Among the Mad

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Maisie reached out to shake Gale’s hand, then seated herself as instructed on a low slipper chair of red velvet set alongside a fireplace that could have benefited from a puff or two from the bellows. As if reading her mind, Gale knelt down in front of the fire and proceeded to blow on the smoldering embers to encourage a more active flame, then added more coal from the scuttle. He blew once or twice more, then came to his feet, taking the chair opposite her.

  “There, that’s better, soon have a roaring fire. I forget myself, you see—working on a paper for a meeting of physicists next week—and then I wonder why I’m cold. In any case, Maurice said you wanted to see me, that it had something to do with my work in the war.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m interested in the gases used in the war. I was a nurse, so I know the effects of various gases—chlorine, chlorine and phosgene, and of course, mustard gas—but I want to understand how the government responded to the attacks in the first instance. I understand you worked at Mulberry Point, and wonder if you could enlighten me.”

  “Not sure I should be talking about this, to tell you the truth. Mind you, it was a long time ago when I worked there full-time.”

  “But there’s still research in progress at Mulberry Point, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, of course. However, there’s more organization at the laboratories now. In my day it was like a bit of a bun fight, to tell you the truth. We were scrambling to find antidotes, in the first instance, and . . . you know, perhaps I should start at the beginning.”

  “Yes, please.”

  At that moment there was a knock on the door and the porter entered bearing a tray with tea for two and a plate of biscuits. Gale thanked him, and Maisie offered to pour tea while he continued his story.

  “The first attacks—with chlorine gas—were like a cosh on the back of the head to the military, took them completely unawares. They had to scramble, and scramble fast, to provide protection for the soldiers, and to find an antidote. The wounds from the gas were terrible, as you know; chlorine gas was just the beginning. Before you knew it, the military was crawling over every university in Britain, looking for the best and brightest physicists, chemists, biologists and engineers. They were effectively requisitioning people right, left and center.”

  “And you were one of them.”

  “Yes. I was still teaching because I have the most dreadful flat feet, so was passed over for military service. But not this time, not when it came to a different sort of part to play.” Gale looked into the fire as he dipped a biscuit into his tea, biting off the end just as it was about to drop. “I was drafted to join a special group who were sent straight to France. We were with doctors examining patients, we collected skin samples, cultures and what have you, and some of us returned home to the laboratories as soon as possible. The army took many of the best students, and for those who were left, this was their research. It was all a bit hit and miss, to tell you the truth.”

  Maisie watched Gale as he spoke, his eyes now fixed on a coal that had just fallen from the grate and was rolling close to the edge of the fender. He did not reach for the tongs to pick up the still-hot coal, but kept staring at its ashen glow.

  “I’d never seen anything like it. They’d taken over the casino in Le Touquet for the gas cases. It was hard to believe that the roulette wheels had been spinning just a year earlier, that men and women were laughing, playing blackjack and poker, placing their bets. Now all bets were off and the only thing you could hear was the wrenching sound of men screaming in pain as they died from their wounds, with gas-filled lungs, frothy and filled with a liquid that looked like the whites of eggs. Funny, I think the place was once called the Pleasure Pavilion, or something like that.”

  “What did you do? What was your job?”

  Gale shook his head as if the movement would banish the memories, and turned back to Maisie. “Well, I’m no doctor, but along with other scientists, I was taking samples, as I said, and was questioning those who could speak. We were desperate to know what they saw, what they smelled, what were their first symptoms.” He sighed and placed his cup and saucer on the tray. “It was the sort of thing that was never meant to happen. The Hague Declaration of 1899 clearly stipulated that poison gas was not to be used in a time of war, and there we were, groping in the dark for a solution, and the best advice we could come up with was to tell the men to hold urine-soaked cloths to the face when attacked by chlorine gas.”

  Maisie glanced at the clock, and asked another question. “Is that how you came to work at the War Department Experimental Ground at Mulberry Point?”

