Once more he came to, rubbing his hand across his stubbled chin, and pressing his fingers to his tired, sunken eyes. He rolled over to bring the clock on the mantelpiece into focus. It was nearly time. The man sat up and, when he’d garnered strength enough, swung his legs over the side of the narrow, iron-framed bed, and stood, reaching for his stick. He wavered for a moment, as if he might fall back, then shuffled toward a wireless set on the table. He switched it on. First the pips, signifying the hour, then the news.
He listened, his head to one side, close to the wireless. Nothing. Nothing for him. There was no news indicating that he had been heard. No surprise announcements telling of handouts coming from Westminster, no word of special festive season meetings to discuss the plight of those who had given all for their country, no acknowledgment of the suffering of those who had nothing. His throat was dry in the way that thirst came after daytime sleep, so he limped toward the stove, lifted the kettle to see if there was sufficient water, and put it down on the gas-ring, which he ignited with a match. It was to be expected, he thought, as he stood back, considering, again, the substances he’d employed earlier, endeavoring to be as dexterous as he had been in the past, lest he make a mistake. Of course, he had cleaned his laboratory, such as it was, but you never could be too careful. There was a right way to do things, and in his work, he did things as they should be done. He stuck to the rules.
He waited for the kettle to come to the boil, then poured the scalding liquid into the mush of soggy leaves left in the pot from this morning’s tea. With the weak but hot brew in hand, he sat at the table and pulled his diary toward him. He sipped the tea, put the chipped cup to one side, and opened the book to a clean page.
I am not heard. I am not taken seriously. I thought the Dobbs woman might believe me, if she were summoned. I saw the police go to her premises, so I know they have the letter.
He paused, then began writing again.
There was concern in her eyes when she walked toward Ian. Not pity, not disgust, and she did not cross to the other side of the road to escape the futility of him. She showed
He tapped the pencil on the table, then flinched at the sound.
She showed care. That is all I have asked for, these many years, that people are concerned, and that in their actions, they demonstrate care. It occurred to me that the woman did not wait for someone else to approach Ian. She did not ignore him. She walked toward him without looking in another direction. I noticed that. I have come to notice that people do not look at the Ians of this world, but instead turn their heads here and there.
The man paused and rubbed his hand across his chest, then took several breaths. Not deep breaths, because the air would scald his lungs with its coldness, which in turn would cause him to cough. And if he coughed, he might not stop and then the blood would come. He tempered the urge to gag, calmed his body, then began writing once more.
Oh, stupid boy. He should have listened to me, he would not have had to wait long, not now, not now when I have them almost where I want them. “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.” Yes, let them slip, poor unwanted beasts.
* * *
MAISIE PAID the taxi-cab driver and dashed across the square just as Stratton’s Invicta pulled up outside her office.
“Blast!” She had wanted to be alone for a while to consider the meeting with Dr. Lawrence before having to go back to Scotland Yard and another encounter with MacFarlane.
“Ready?” said Stratton, as she approached the vehicle.
“Yes—and no. I would have liked more time before being called to report on my activities today.”
“I agree, but let’s face it, at least we know which side you’re on.”
Maisie rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I am really growing tired of this innuendo due to the fact that my name was mentioned in the letter. MacFarlane has questioned me and indicated his trust in me. I have told you all that I believe the threats should be taken seriously, so I would be obliged if you—and Colm Darby or anyone else who chooses to—would just cease baiting me. You know which side I’m on.”
Stratton was taken aback by the strength of Maisie’s response. “I apologize if I offended you, Miss Dobbs. My comment was meant to be taken lightly, given that we find ourselves in a troubling situation—I don’t know about you, but I hardly made any headway today.”
“I have had better days,” Maisie conceded, sighing. “So I’m sorry if I was quick on the defensive. Mind you, I’ve chipped away at one avenue that might be promising—the possibility that the suicide was a soldier suffering from some level of traumatic neurosis.”
Stratton shook his head. “I can’t believe we’ve been unable to give a name to the dead man, unable to identify him. We’ve talked to the shopkeepers, residents—no one knows him, and he’s not a regular.”
“Known unto God.” Maisie spoke the words softly, as she saw the man in her mind’s eye again.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Inspector. I said, ‘Known unto God.’ That’s what it says on the new gravestones for unidentified soldiers buried in France, ‘A Soldier of the Great War, Known unto God.’”
“Well, we’d better know something soon, or MacFarlane will be in high dudgeon.”
“I can imagine.”
“OH, FOR PITY’S SAKE! Anyone would think we’d all just come in off the beat. Two days and we still don’t know that poor bugger’s name.” MacFarlane made no concessions to the fact that there was a woman in the room, and gave weight to his voice with a thump on the table with his right hand.
Maisie did not flinch, though Stratton moved on his chair in a way that revealed his discomfort. He’d better get used to this if he wants to work with MacFarlane by spring, thought Maisie.
