Among the Mad

by Jacqueline Winspear

“The pathologist says the nature of the man’s forgetfulness was probably limited to certain tasks, the jobs that were before him each day. It would not affect his functioning as a member of society, though I can see why he lived alone. Imagine being married to someone who kept asking where they put something, or what was for dinner for the tenth time. There was a place for everything in his rooms, and those places were labeled.”

  “He was lucky to have a job, I suppose,” said Stratton, as if to remind MacFarlane that he and Darby were in the room.

  “And he’s certainly not lucky now, eh?” quipped MacFarlane.

  The men’s laughter was nipped in the bud by Maisie, who had more questions. “Chief Superintendent, I wonder, would it be possible for me to speak to Catherine Jones? I’m still curious about the man she claims came along to the meeting of union activists—I’d like to ask her a question or two more, if that’s all right.”

  MacFarlane shook his head. “Bit too late, I’m afraid, Miss Dobbs. Miss Jones has been released. The prosecutor went through everything we gave him and concluded that there wasn’t enough evidence there to bring her to trial.”

  “Not enough evidence? I thought—”

  MacFarlane shrugged, but did not look at Maisie directly, closing the folders as he answered her. “We always do our best, Miss Dobbs. We pull together as much as we can, then we send the whole case to the prosecutor. Her fellow anarchists will be sent down, but not Miss Jones. He’s concluded that she was a person in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Maisie nodded her head as she replied, “I see. In the wrong place at the wrong time. Lucky Catherine.”

  “We can’t win them all, Miss Dobbs.”

  Maisie began collecting her document case and shoulder bag. “Well, if that’s all, Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane, I had better be off. As they say, time and tide wait for no man—or woman, come to that.”

  “Oh, but before you go, Miss Dobbs.” MacFarlane stood up, as did Darby and Stratton. “I’ve decided to celebrate Burns’ Night in London with my immediate colleagues here at the Branch. I’ve bought tickets for a show at the Palladium for everyone, and there will be supper afterward upstairs at the Cuillins of Skye—it’s a pub, just off Covent Garden. January twenty-fifth—I hope you will join us.”

  Maisie looked at MacFarlane, then at Stratton and Darby, as if to ask if they were going.

  “You’ll not be the only lassie there, Miss Dobbs,” added MacFarlane.

  “Perhaps I can let you know in a week or so, Chief Superintendent. And thank you for the invitation. Now, I should be on my way.”

  MacFarlane thanked Maisie again for her part in bringing the case to a close, and handed her an envelope with a check inside. She shook his hand and hoped she had made it clear by her demeanor that his occasional flirtatious manner had not borne fruit.

  “I’m glad that’s all over,” said Stratton.

  “Are you?” said Maisie.

  “Of course I am. Can you imagine what it would be like if our man were still at large?”

  Maisie opened her mouth to say more, but paused and instead commented on the invitation. “What’s all this about Burns’ Night? It’s a bit unusual, isn’t it, being treated to a night out by the Chief Superintendent?”

  “I know. Darby says he’s done it before, taking a whole gang out for the evening. Apparently he thinks it’s good for morale, brings everyone together.”

  Maisie took out her keys as they reached the MG. “I think there’s more to it than that, Inspector Stratton. I think he’s a bit lonely. Didn’t you say his wife left him?”

  Stratton nodded. “A few years ago. It’s a hard life, being married to a man who’s married to his job. She was alone a lot, and as far as I know, took up with someone else and just up and left.”

  “And now he’s the one who’s alone. That’s why everyone’s invited to go out with him on Burns’ Night.” She inclined her head. “I really do have to rush now.”

  “Going anywhere interesting?”

  “The Princess Victoria Hospital—only don’t tell MacFarlane, will you?”

  “Mum’s the word,” said Stratton as he brought a forefinger to his lips. “Do you think—”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  A PORTER INFORMED Maisie that she would have to wait to see Dr. Lawrence, and that he might not even be able to see her at all, given that he had been with his students for a good two hours this afternoon already and was late getting to his rounds.

  “I’ll wait,” said Maisie, taking the same place as before on the bench seat facing the porters’ office.

  Over an hour passed before the porter came out of the office. “He’s still on his rounds, Miss. Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting?”

  Maisie opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by Lawrence, who approached from the corridor behind her.

  “Miss Dobbs! I wasn’t expecting you today, so this is something of a surprise. What can I do for you?”

  “May we go to your office, Dr. Lawrence? I would like our conversation to be in private.”

  “Yes, of course. One moment while I just use the telephone in the porters’ office.”

  Lawrence stepped into the office, placed his telephone call, and joined her once again, leading her up the staircases and through locked doors that led to other locked doors before opening out into the floor that housed the staff offices.

  “Here we are.” Lawrence looked at his watch. “I’m a bit short on time, Miss Dobbs, so—”

  “Oh, this won’t take long, Dr. Lawrence. I just wondered if I might visit Stephen Oliver. I learned so much about him, you see, as part of my investigation, and feel rather sorry that he’s here without visitors.”

