
used to leave clues to tempt the olfactory system into thinking it is something
known.”

“But now he isn’t even giving us the time he stated in
his last letter—you’ve got forty-eight hours here, a day there, and it feels as
if every day he’s throwing out more proof that he can run rings around us. How
does he do it? There must be a gang, a crew. One man could not pull off this
sort of murder—that’s what it is, murder.”

“He may have no concept of time. The deadlines quoted
in the threats are just what comes into his head.” She turned to face
MacFarlane. “You see, this man is just existing in his everyday life. He may
not be aware of passing time except in the vacuum that is his world. There is
only one point of control, and that is in this ability to work with chemicals.”

“And it’s not little Catherine Jones, is it, Miss
Dobbs?”

“Not unless she can creep out of your cells in the
middle of the morning.”

“I apologize if . . . ”

Maisie was aware of Stratton and Darby exchanging
glances and directed her next question to ensure they were included. “Inspector
Darby, do you agree with my speculation regarding our man?”