“Miss Dobbs, perhaps you could enlighten me as to your activities this afternoon?”
“Of course, Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane.”
MacFarlane raised an eyebrow as she came to her feet and pulled out a roll of wallpaper and several tacks from her document case. She unfurled the paper, held it to the wall and proceeded to pin the paper in place.
“If I wanted a decorator, I might have called one in, Miss Dobbs.”
“Bear with me, please.” She reached into her case and removed several thick wax crayons, keeping one and placing the others on the table, then turned her attention to the men. “My assistant and I use this as one of several means to follow developments in a case. It provides a map, if you will, of our progress, and no thought, idea or speculative hunch is ever considered too foolhardy or insignificant to record. We add to it as we proceed and it has proven useful in helping us to identify links, clues and opportunities that might not otherwise have been visible with the usual linear note-taking.”
“We tend to prefer facts.”
“This may sound contradictory,” said Maisie, “but I do not think we have the time to entertain only firm facts—we have to broaden our canvas, in the short term at least.”
MacFarlane acquiesced. “Continue broadening the canvas, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie paused, looking at each man in turn. If she was to work as part of a crew rather than alone, she would ensure that she was not only listened to, but heard. And she did not care to be under surveillance.
“Given our speculation that the Charlotte Street suicide was a soldier with rather serious wounds, I—”
“Serious?” queried MacFarlane. “He obviously walked to the place where he died. Can that be called serious?”
“Sir, as we believe, the man had an amputation and was also likely lame in his other leg, plus he might well have suffered exposure to chlorine or mustard gas. To say nothing of war trauma. I would say those wounds constitute ‘serious.’ I would add, further, that in becoming used to seeing those who have suffered in the war, we have also become somewhat immune to their plight. As we now know, contrary to the belief of military superiors, it takes more than fresh air and a week in the country to cure a ma
n before we pack him off again into battle or, in this case, the skirmish of everyday society.”
“Point taken. Go on, Miss Dobbs.”
“Thank you.” Maisie began writing on the strip of wallpaper. “So, I called on Dr. Anthony Lawrence, one of the country’s leading experts in the care of those who remain sufficiently unstable as to warrant remaining in hospital care.”
“Is that a nice way of saying ‘locked up’?”
“Having been a nurse in a secure hospital and caring for men with shell-shock, I try to retain a level of respect, Detective Chief Superintendent. But yes, they are locked up. They require a degree of supervision that is not to be found in the home—if, of course, there is a home to go to. Now then, back to my meeting with Dr. Lawrence—I wanted to discover more about the habits of those who have been released. In short, I wanted to know if there was something about either the man in Charlotte Street or the letter-writer that would indicate they had been released from a hospital recently, and were perhaps feeling abandoned, at sea, so to speak. I confess, it was a stab in the dark, but I had to start somewhere.”
“We’re all stabbing in the dark.” MacFarlane reached for a red wax crayon from the jar on the table and began to twirl it around in his fingers, as if it were a baton. “And your stab was as good as any. Did you come away with anything?”
Maisie shook her head. “Precious little, to tell you the truth. Dr. Lawrence made the point that the number of men so afflicted is far beyond official tallies. In addition, regression following release from hospital could happen at any time—one month, one year, five years.”
“So what’s your next move?”
“I’m not sure. However, I would appreciate it if I could report back to you in a less regimented fashion. Coming back here has deprived me of valuable time. My schedule is not prescriptive. Might I instead telephone Detective Inspector Stratton at a given time each day?”
MacFarlane looked at the other men. “Richard? Colm?”
Both nodded their accord.
“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie thanked the men and returned to her seat. She had at least skirted the question of her next move, though she realized that MacFarlane might address the question again. In the meantime, she would do all she could to keep her next moves to herself. She might be one of a team, but she also knew she made greater headway when left to her own devices and following her own direction along the way.
Stratton was next. Taking up a wide black crayon he turned to the wallpaper. “I feel like a teacher at the blackboard.”
“Don’t tempt me.” MacFarlane grinned, then waved his hand for Stratton to continue.
“Very straightforward—continued questioning of shopkeepers along Charlotte Street, working back to Oxford Street, though we were hampered by the shops not being open today, so we had to locate proprietors and so forth. We’re hoping to retrace the dead man’s movements. Of course, we have to entertain the possibility that these two events have no relationship one to the other, in which case, all we will find, eventually, is the deceased’s name.”
“Anything else?”
“We’ve located a woman who works at Bourne and Hollingsworth, who says she saw a man bearing the deceased’s description alighting from the number thirty-six bus. She travels in from Camberwell and says she always sits in the same place close to the door and cannot remember him getting on the bus, so he must have got on anywhere from, say, Lewisham to Camberwell. We’ll have men at bus stops along the number thirty-six route on Monday, at a time coinciding with the commuting habits of the woman. We’ll question people along the way to see if anyone recalls seeing the man on Christmas Eve.”
