Among the Mad (37 page)

NINETEEN

January 5th, 1932

Maisie wished it were closer to the week’s end, so
that she could pack her bags and drive down to Kent. She was fed up with London
and was feeling a blend of frustration, anger and deep sadness every time she
thought of Stephen Oliver and those like him, men who would only ever see life
through a lens of instability. The war had been at the root of their distress,
and for so many of those who came home—including Priscilla and herself—war
dogged them still. And there was little or nothing she could do to help—unless
she went back to nursing, but those times were behind her now. She had always
felt that in her role as a psychologist and investigator, she had a part to
play in the healing of those touched by crime and injustice. Maurice Blanche
had instructed her in what he termed the “forensic science of the whole
person,” an inquiry that went beyond a dissection of the body and demanded
engagement in a deeper investigation into the life of a person, who may be
either the victim or the perpetrator of a crime. Every time she thought of
Stephen Oliver, she could not help but wonder how much of his distress could
have been avoided, and how much was caused by men who were hungry for his
knowledge, who would sap him until there was nothing left, until he was all but
invisible.

But the fact remained that it was Tuesday and not the
end of the week, so after sitting with Billy to go through other current cases,
and to look at one or two inquiries regarding her services that had been
received since the turn of the year, she knew it was time to begin the process
she referred to as her “final accounting.” This accounting did not require her
to add or subtract rows of numbers, but rather to look back at a case and
consider what had happened, person by person, event by event, and then to close
the book so that work on new cases might begin with renewed energy. Indeed, it
bore a resemblance to the passing of the old year, when one took stock of what
had passed and started anew on New Year’s Day, filled with determination and looking
forward to what might come next.

Having given Anthony Lawrence due consideration, she
realized that she could not let her previous regard for his work slide into the
quicksand of recent experience. She had no knowledge of what had passed between
Lawrence, Gale and the men of Military Intelligence, Section Five, but she knew
that she could not burn her bridges. His actions had surely been directed by
ambition and a professional curiosity, for even though he was a doctor, he was
also a scientist, his area of expertise the geography of the human mind.

She took up her pen and began to write a letter to
Lawrence. It was not a long communiqué, but spoke of her regard for his work,
her appreciation for what he tried to accomplish with the men under his care, and
how much she hoped his book would bring him the acclaim he deserved. She did
not say that she thought he must have learned much from Stephen Oliver, and
would continue to owe him a debt. Nor did she say that she thought his
association with Urquhart ill-considered, as she suspected he may have had
little choice. As her pen wavered toward the end of the letter, she wondered
how she might refer to the previous day’s heated exchanges without apology. She
regretted neither her words nor her accusations, so puzzled over how she might
phrase a sentence that would reflect her sadness that there had been such a
level of discord, while also expressing that she felt betrayed by a level of
subterfuge that undermined the words: First, do no harm. Tapping her pen on the
desk, she wrote:

I am sure we will both reflect on the events of the
past weeks with regret, and with concern that there might have been a more
positive outcome. For my part, I believe there is much I can learn from what
has come to pass. I remember you to be a man who cared deeply for his patients,
and who always looked at what might have been done in this situation or that,
and I believe the case of Stephen Oliver has given us both pause to reconsider
how we could have conducted ourselves in our work in a different way, a way
that might have been better for all concerned . . .

Maisie tapped her pen once again, then finished the
letter with a note to the effect that she hoped that, when the body of Stephen
Oliver had served its purpose, there could be a respectful disposal of the
remains, and that she would like to pay her respects at that time. She asked
Lawrence if he would be so kind as to inform her when a service of cremation or
burial would take place.

With the envelope sealed, Maisie decided to walk to
the post office to mail the letter herself. Having struggled to find the
appropriate words, she thought it best to send the letter before she tore it
open, ripped up the pages and started again. Halfway along Warren Street, she
was drawn by the three golden spheres above the pawn shop and decided to drop
in to see if there were any inexpensive frames for sale. Pawn shops had been
doing brisk trade in recent months, with all manner of goods going up for sale
at knockdown prices. She peered though the window, then opened the door and
went in, the bell ringing to summon the proprietor.

“Miss Dobbs, keeping well?”

“Very well, Mr. Lombard, though it is a bit nippy out,
isn’t it?” She removed her gloves and unwound her scarf.

“Not going to get any better, if my rheumatism is
anything to go by.” He took out a handkerchief and rubbed his half-moon
glasses. “Looking for anything in particular, or just looking?”

Maisie laughed. “I’m not your best customer, am I? All
I ever do is poke around and never buy anything.”

“No charge for looking.”

“I’m actually after some smallish frames, for
photographs.”

The man shuffled around the counter to the front of
the shop, and began moving an assortment of items displayed on a bookcase—a
pair of binoculars, a geometry set, a collection of gentleman’s brushes, a
glove stretcher, a camera—before reaching for a trio of matching silver frames.

“Wait a minute.” Maisie came to his side and pointed
to the camera. “Is that easy to use?”

“Nearly new, that. Owner bought it in New York, then
came back to London and went bankrupt, if you can believe it.”

“Oh, I believe it.” She reached for the camera and
began studying it, turning it around with care.

