Among the Mad

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Billy turned to gather his overcoat from the hook behind the door, continuing the conversation as he went. “I reckon I’ll be back by twelve, then get on with that Barker case. Will you be here, Miss?”

  “Probably not. I have a distinct feeling that I’ll be talking to MacFarlane today—he’s the Special Branch chappie I told you about. But in the meantime, I think I’m going to have to engage in speculation simply to get some names in the hat of people who might have sent the threatening letter.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “By coming up with a template of the kind of person who would do such a thing—if they are serious. And we’ve assumed some link to the Charlotte Street suicide, as you know.”

  “Why is that, Miss? Why do you think they’re connected?”

  “That’s a good question, Billy—and it comes down to me. The letter mentioned me by name, and the fact that it came hot on the heels of my being seen to approach a man who then killed himself in a very visible manner, as if to make some sort of point, has drawn the two together.”

  “Makes sense,” Billy continued as he wound a scarf around his neck. “So what kind of person do you think he is?”

  “That he has made a threat at all indicates a level of disengagement with everyday life. He’s also drawn attention to the plight of old soldiers and wants to see something done about their situation. We know there are so many still suffering with their war wounds at a time when a job is hard to find for those sound in mind and body, but not everyone will be pressed to make a threat in such a way.”

  “You see that on the streets, Miss, men limping from one line to another waiting for work, but I reckon most people just moan to their mates, their missus, or they join one of them associations, you know, to try to get something changed.”

  “But this suffering has been going on for some years, yet this person has only just made his move. Of course, he could have been simmering for a long while, but at the same time I am going to stick my neck out and assume—at this stage, in any case—that the person we are seeking is a man who has either lost the support of a family or was released from an institution in the past two years. Frankly, if it’s the former, it makes the job nigh on impossible, but if it’s the latter, I might at least be able to get hold of some names.”

  “Still looking at a lot of people, though.”

  “I’ll narrow it down to London—Dr. Lawrence gave me enough information to suggest that there is cause for a man to linger in the region of the hospital, unless he had a home to go to in another area.” Maisie paused, slipping the cap of her fountain pen on and off as she considered her plan for the day. “The truth is, Billy, that if the man does carry out his threat, if there is an ‘or else,’ it might give us more information to work with. And I have avoided coming back to the fact that he mentioned me by name. Why? How does he know me?”

  “Do you think he might be a danger to you, because if that’s the case—”

  Maisie looked at Billy, who stood in front of her desk as if wavering between leaving her alone and remaining with her. She leaned back in her chair.

  “I didn’t want to say anything, but on the day of the suicide, as we were leaving Charlotte Street with Detective Inspector Stratton, I had a distinct feeling that I was being watched.”

  Billy leaned forward. “And I didn’t want to say anything either, Miss, but I kept looking back, something was making me shudder. I put it down to the noise, you know, reminding me of being back there, in the war, but it felt right strange, make no mistake.”

  “I have to entertain the possibility that we were followed back to the square, and that I may have been followed since. And there’s something else.”

  “What’s that, Miss?”

  “People in this situation, people who make threats, or carry them out, have also been known to harbor a desire to be seen, to be apprehended. They want to be caught so that they can be heard. There’s something about that attention.”

  “Not another one hiding in plain sight, Miss. We seem to get our share of those, don’t we?”

  “I don’t know if he’s in plain sight, but he may be closer than we think. In the meantime, I am going to prepare my template and then see if I can fill it with a few names.”

  “And I’ll be off down to the market.”

  “Keep your eyes and ears sharp, won’t you?”

  MAISIE WORKED ON after Billy left. She had deliberately not asked about Doreen. If she inquired each day, it might give the impression that she was interfering in the family’s domestic affairs. Even though she had come to know the Beales well and bore a great affection for them, on this occasion Billy’s pride made it difficult to reach out a helping hand. It seemed to her that, in his manner, Billy seemed to think she had done enough for them already. Nonetheless, she worried about them, and particularly about Doreen’s melancholia, which she realized was having an untoward effect on the children. Maisie knew only too well that the path of grief could not be scripted and was one taken alone, even if one grieved with family.

  At half-past eleven the telephone rang, and before Maisie could give the number, Billy began speaking.

  “Miss, I don’t know if this is important, I mean, I don’t think the police know about this, but it seemed a bit funny to me.”

  “What’s that, Billy?”

  “I was having a bit of a chat with this bloke I know who works down here at the market. Talk about having a stroke of luck—turns out he had a bit of a row with the wife and came over to the market for some peace and quiet, that’s how I came to get talking to him. Anyway, his son works down at Battersea Dogs and Cats Home, a bit of a job on the side. Turns out that when he goes in to feed them this morning, in this one section six of the dogs were dead. He said he’d never seen anything like it—this stuff like beaten egg whites coming from their mouths, and their eyes popping out of their heads. They’d died gasping for air and choking on their own blood. Terrible sight it was for the poor young fella.”

  “What’s happened since, do you know?”

  “Apparently, they’ve got the vet in there today looking at the bodies, just in case it’s a disease that spreads. But when he told me about it, you know what it put me in a mind of?”