Maisie cleared her throat, then spoke directly to MacFarlane. “The man who made the threat is expecting a response first thing tomorrow morning. We seem to have forgotten that the threat stands. Will there be some announcement from the Home Office, perhaps on the wireless, by way of placating this person? Or are we waiting to see whether he is serious?”
“I’m sorry to say that, given our lack of headway, Miss Dobbs, we are presently in a wait-and-see situation.”
“I don’t think we’ll be waiting long.”
“Aye, I think you’re right, as much as I hope you’re wrong.” He sighed, then motioned to Stratton. “See that Miss Dobbs is escorted home, Stratton. And settle upon a time to speak to each other tomorrow. I know it’s a Sunday, but I can’t see the PM making any offers as a result of the letter, so we’ll still be on the case, come what may. The PM, by the way, has cut short the festive season with his family, and returned from Chequers.” He turned to Maisie. “Do not rule out the possibility that we may have to convene here as a matter of urgency at any time over the next couple of days. In the meantime, you are on your own, but you are on our clock.”
Maisie held out her hand to MacFarlane. “I’ll be in touch, Detective Chief Superintendent.”
STRATTON ESCORTED MAISIE home in the Invicta. When the vehicle pulled up yards from the main entrance to the block of flats in Pimlico, Maisie turned to Stratton.
“I can walk from here, Inspector.”
“Are you sure?”
“The main door is just along this path, so if you wish, you can sit here to ensure I go in without being accosted.”
“I’ll do that.” Stratton opened the door and stepped from the vehicle, then held out his hand to assist Maisie. “And let’s not forget your luggage,” he added, reaching back into the motor car.
“Thank you, Inspector.” Maisie took the brown leather suitcase. “May I suggest I telephone your office at Scotland Yard tomorrow—certainly it will not be before six o’clock in the evening.”
“And at what time should I send out the cavalry, if I do not have word from you?”
“You’ll hear by eight, Inspector—how does that sound?”
“Perfectly acceptable. May I ask what your next move will be?”
Maisie began to turn toward the modern building with glass doors leading to the flats within. “To be perfectly honest with you, I’m not sure yet. But I know it will involve as much speculation as detection.”
“I’ll be out with my men knocking on doors between Lewisham and Camberwell tomorrow—and I’ll be in touch if there’s news.”
Maisie bid good-bye, waving from inside the small foyer before entering her flat. The radiators had been left on low, yet she could still see her breath condense in the air before her. She was tired and wanted nothing more than to go to bed, so without removing her coat, she took her suitcase into the bedroom and then went into the kitchen to put on the kettle for a hot water bottle.
Once settled under the covers, sleep did not come as she had hoped, and instead Maisie lay awake listening to the sounds of the night. Foghorns up and down the river, a motor car in the distance. It was a quiet night, a Boxing Day night. Soon the year would be done, soon it would be 1932. And as she edged her way into sleep, Maisie wondered if there would be any developments in the case, come morning. Another letter, perhaps? Or would the threat be revealed as a hoax, with no more said and her involvement with MacFarlane and Special Branch at an end? But as she shivered, despite the soothing hot water bottle held close, she had a distinct feeling that there would be more news on the morrow, and it would not be good.
December 27th, 1931
Billy was at his desk when Maisie arrived at the office the following morning. She was surprised to see him, and could not help but notice that he seemed even more drained than he had the day before.
“Billy, what are you doing here on a Sunday? You don’t have to give up your Sunday just because I’m working on an urgent case.”
“Well, I thought you might need a hand, and what with one thing and another . . .” He placed some papers in a folder, and shrugged.
Maisie thought it best not to press the point, and suspected that the situation at home might have deteriorated even more. She began talking about the case while removing her coat, hat and gloves.
“I could recognize him in a crowd, if that’s what you mean. Don’t know the man’s name—I was too worried about you, Miss, to tell you the truth. Mind you, I reckon I could find him, if that’s what you want.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want. He may have seen the dead man before, know who he is, or at least have some nugget of information for us.”
“Come to think of it, when I went back to find your document case, I don’t recall seeing him again. Mind you, the police were moving people on, and he did say something about getting his horse out of there, that she was good and solid, but he didn’t want to push it because even though she’d not bolted when the bomb went off, she was on her toes and a bit skittish.”
“Do you think there will be anyone down at the market this morning? I know it’s a Sunday, but there’s sometimes someone around, a caretaker or watchman, someone who might know the man we’re looking for.” She sat down behind her desk.
“Tell you what, I’ll nip down and have a look around. As you say, there might be a caretaker or someone like that. Could even be a copper on the beat who can put a name to the face, if you know what I mean.”
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