  Lawrence began running his fingers back and forth along the files on his desk, setting them two inches from the right side and two inches from the top, so they were positioned much in same way that a stamp would be attached to an envelope. “Miss Dobbs, I cannot allow such a thing. After all, you are not a relative, and you must appreciate that Dr. Oliver is in a very delicate state.”

  “Yes, I suppose if one’s seen as nothing more than a cadaver available for experimentation, he would be in a delicate state, wouldn’t he?”

  “Now you look here, Miss Dobbs—”

  “The man who wrote the letters, who killed dogs, birds, a junior minister, and who planned to kill a legion of revelers on Old Year’s Night was Stephen Oliver, wasn’t he?”

  “I categorically assure you—”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Nothing happened, Stephen was a brilliant scientist—”

  “I know how brilliant he was. I’ve heard it from two people already. And I know you do not have Stephen Oliver here at the hospital.”

  “And I assure you that we do, now if you don’t mind—”

  Maisie reached for the telephone receiver. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to hear that from Sheila Kennedy. By the way, do you know how I am acquainted with Mrs. Kennedy? She was the Sister-in-Charge of the casualty clearing station where I was stationed in the war. I don’t know if she’ll remember me, but you never know.” She dialed the operator.

  Lawrence leaned forward and pressed down on the bar, cutting off the call. “No, don’t.”

  Maisie replaced the receiver. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Lawrence scraped back his chair, stood up and began to pace, then sat down again. “You should cease wondering about this case, Miss Dobbs, because you are out of your depth.”

  “I don’t seem to be floundering, Dr. Lawrence, but if you are having trouble with the truth, then let me tell you what I think has happened here, and you can correct me if I’m wrong.”

  Lawrence clasped his hands together on the desk. “I have little time to indulge you, Miss Dobbs.”

  Maisie pressed her point. “Stephen Oliver was admitted to the Princess Victoria on at least two occasions since his initial release from an
asylum, where he was committed during the war. I know that you witnessed at least one breakdown at Mulberry Point, and I know he was a very valuable person with regard to work undertaken at the government laboratories. And he was also a very interesting specimen, wasn’t he? A man who had not only suffered shell-shock, but was so intent upon finding answers to the questions that dogged him in his work that he even became his own guinea pig.”

  “They all experimented on themselves, all of them. They don’t call them mad professors for nothing.”

  “But the madness didn’t stop there, did it? You increasingly saw Oliver as your own experiment. After all, time was marching on and you had a legacy to leave—a book about the psychological effects of chemical and biological testing on those exposed to contaminants. And every time he regained some semblance of normal functioning, you willingly went along with requests to send him back to Mulberry Point, because Stephen Oliver still had a razorsharp mind when it came to his work—it was unfortunate that he just didn’t have the emotional foundation for sustained experimentation, did he?”

  Lawrence nodded, but was silent as he listened, his only movement being to pick up an item on his desk, look at it, then put it down again.

  “Now, I haven’t worked out the details yet, but at some juncture he was discharged. Was it an oversight at the pensions office? A young clerk perhaps, who added a name to the list of someone who should never have been added? Or was it that you had to release a certain number of patients to make economies, and because he could take care of himself, he was released? On the other hand, perhaps his release was part of your experiment—and then he managed to give you the slip.”

  Maisie bit her lip. Lawrence’s manner was unsettling and she wondered if her speculation had been wide of the mark.

  “Either way, you lost him, lost a valuable man who could only control himself physically and mentally for short periods of time while engaged in the same sort of work he was undertaking when he was first wounded—again, in his mind as much as his body—on the battlefield. That work was in the development of weapons that should never be given the light of day. And he could only immerse himself in such an endeavor for so long before the cannonade went off in his mind, or when he collapsed in a state of nervous exhaustion.”

  Maisie sat back and looked out the window, the view of falling snow obscured by iron bars. Iron bars, even in the offices of a doctor for whom she once had the utmost regard. She was about to speak when there was a knock at the door, and without being summoned the visitor walked into the office.

  “Sorry, Lawrence, it took me a bit of a while to get here.” Gerald Urquhart took off his hat and looked at Maisie. “A delight to see you again, Miss Dobbs. Now, I wonder what might bring you back to see Dr. Lawrence—after all, you’re not on Special Branch time now, are you?”

  Maisie looked at Urquhart, then Lawrence. “Is this what you meant by out of my depth?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Oh, so Stephen Oliver was more than an experiment for you. He was an experiment for the Secret Service as well. Even though there was a risk to the general public, you knew he would continue with his work in whatever way he could.” Maisie shook her head, her mind racing. “Or was he released deliberately, just to see who might come out of the woodwork and claim him, who might try to squeeze him dry before tossing him aside?” She looked at Urquhart again. “No wonder you were panicking when you lost him. You knew who you were looking for the moment that first letter was received, but you just couldn’t find him, even with an array of intelligence resources at your fingertips.” Drumming her fingertips on the desk, Maisie paused for thought before speaking again. “And I’ll bet you didn’t show your hand to MacFarlane until Catherine Jones was brought in—or perhaps you got to Jones first, and only later did the Commissioner step in and put an end to speculation by announcing the case closed.”

  “The case is closed, Miss Dobbs. It is only you who are showing continued interest in the man who tried to kill a significant number of innocent people.”