  “Yes, that’s it. The government bought three thousand or so acres of land, threw a fence around it and set us up in some huts. We had a gas chamber there, laboratories and various other facilities. And—between us—everyone who worked there, from the cleaning staff to the orderlies to the scientists and army personnel, we all became involved in the experiments. If you needed to run a test on a human being, you just called in one of the orderlies, or you tested on yourself. We had to get the job done, you see, there was no time to lose. And it may seem strange, but even with the daily tally of dead and missing in the papers, the press got wind of the fact that we’d used animals in our experiments and they kicked up a fuss. Not that we stopped, but you never knew how an antidote worked on a human being if you’d only ever used it on a dog, for example. Mind you, we wanted to test it on the dog before we moved on to the human, just in case.”

  “And you worked on weapons too?”

  “Can’t have one without the other.”

  Maisie was thoughtful. “Professor Gale, how easy would it be for an amateur to handle gas?”

  “Depends on the substance—the risk increases with the effects of the gas and with the level of volatility. However, generally speaking, I would say it would be very, very difficult. And with something such as mustard gas, well, it would be lunacy even to think about it. Simply being close to the body of a man killed by the gas can have you in suppurating blisters from stem to stern before you know it—in fact, I am sure you would have had to take precautions against such secondary wounds in the war.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Maisie nodded. “I understand you still work at the laboratories at Mulberry Point, and though I know your work must be subject to high levels of security, I wonder if you can tell me—and this has just occurred to me—how many people, do you think, took on this kind of work during the war? Tens? Hundreds? And are there many still at Mulberry Point who were there in 1918?”

  “I’m still there on and off, for a start, and of course some of the old team are still in situ. But they’re like me—it’s not my main job, if you know what I mean. This is my work, I am an academic. However, if in the course of my work I can come to the aid of my country, so be it. And to your question, the military scoured the universities, so you are talking about Oxford, Cambridge, Bristol, Durham, Birmingham, London, Edinburgh, Glasgow—every single seat of higher learning and research. Some students didn’t even know they were working for the war effort, but they were the best and brightest. Some were literally conscripted right there and then to join the Special Brigades, to spearhead our own chemical attacks over in France and Belgium. But yes, there were a fair number, and, of course, they’re all scattered now.”

  Maisie glanced at the clock again. “Professor Gale, I have taken a good deal of your time, and I think you have a lecture in about ten minutes.”

  Gale checked his fob-watch. “Oh dear, thank you for reminding me. Yes, I must be off now. Time and tide wait for no man, eh?”

  Maisie smiled and held out her hand. “Thank you so much for helping me with my inquiries.”

  Gale frowned. “I’m not sure I understand why you are making such inquiries—though I trust my old friend Maurice Blanche.”

  “And your trust is well placed. Good-bye, Professor Gale.” Having shaken hands in farewell, Maisie pulled on her gloves, waited as Gale opened the door for her, and said thank you again as
she left the room.

  Croucher came to see me. Croucher brought apples. He said a bit of fruit would do me good. He brought soup, bread, some cold meat, a packet of Brook Bond, so I can make myself a fresh pot of tea. And matches. He sat and talked for a bit, made me chuckle. Croucher’s like that, always was. Makes you have a bit of a laugh to yourself. The sparrow reminded me of Croucher, chirpy little fellow, wiry, quick about his business. Yes, Croucher looks after me. He went out for a sack of coal and made up my fire, kept me warm, for a bit. A bit of this, bit of that, bit of coal, only ever a little bit for a bit of a man. Yes, Croucher’s kind. Now he’s gone, though, and I’ve got to get on. Nothing’s come from the wireless, so it looks as if I’ll have to keep my word.