“There’s a handy little book that came with it, and
rolls of film too. They’re all up there in a box. It’s called the Number Two C
Autographic Camera, and it’s got this thing that goes with it. They call it a
rangefinder, helps you out when people are standing a bit of a way off.” He
looked up toward the top shelf and squinted over his half-moon glasses, then
reached for a box. “See, it’s made by the Eastman Company. Lovely piece of
work, that.”

“But do you think I could operate it?”

“Have a look at this book—looks simple enough to me.”

Maisie studied the book, then opened the camera and
pulled out the bellows. “How much?”

“Well, reckon that cost a pretty penny when it was
first bought, you know. Let me have a look in the ledger.”

Mr. Lombard stepped behind the counter and opened a
thick ledger, running his finger down a list of entries. “What was the number
on the ticket, Miss Dobbs?”

“Seven hundred and fifty-three.”

“Here it is. Now let me see. Yes, I can let you have
that for thirty bob.”

“One pound ten?” She reached out to return the camera
to its place. “I don’t think I can run to that.”

“What about a guinea?”

“Fifteen bob?”

“Phew, that’s a bit of a difference, eh? A pound?”

“Seventeen and six if you add the frames.”

“You’ll see me poor, Miss Dobbs.”

She smiled and looked around at the contents of the
shop. “Oh no I won’t, Mr. Lombard. Not with this little earner you’ve got
here.”

The pawnbroker laughed as Maisie pulled a one-pound
note from her purse and set it on the counter. He packed up the camera along
with six rolls of red and yellow film, and the small instruction book, then
balanced the frames on top and gave Maisie her change. “You might be back for
more frames then?”

“I’m sure I will. Good-bye, Mr. Lombard.”

AS SOON AS SHE arrived back at the office, Maisie
penned another letter, this time to John Gale. She did not need to see the
professor again, but he was a friend of Maurice’s and he had been as fair as he
could in his dealings with her, so recognition of his time and expertise were
warranted. She found his work unsettling, but she thanked him for his time, and
his willingness to help her.

When she had finished with her letter writing and
other tasks, she gathered her document case and shoulder bag and the box
containing her new camera. Balancing the frames on top, she left the office and
collected her MG, which was parked in Fitzroy Street. But she wasn’t going back
to her flat. Despite the fact she had drawn back from visiting Lawrence and
Gale, there was one place she wanted to see again, to consider from afar,
before returning home. She started the motor and began driving out of London on
the Reading road.

She parked the MG on a hill overlooking Mulberry Point
in the distance, close to a sign that informed anyone passing that entry beyond
the barbed wire was forbidden, that the land was government property and that
trespassers would not only be taken to court, but could be shot. The wind
whipped around her as she stepped from the MG. Maisie counted ten or more huts
clustered together in the shallow valley, and she noticed that, to the left of
the compound, construction work was in progress. More building, more
laboratories in which to invent and test the weapons of war. She remained for a
while, considering Mulberry Point and wondering if spring itself might pause in
such a locale. Did birds fly overhead as the grass grew tall? And could flowers
bloom around a place where people’s minds were on the business of killing?
Where they worked toward the invention of a means of death less visible to the
naked eye, with no sound, unless one counted the screams of the poor souls who
were struck down.

January 6th, 1932

“How’s Doreen settling in at the Clifton, Billy?”
Maisie found that, increasingly, her first question of the morning was
regarding Billy’s family.

Billy set an enamel mug filled with hot tea on
Maisie’s desk, and picked up another for himself. He stood with his back to the
fire as he replied. “Not so bad, Miss. They drugged her up a bit for the ambulance,
so she’s been a bit wobbly on her pins. I only saw her the once, but I’m going
in on Saturday.”

“With the boys?”

“No, Dr. Masters says it’s best not to bring them yet,
though Doreen might be up for it the following weekend.”

“Has she spoken about treatment?”

“First of all she said they needed to stabilize her
diet. None of this milk-only lark, and no procedures—well, at least until she’s
been there for a bit, then we’ll have to see.”

Maisie nodded. “I’m going in to see Dr. Masters today.
Nothing to do with Doreen, though. I have to complete my final accounting, and
wanted to see her so that I can get on with drawing my work on this case to a
close.”

“Wonder if she’ll say anything about Doreen?” Billy
turned to face Maisie.

“She won’t tell me anything that she wouldn’t tell
you, Billy. Don’t worry, your Doreen is in very good hands now.”

“I know, I know, but . . . it was seeing her in that
other place, the way they strapped her down, the things they did to her when
she hadn’t even been there for five minutes.”

“But she’s away from Wychett Hill now, so you have to
get that particular institution out of your mind.” Maisie sipped her tea. “How
are the boys?”

“On the one hand they’re missing their mother, but on
the other, I think they’re scared of her coming home. My old mum has been a
diamond, coming in to help out, so they’ve been used to things being calmer, if
you know what I mean. But I worry about her, because even though it’s not far
for her to walk to ours, she’s not getting any younger.”

“Is Bobby still having trouble?”

“Not so much, not really. I did what you said, tried
not to draw attention to it, just kept him nice and dry. Bit of a job, in this
weather.”

Maisie looked out of the window and saw snow falling
again. “It doesn’t help matters, does it?” She turned her attention back to
Billy. “Don’t worry, you’re doing everything you can. It will be all right.”