  Maisie felt her body shudder with cold. “I know what you’re going to say, Billy—chlorine gas.”

  “I knew you’d know. You’d’ve seen it, eh? Chlorine gas.”

  “Stay right where you are—I’ll pick you up at Covent Garden tube in twenty minutes. We’ll go straight to Battersea and see if we can talk to anyone there. I want to find out how someone might get in after they’re closed—and if they were open on Boxing Day. They might have been—there always seem to be more strays on the street at this time of year.”

  “If it is what we think it is, that’d be terrible, wouldn’t it? I mean, not just for the dogs, but because it means that someone can do this sort of thing. It could be people next, couldn’t it?”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, and Miss—”

  “Yes?”

  “The coster—name of Bert Shorter. Got the name of the pub where he drinks, down the Old Kent Road.”

  “Good work. Now then—I’m on my way. See you at the tube, on the Long Acre side.”

  FIVE

  “Miss Dobbs and Mr. Beale?” The smell of disinfectant and bleach wafted out of the room where surgical procedures were performed, as the veterinary surgeon closed the door behind him, still clutching a towel with which he continued to wipe his hands.

  “Yes, thank you for seeing us, Mr. Hodges,” said Maisie.

  “I can’t think why you might be interested in our six deceased dogs.” He threw the towel into a basket at the side of the door.

  Maisie stepped forward. “We heard that there were untoward symptoms prior to death, and—in confidence—given the nature of my work, I was interested, from a purely professional standpoint, you understand, as I explained to the administration clerk. The symptoms seem to mimic a
condition I’ve seen before, so I was curious—”

  “That’s interesting, because they mimic something I’ve seen before. I was in the Royal Veterinary Corps during the war and one of the most terrible things I ever encountered was the effect of poisonous gas on both man and beast. In terms of canine sickness, I just can’t imagine what disease or virus would mimic those markers for chlorine gas.”

  “Then that’s what you’re looking at—swollen lungs, fluid, the albumen-like saliva and severe blistering?”

  “That’s it.”

  “May I see a specimen, Mr. Hodges?”

  “Well, it’s not regular, but . . . ” he faltered, rubbing his chin. “Oh, all right. I understand you’ve just made a nice contribution to our establishment here, so I should say it would be in order for you to come in.”

  “I’ll stay here, Miss, if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s all right, Billy.” Maisie turned to the veterinary surgeon. “Shall we?”

  The spaniel-like mongrel of a dog lay on the cold metal operating table, its chest open to reveal the viscera. The head lay to one side and, crusted around blistered lips, a foamy substance had dribbled from the carcass to the table. The veterinary surgeon drew Maisie’s attention to the lungs, pointing with a scalpel.

  “I don’t know how familiar you are with the physiology of the average canine, but the lungs here are swollen to about four times the normal size, an expansion due to the intense pressure of fluid building up as a response to inflammation and blistering. The dog was doing its damnedest to suck in air and stay alive. Now, see here”—he indicated where the incision extended to the base of the throat—“the blistering is closing off the windpipe.”

  “Just as it did with soldiers in the war.” She looked up at Hodges. “I was a nurse in France, so I’ve seen my fair share of gas cases.”

  “Yes, of course, you would have.” He set down the scalpel, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, lifted the animal’s head with one hand, and pulled out the tongue with the other. “And here’s the blistering again—froth and pus-filled.” With gentle respect he rested the head on the table once more, stroked an ear, then walked to a sink to remove the gloves and wash his hands, leaning forward and lathering the soap to cleanse every crevice in his skin. “I just wish I knew what had caused it. Never seen anything like it, not the usual sort of thing we come across here—and we have some poorly animals in this establishment. No, this is not your usual kettle of fish.”

  “I realize this question might elicit some concern, which is why I have taken care to ensure your confidentiality. Can you test to confirm exposure to gas?”

  “To tell you the truth, in some ways, I don’t need to—at the moment I’m trying to find some evidence to indicate it wasn’t, because my first thought was, ‘Bloody hell, they’ve been gassed!’ Then I pulled myself together and began searching for another cause, because I can think of no good reason why anyone would want to gas a poor innocent creature, and how would they gain access?” Hodges sighed. “But the truth is that I know this has been caused by chlorine gas and, yes, though I can test to corroborate my suspicions, I am confident of the outcome.”

  Maisie nodded. “But you’re right, you must confirm before you reach a conclusion.”

  “And who would do this? Who would take leave of his senses and punish an animal in this way—especially with a weapon of war—and a particularly nasty one at that. This is a place where abandoned dogs and cats are supposed to find shelter and, we hope, a good home, eventually.” Hodges seemed thoughtful for a moment as he looked at the dog splayed out on the table. “The sad thing is that so many of our dogs are enlisted for military purposes. A good many served in the last war, you know, carrying messages, first-aid packs, patrolling, and generally keeping up morale. I’d love to get my hands on whoever’s responsible.”