  The man set down his pen in the middle of his journal, closed the book around it and secured them together with the string. Pushing the book aside, he cleared the table and shuffled across to the cupboard, where he opened the door and with both hands removed a large, empty aquarium. He placed it on the table, went back for the metal lid he’d fashioned to fit like a glove, snug and tight, then made his way toward the back of the flat. Stopping to cough, a phlegmy cough that caused him to thump his chest to clear congestion, he remained still for some seconds before opening a splintered door that led to the postage stamp of a back garden. Once outside he turned to the side and spat out the yellow, blood-threaded debris that had issued from his lungs, then walked in a deliberate manner along the path to a cage-like construction with mesh netting. Inside, birds had been captured, and as the man opened a door and reached in, the sparrows, blue-tits, robins, pigeons and starlings scattered and squawked. He winced at the sound, grabbed a butterfly net leaning against the side of the cage and an old sack, and one by one he removed the birds. Soon there was no furious chirruping, not even aggression between the more dominant birds and those they considered lesser, only their muffled movements as he carried the closed sack into the flat. With care he emptied the birds into the glass aquarium set up on the table, and secured his catch inside with a tight metal lid. He had to be careful, even more careful than last time. He couldn’t afford a single mistake.

  SEVEN

  It was midafternoon by the time Maisie arrived back at her office in Fitzroy Square. Billy was already there, waiting for her.

  “Any news, Billy?” asked Maisie, as she unwound her scarf and hung it over the top of her coat on the hook behind the door. She walked to her desk and took out the narrow wad of index cards she had used to take notes during the return journey from Oxford to London. “Have you managed to locate Bert Shorter?”

  Billy’s chair scraped against the wooden floor beyond the carpet as he came to his feet. He approached her desk, his notebook in hand. “Yes, I have, and it turns out Mr. Shorter had seen the man in Charlotte Street before, but usually down in Soho Square. He said the man sat in the park, never with his cap out, but people would usually walk by and press a few coppers in his hand. Shorter told me he stopped to talk to him once, and that he was wounded in the war. He’d lost a leg and the other one wasn’t much good. He thought the man might have had a small pension, but not much of a life, as far as Bert could make out.”

  “Did he know his name?”

  “That’s the thing, he said he introduced himself to the man once, but didn’t really catch his name in return—reckons it might have been Ian. He said he was in a pretty bad way with his lungs, and that every now and again he wouldn’t be in his usual place for a month or so. Bert thought he might have been taken down to the coast, you know, like they do—I was taken once myself, when I got really bunged up in my chest.”

  “Then he must be known, must have a connection to a doctor or a hospital—perhaps he’s an outpatient somewhere.” Maisie rubbed her forehead. “I wonder if they would have missed him yet, if he’s a regular patient?” She looked up at Billy. “Did Bert have any idea where he lived?”

  “Remember, Bert was only surmising, so this is nothing definite, but he thought the man must’ve been local, perhaps living down in Soho—there’s a lot of boardinghouses down there. He probably had a pension, but I bet it didn’t amount to much. And it sounds like he couldn’t work, even if he could’ve found a job.”

  “So, we’ve got a man who might be named Ian, who could be living in Soho, crippled by his war wounds. Anything else about him that Bert might have noticed?”

  “He said he second-glanced him at first because he always had a book on him. Always reading.”

  “Did he see him with anyone, ever?”

  Billy nodded, licked his finger and turned over the pages of his notebook. “Saw him with a man once. Small fellow, well dressed—but not in a toff way, more in a clean way, very correct, everything pressed. Bit like you might see a doorman at one of them hotels up near Hyde Park, when he’s off duty and just leaving out the back door. The bloke was talking to him, ordinary, nothing strange, but went on his way when Bert came along with his horse and cart and Ian—or whatever his name is—waved at him.”

  “Let’s recap again. We’re talking about a man who might be called Ian, who could live in Soho—or anywhere between, say, Old Compton Street and Soho Square. ‘Ian’ suffered wounds to the legs and the respiratory system, and he liked to read. If he had a pension, it would not have been sufficient to cover the purchase of books, so he must have gone to a library. And if you remember, there was talk of him being on the number thirty-six bus from Lewisham. I think I might take a guess that that little piece of evidence has deflected us from narrowing down the search to find him and his place of domicile.”