  “I think it’s time for me to leave.” Maisie stood up, collected her bags, and stepped toward the door, but before leaving she spoke directly to Anthony Lawrence. “I am sure you will write a very good book, but there will probably be something missing.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Speak to Dr. Elsbeth Masters. Ask her what happens when a gazelle becomes a lion’s prey.”

  Maisie left the office, but when she reached the first set of double doors she realized she was trapped without keys.

  “Damn!”

  “Rather a hasty exit, Miss Dobbs.” Urquhart waved a set of keys as he approached. “I’ll escort you out.”

  “I won’t ask why you have a set of keys.”

  “No, better not.”

  They walked in silence down the stairs and through several more sets of locked doors before reaching the empty entrance hall.

  “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Oh, I think I’ve got the gist of the matter.” She looked over at the porters’ office, then back at Urquhart. “I have a feeling that Edwin Croucher was once a porter or employed in a similar caretaker job at Mulberry Point, where as we know almost every member of staff became a subject in an experiment at some point or another. I suspect that’s how he lost his short-term memory—possibly through overexposure to a nerve agent of some sort. But he never forgot Stephen Oliver. Perhaps Oliver had shown him a kindness, so that when he found out the scientist had been brought to the Princess Victoria, he applied for a job as a porter. Or it might have been just one of those serendipitous events in life. Am I getting warmer here, Mr. Urquhart?” Maisie raised a hand. “No, don’t answer, but let me see if I can work this out. Lawrence didn’t know about Croucher’s previous employer, because people like him never see people they consider to be minions. He interviewed the scientists and those of a certain level working at the laboratories, but not the tea ladies or the other ancillary staff.”

  “An admirable imagination, Miss Dobbs.”

  “And I haven’t finished yet. Croucher was a kind man, a man who gave the impression of being brusque, but really he was trying to keep his life in order, so that he could keep a job. But he always tried to help the men on the streets who had fought in the war—he had doubtless been a soldier himself. And then he met Jennings, saw that he was an educated man, and thought he and Stephen Oliver would be company for each other. Croucher must have wondered what he had done, when Oliver began planning his revenge on those he saw as perpetrators of want.”

  Urquhart nodded his head in a knowing way, so that even this movement smacked of sarcasm. “Considering you haven’t had any formal training in intelligence gathering, Miss Dobbs, you do very well, don’t you.”

  “But that’s where you are wrong, Mr. Urquhart. I have had training from an expert in such matters. I just don’t work for you.”

  “Well, you never know.”

  Maisie turned to leave, but Urquhart caught her arm.

  “Miss Dobbs—before you go, please don’t think of telling that wonderful story to anyone else, will you?”

  Maisie shook off his hand and walked away.

  MAISIE DROVE TOWARD Pimlico amid snow flurries and sleet. More than anything, she wanted to shut the door and wrap the walls of her flat around her. Outside, the world could do as it wished. She parked the MG and walked toward the main door, only to see MacFarlane’s motor car waiting outside.

  “Oh, not again!” Maisie uttered the words under her breath.

  MacFarlane emerged from the vehicle. “Miss Dobbs, glad to have caught you.”

  “I don’t have any soup, Chief Superintendent.”

  “And I’m going out to supper, so I’ll pass on your kind invitation.”

  Maisie looked aside. “I’m sorry. That was unkind of me.”

  MacFarlane regarded her for a moment, then set his hand on her shoulder. “It’s hard, but there are walls you can’t hammer
your way through.”

  “I know, I know. But aren’t you angry, aren’t you furious at what they’ve done, what they’re doing, and how this experiment got out of hand? That a man . . . ”

  “I’ve learned over time to pick my battles, and to know when not to crush my knuckles pounding at doors that won’t open. Urquhart had his job to do, Lawrence was doing his, and if you speak to your John Gale, he too knew about all or part of what was going on. When you get into the realms of the country’s security, you find the right arm never, ever knows what the left arm is doing. We both have to get on with our work now, Miss Dobbs, and allow this case to be closed. All right?”

  Maisie nodded. “All right. I know, I know. This is not the first time I’ve hit my own fist against that wall. And as they say, it’s best to let it slip away, because time and tide wait for no man.”

  “I’m sorry, lass, you’ll have to be a bit more succinct.”

  “They all said that, you know. It’s one of those sayings that people pick up. I heard John Gale say it, then Stephen Oliver wrote it in his diary—and don’t worry, I won’t mention his name again. Anthony Lawrence repeated it too. It’s a common phrase, but you find people tend to repeat that sort of thing when they live or work together. It only takes one to start the ball rolling.”

  MacFarlane laughed and shook his head. “That’s something Blanche would have noticed. Anyway, talking of starting the ball rolling, I’ll see you on the twenty-fifth, I hope.”

  “What’s on at the Palladium?” Maisie called after him.

  “Oh, you’ll enjoy it. The show’s been on the bill several times over the past few months now with that grand gang of funny men—you know, Flanagan and Allen, Jimmy Nervo, Teddy Knox, Charlie Naughton and Jimmy Gold. They call it Crazy Week.”

  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.