Among the Mad (3 page)

Turning to her assistant, she saw the old man inside
the young. What age was he now? Probably just a little older than herself, say
in his mid-thirties, perhaps thirty-seven? There were times when the Billy who
worked for her was still a boy, a Cockney lad with reddish-blond hair half
tamed, his smile ready to win the day. Then at other times, the weight of the
world on his shoulders, his skin became gray, his hair lifeless, and his
lameness—the legacy of a wartime wound—was rendered less manageable. Those were
the times when she knew he walked the streets at night, when memories of the
war flooded back, and when the suffering endured by his family bore down upon
him. The events of today had opened his wounds, just as her own had been
rekindled. And instead of the warmth and succor of his family, Billy would
encounter only more reason to be concerned for his wife, for their children,
and their future. And there was only so much Maisie could do to help them.

“Why don’t you go home now, Billy.” She reached into
her purse and pulled out a note. “Buy Doreen some flowers on the way, and some
sweets for the boys—it’s Christmas Eve, and you have to look after one
another.”

“You don’t need to do that, Miss—look at the bonus,
that’s more than enough.”

“Call it danger money, then. Come on, take it and be
on your way.”

“And you’ll be all right?”

“I’m much better now, so don’t you worry about me.
I’ll be even better when I get on the road to Chelstone. My father will have a
roaring fire in the grate, and we’ll have a hearty stew for supper—that’s the
best doctoring I know.”

“Right you are, Miss.” Billy pulled on his overcoat,
placed his flat cap on his head, and left with a wave and a “Merry Christmas!”

As soon as Maisie heard the front door slam shut when
Billy walked out into the wintry afternoon, she made her way along the corridor
to the lavatory, her hand held against the wall for support. She clutched her
stomach as sickness rose up within her and knew that it was not only the
pounding headache and seeing a man kill himself that haunted her, but the
sensation that she had been watched. It was as if someone had touched her
between her shoulder blades, had applied a cold pressure to her skin. And she
could feel it still, as she walked back to the office, as if those icy fingertips
were with her even as she moved.

Sitting down at her desk, she picked up the black
telephone receiver and placed a telephone call to her father’s house. She hoped
he would answer, for Frankie Dobbs remained suspicious of the telephone she’d
had installed in his cottage over two years ago. He would approach the
telephone, look at it, and cock his head to one side as if unsure of the
consequences of answering the call. Then he would lift the receiver after a few
seconds had elapsed, hold it a good two inches from his ear and say, with as
much authority as he could muster, “Chelstone three-five-double two—is that
you, Maisie?” And of course, it was always Maisie, for no one else ever
telephoned Frankie Dobbs.

“That you, Maisie?”

“Of course it is, Dad.”

“Soon be on your way, I should imagine. I’ve a nice
stew simmering, and the tree’s up, ready for us to decorate.”

“Dad, I’m sorry, I won’t be driving down until
tomorrow morning. I’ll leave early and be with you for breakfast.”

“What’s the matter? Are you all right, love?”

She cleared her throat. “Bit of a sore throat. I
reckon it’s nothing, but it’s given me a headache and there’s a lot of sickness
going round. I’m sure I’ll be all right tomorrow.”

“I’ll miss you.” No matter what he said, when it was
into the telephone receiver, Frankie shouted, as if his words needed to reach London with only the amplification his voice could provide. Instead of a soft endearment,
it sounded as if he had just given a brusque command.

“You too, Dad. See you tomorrow then.”

MAISIE RESTED FOR a while longer, having dragged her
chair in front of the gas fire and turned up the jets to quell her shivering.
She placed another telephone call, to the client with whom she and Billy were
due to meet this morning, then rested again, hoping the dizziness would subside
so that she felt enough confidence in her balance to walk along to Tottenham
Court Road and hail a taxi-cab. As she reached for her coat and hat, the bell
above the door rang, indicating that a caller had come to the front entrance.
She gathered her belongings, and was about to turn off the lights, when she
realized that, in the aftermath of today’s events, Billy had forgotten the box
of gifts for his family. She turned off the fire, settled her document case on
top of the gifts and switched off the lights. Then, balancing the box against
her hip, she locked her office and walked with care down the stairs leading to
the front door, which she pulled open.

“I thought you might still be here.” Richard Stratton
removed his hat as Maisie opened the door.

She turned to go back up to the office. “Oh, more
questions so soon?”

He reached forward to take the box, and shook his
head. “Oh, no, that’s not it . . . well, I do have more questions, but that’s
not why I’m here. I thought you looked very unwell. You must be concussed—and
you should never underestimate a concussion. I left Caldwell in Charlotte Street and came back. Come on, my driver will take you home, however, we’re making
a detour via the hospital on the way—to get that head of yours looked at.”

Maisie nodded. “I think you’ve been trying to get my
head looked at for some time, Inspector.”

He held open the door of the Invicta for her to step
inside the motor car. “At least you weren’t too knocked out to quip, Miss
Dobbs.”

As they drove away, Maisie looked through the window
behind her, her eyes scanning back and forth across the square, until her
headache escalated and she turned to lean back in her seat.

“Forgotten something?”

“No, nothing. It’s nothing.”

Nothing except the feeling between her shoulder blades
that had been with her since this morning. It was a sense that someone had seen
her reach out to the doomed man, had seen their eyes meet just before he pulled
the pin that would ignite the grenade. Now she felt as if that same someone was
watching her still.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, foolish man. I should have
known, should have sensed he was on the precipice. I never thought the idiot
would take his own life. Fool. He should have waited. Had I not told him that
we must bide our time? Had I not said, time and again, that we should temper
our passion until we were heard, until what I knew gave us currency? Now the
only one who knows is the sparrow. An ordinary gray little thing who comes each
day for a crumb or two. He knows. He listens to me, waits for me to tell him my
plans. And, oh, what plans I have. Then they will all listen. Then they’ll
know. I’ve called him Croucher. Little sparrow Croucher, always there,
sing-song Croucher, never without a smile. I have a lot to tell him today.