  Maisie looked up at the veterinary surgeon, the pained expression revealed in the lines around his eyes, and touched him on the sleeve. “Don’t worry, I’ll do that for you. I’ll find out who did this. It’s best to do all you can not to let news of these deaths travel too far, and in the meantime continue with your tests. I hope you don’t mind me asking if, just for now, you wouldn’t mind making up an ailment that would result in similar symptoms.”

  “Of course, I can see your point. I should probably tell the police,” said Hodges as he pulled a sheet across the spaniel’s carcass.

  “I’ll inform them, Mr. Hodges. Although I generally work independently, I am currently seconded to Scotland Yard for a period of time.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. “Here’s my card. You can reach me at this telephone number if you have any more observations you think might interest me, and if I am not there, you can send a postcard or telegram to my address. And please, remember that this must be held in tightest confidence.”

  Hodges regarded Maisie once more, tapping the card on the edge of the table. “If a man could do this to a dog, he might do this to a human being, mightn’t he? Is that at the heart of your interest?”

  “I should hope it doesn’t come to that. Scotland Yard has some of its best detectives on this case, and no doubt you will be hearing from them in due course after I’ve made my report.” Maisie turned to leave. “Keep this to yourself, Mr. Hodges. London can be a desperate sort of place at the best of times—we don’t want to make it more so.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep mum.”

  “SMELLY OLD GAFF, THAT,” said Billy as they left the dogs’ home.

  “Well, they do a good job there, and they do their best.”

  “I must say, it’s something I wonder about, you know, when there’s so many people wanting for a good meal in this country and here they are, looking after dogs and cats.”

  They walked along the street toward Maisie’s motor car, both wearing winter coats, hats and scarves to keep the cold wind at bay. “It may seem that way, I agree—” Maisie was about to go on, then checked herself. She wanted to say she believed that it was in the act of taking care of animals and showing respect for all life—especially when in need of support ourselves—that a certain dignity is sustained, a self-respect so often compromised in troubled times. But she knew it was not the time to voice such sentiments, especially to a man who walked through the slums of London to get to work each day, and who was himself so deeply troubled. She shrugged. “Well, I suppose it comes down to a belief that people who care for animals are more likely to be compassionate toward their fellow human beings. Something like that.”

  “Yeah, which doesn’t say much for whoever killed them dogs, does it?”

  “I’m not sure what it says, Billy.”

  “I mean, I know you’ve always said that inside the villain is a victim, but sometimes I find that hard to swallow, y’know?”

  Maisie nodded. “I’ve only come across the truly evil on two occasions, while working for Dr. Blanche. And there’s something in the person’s eyes, as if they were born with it, as if it were a crippling disease and not something caused as a result of experience.”

  “You make me shiver, Miss.”

  “It should make us all shiver. I would venture to say that there is no overcoming that sort of ill character.”

  “But what about the rest, what about the others who do terrible things, how come they aren’t evil, I mean, what caused them to be like that?”

  Maisie shrugged and stopped for a moment. “It’s different in each case, but if you go back to the root, I would venture to say it has to do with care. Those people don’t feel cared for, don’t feel enfranchised. In many cases they are simply invisible. But that’s only my opinion, not the last word on the matter.” She stamped her feet. “Come on, let’s get going. It’s freezing!”

  Maisie dropped Billy at Covent Garden tube station once more. She instructed him to work on finding Bert Shorter, adding that she would see him at the office later. In the meantime, she planned to return to Fitzroy Square and place a telephone call to Stratton, and if he w
as not available, she would ask for MacFarlane. And she would telephone Maurice Blanche. Yes, she wanted to speak to Maurice now because she needed a door opened to a very locked establishment. She could think of no other place to discover how a civilian might procure chlorine gas or, indeed, garner the skills to handle such a substance, than the place she had heard much about but never been near: Mulberry Point, the military testing laboratories for chemical weaponry, close to the village of Little Mulberry in Berkshire.

  “MAURICE?”

  “Maisie—how lovely to hear from you. I am sorry you were not able to remain at Chelstone long enough to come and see me. Your father tells me that you were summoned by our friends at Scotland Yard early yesterday morning.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Christmas seems weeks ago already. I’ll come over to the Dower House next time, I promise.”

  “I will hold you to your word. Now then, I have a sense that you have not telephoned to speak of missing me during the festive season—what can I do for you?”

  “Maurice, do you have any contacts at Mulberry Point?”

  There was a moment’s silence on the line.

  “Their work is most secret, Maisie. And given the nature of that work, I am now concerned upon hearing of your need to speak to someone at the laboratories.”

  “It is urgent, Maurice. I am in pursuit of—and I think it’s fair to say this—a most volatile person, and one who has access to some of the more chilling weaponry.”

  “Is there a threat to the general population?”

  “Yes, in all honesty, I believe there is, though I cannot gauge the level of that threat.”

  Maisie knew that, if she were with Maurice, she would see him reaching for his pipe and tapping it on the chimney breast alongside his favorite wingback chair. He would place the pipe in his lap, then with his free hand lean toward the pipe stand again and lift his tobacco pouch. He continued to speak, even though, as she well knew, he was filling the bowl of his pipe, readying to light it as soon as the telephone call ended.