  Maisie looked around at the clock. “Billy, I wonder how many lending libraries there are in Soho? Of course, Soho encompasses most of Charing Cross Road, so if we’re on the right track, he might have a contact in one of the bookshops.”

  “I think I know where there are two lending libraries.”

  “Right, you go straight there. Describe ‘Ian’ and see if you come up with anything. I’ll go to Charing Cross Road and visit each bookshop. I’ll meet you in the caff on Tottenham Court Road—you know the one, where they never say ‘I beg your pardon’ before they pick up your cup and saucer to wipe the table—at about, oh, half-past five?”

  Billy nodded. “Right you are, Miss.”

  STARTING AT THE TOP of Charing Cross Road, Maisie began to work her way down the street, going into each bookshop and engaging with the proprietor or assistant in a warm manner, before asking for a book recommended to her by her friend, Ian, who hadn’t been well of late. In W. & G. Foyle, Ltd., Maisie consulted the most recent catalogues, and lingered for a few moments to peruse the Solar Radiation and Physical Culture catalogue, which featured a rowing machine for forty-nine shillings and sixpence, a sum that Maisie thought amounted to highway robbery. She shrugged and moved on, inquiring in each department before leaving the shop.

  She had continued on her way down Charing Cross Road, and was about to lose faith in her plan—the thought crossed her mind that she was acquiring an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the street’s antiquarian book trade—when she opened the door of Tinsley and Sons, Booksellers. The shop was ill lit and somewhat cluttered, with an overflow of books stacked upon every available surface and each step of a cast-iron spiral staircase situated at the back of the shop. A man of about forty-five years of age was at the top of a ladder dusting the shelves.

  “Just browsing, or can I help you with something in particular?”

  “Browsing, thank you very much. I was advised to come here by a friend.”

  The man continued dusting, speaking as he went on with his task. “Always pleased when people recommend us. What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Ian, he—”

  “Ian?” The man stopped dusting and began to climb down from his somewhat precarious perch. “You know Ian? Wounded in the war—lost a leg and the other one’s a bit gammy?”

  Maisie nodded and cast her eyes down. “I’m here, in part, to remember him.”

  “Remember
him? Is he all right? Haven’t seen him since before Christmas, and he was a regular.”

  “He’s dead, Mr.—”

  “Tinsley. This is my shop.” He pulled up a chair for Maisie and one for himself, close to the potbellied stove that held court in the middle of the floor. “What happened?”

  “He took his own life, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, what a shame, what a terrible thing.” He shook his head. “Mind you, I can’t say the news comes as a surprise, after all, he was in such pain. Not least in his mind, I think. And reading helped, took him away from his everyday life—as it does for so many.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right.” Maisie took off her gloves as the chill outside left her bones. “And he certainly loved your shop.”

  “Well, I did what I could for him. I knew he couldn’t afford much and he was such a voracious reader. I would lend him books, in return for some cataloguing, that sort of thing.” He leaned back to take a ledger from his desk. “Here, you can see how many books he read in November alone.”

  Maisie took the large, leather-bound book from Tinsley’s hands and looked at the page indicated: Ian. She could barely read the last name, but thought it looked like Jennings. Flat 15a, Wellington Street, Kennington. A location close to the route of the number thirty-six bus as it made its way along Kennington Park Road.

  “Was his surname Jennings?”

  Tinsley took a pair of spectacles from a pocket in his knitted pullover. “I must admit, I never really looked at the name—in fact, I trusted him, so I didn’t check the books. Let me see—yes, he was up to date. Brought back the last one in early December. And that’s why I was a bit surprised at his absence, because I can’t imagine him without a book, though I am sure he used libraries. I mean, look at this, he must have been reading one book every two days, something like that.”