The man closed his diary and set down his pencil. He
always used pencil, sharpened with a keen blade each morning and evening, for
the sound of a worn lead against paper, the surrounding wood touching the
vellum, scraping back and forth for want of sharpening, set his teeth on edge,
made him shudder. Sounds were like that. Sounds made their way into your body,
crawled along inside your skin. Horses’ hooves on wet cobblestones, cart wheels
whining for want of oil, the crackle and snap as the newspaper boy folded the
Daily Sketch. Thus he always wrote using a pencil with a long, sharp but soft
lead, so he couldn’t hear his words as they formed on the page.

TWO

Faced with advice to go home and rest, and knowing
that it would be foolish to embark upon a long drive following a diagnosis of
concussion, Maisie revised her plans and decided to travel on the train to Kent that very evening, given that trains would not run to Chelstone on Christmas Day. It
would be a surprise for her father, who now did not expect her until Christmas
morning. First, though, she wanted to ensure that Billy’s boys received their
gifts, so upon arrival back at her flat, she loaded the box into the MG and
drove with care across London to Shoreditch. The city was wet, with an
unyielding quality of gray light that made the words Merry Christmas seem
hardly worth saying. In poorer parts of London, the soup kitchens had been
busy, and rations had been distributed to those for whom the festive season was
another reminder of what it was to want. Yet in some windows red candles burned
a white-gold flame, as the occupants attempted to uplift spirits and reflect
the season.

She pulled up outside Billy’s house and was not
surprised to see a Christmas tree lit with candles and paper chains framing the
window. Silhouettes in the parlor suggested the family was gathered there to
decorate the tree. As she walked to the door with the box of gifts, she heard a
raised voice coming from the parlor, and wondered if she should not have come.

“Don’t you touch those presents. They’re for Lizzie. I
bought them ’specially for a little girl, so don’t you dare touch your sister’s
things.”

A child began to cry. Maisie thought it was probably
Bobby, the youngest son. She was about to turn away, when she heard Billy, the
eldest boy, shout out to his father.

“Miss Dobbs’ motor car’s outside. Quick, let’s have a
look at it, Bobby!”

And before she could leave the box of gifts on the
step and turn back to the MG, the front door opened.

“Aw, Miss, you shouldn’t’ve gone to all that trouble,
what with you not feeling well and all.” Billy stood on the doorstep without a
jacket, his shirt collar and tie removed and his sleeves rolled up.

“Is them for us?” Young Billy’s eyes lit up when he
saw the packages wrapped in Christmas paper.

“Yes, they’re for you, Billy—and for your brother too!
Merry Christmas!”

“Come on in, Miss, and have a cuppa with us before you
go.”

“Oh, no, you’re all busy and—”

“Doreen and me won’t hear of it, not after you
bringing all this for the boys.” Billy stood back to allow Maisie to come into
the passageway, and then opened the door to the parlor. “Doreen, it’s Miss
Dobbs.”

Maisie tried to hide her dismay when she saw Doreen
Beale standing close to the Christmas tree, clutching a child’s threadbare toy
lamb to her heart. Her hair was drawn back, which accentuated sallow skin that
had sunk into her face, and cheekbones that seemed to jut out from under her
eyes. The cardigan she was wearing was soiled at the cuffs and her dress had
some dried food on the front. Though Billy and his wife were working hard to
put money by for passage to Canada, and what they hoped would be a new life,
they were proud people, and Doreen was especially meticulous when it came to
keeping the family’s clothing clean and pressed, no matter how old it might be,
or how many owners it might have had before.

“It’s lovely to see you, Doreen.” Maisie approached
her and placed her hand on the woman’s arm. “How are you keeping?”

She looked at Maisie’s hand as if she could not quite
fathom who this visitor might be, and how her arm had become thus burdened.
Then, her eyes filling with tears, she beamed a smile filled with hope. “Have
you brought a present for my little girl? She loves her dolls, you know, and
her lamb. Did you bring her something?”

Maisie looked around at Billy, who set the box of
gifts under the tree, and came to his wife, placed his arm around her and began
to lead her to the kitchen.

“Let’s go and put the kettle on for Miss Dobbs, eh,
Doreen? Let’s have a nice cup of tea, then we can all sit down and look at the
tree.”

“All right, Billy. I’ll be better when I’ve had a cup
of tea.”

Billy returned to the parlor. Now that he was not
wearing his jacket, as he did at all times in the office, Maisie realized that
he too had lost weight.

“Sorry, Miss, she’s having a bit of a turn. All the
excitement of putting up the tree, I suppose. And—as you know—it’s coming up to
a year ago that we lost our little Lizzie. Apparently, it does this sort of
thing, an anniversary.”

Maisie wanted to ask questions, wanted to know how she
might be able to help, but this was Christmas, and she knew Billy would want to
settle his children and his wife, so the family might have a calm day tomorrow.

“I’d better be off, Billy. I’ve got to get down to Kent, and I’m taking the train—don’t want to drive down, not with this bump on the back of
my head.”

“Oh, Miss, and you drove over here for us.” He turned
to his boys, who were silent and watching, and as Maisie could see, were fully
aware of their mother’s plight. “What do you say to Miss Dobbs?”

They echoed thanks, and Maisie said they could each
sit in the driver’s seat of the MG for a minute or two, then she had to leave.
And as she drove away, Maisie looked back and saw Billy standing on the
doorstep, one boy held to him, the other clutching his hand. The children waved
and then the three turned and went inside the house.