“Indeed. I see your dilemma. In that case, you should telephone the University of Oxford and speak to Professor John Gale. He’s both a chemist and a physicist. He also has a relationship—yes, that’s the best word to describe it—with Mulberry Point, and would keep counsel regarding your conversation. He was involved with the Special Brigades during the war.” Maurice cleared his throat. “Following the first chlorine gas attacks by the Germans, the military virtually plundered the universities of engineers and physicists, effectively requisitioning brains and research to not only find an antidote, but to develop their own weapons. Britain was woefully behind the enemy in terms of research at the time. John—we are old friends—also has links to Imperial Chemical Industries. As you know, they were founded about five or six years ago, to some extent on the back of our experiences with the use of chemicals on the battlefield.”
“Thank you, Maurice. May I use your name as an introduction to Professor Gale?”
“I will telephone him myself as soon as we are finished, so that he expects your call.”
“Thank you, again.”
“One more thing—do take care. If this man, whoever he is, has enough knowledge to use gas, he may go further. Take every precaution when close to suspects and wherever the man you are pursuing has left his mark. Keep your hands and arms covered, use a mask—as if you were back in the operating theater, Maisie.”
“Not to worry, Maurice. I remember only too well the precautions we had to take. I’ll be careful.”
“MACFARLANE!” the voice was brusque, and Maisie imagined the Detective Chief Superintendent answering his telephone in haste while barking orders to a subordinate.
“This is Maisie Dobbs.”
“Ah, Miss Dobbs.” His tone softened. “What have you got for me?”
“I believe it’s something important, Detective Chief Superintendent—and I couldn’t reach Detective Inspector Stratton.”
“Fire away.”
Maisie described the lead via Billy’s contact, and her visit to Battersea Dogs and Cats Home. She recounted the discussion with Dr. Hodges, and her own observations when confronted with the carcass of the deceased dog.
“And there’s no other explanation for the dogs to have died in this way?”
“Dr. Hodges is testing now, but he is convinced it’s either chlorine gas or something similar. He was in the Royal Veterinary Corps in France, so he knows what he’s seeing. And I’ve seen it too, when I was a nurse, though obviously I am not au fait with the insides of a dog.”
“Not ‘au fait,’ eh?”
Though Maisie shook her head at the hint of sarcasm, she sensed that it was spoken in jest, a gentle teasing, perhaps, to lessen the tension.
“And you’ve instructed Hodges not to speak of this to anyone.”
“I asked him to think up a dog’s disease that has similar symptoms.”
“Good. Right then, I’ll get down there straightaway. No army of blue, just me and a sergeant in the first instance. Can you come to the Yard at six-ish?”
Maisie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Yes, though I have to place some telephone calls. I have the name of someone who can advise me further on the procurement of such chemicals. It might also help in identifying the type of person we’re after.”
“We’re after a wicked bastard, Maisie.”
Maisie was taken aback. Was he testing her with his language and his manner, trying to see whether she could be “one of the boys,” able to work with Special Branch? More to the point, would he have been so blunt with Maurice, who demanded and received the utmost regard from Scotland Yard?
She sighed. If she countered to protect her opinion, she might be seen as thin-skinned—yet she could not let the retort go without comment. “You know, I am quite aware of the wickedness involved in the murder of innocents, but I think it’s best if I reserve judgment on the perpetrator of this crime. If I jump to conclusions too soon, I might well blind myself to the right path when it’s in front of me.”
“Well said, but don’t forget, we could be dealing with the Irish, the Fascists—I don’t trust that Mosley and his band of merry men—or it could be Bolshevik union infiltrators pushing their luck. You name it, and we’ve got it here, and along with the gangs, there’s not one in the clans of malcontents that wouldn’t string up his own grandmother for their cause. I’ll expect you at six.” He ended the conversation without farewell, leaving Maisie looking at the telephone receiver.
“And good day to you too, Chief Superintendent,” said Maisie to the receiver’s continuous dial tone, as she reached forward, depressed the bar on the black telephone for several seconds to disconnect the line, then lifted her hand and began to dial the professor’s telephone number at home, given to her by Maurice.
“Professor Gale? My name is Maisie Dobbs . . . Oh, he has? I am so sorry to have to disturb you on a Sunday, but I wondered if I might drive up to Oxford tomorrow to see you—could you spare me an hour of your time, perhaps? . . . Eleven? Yes, perfect. I’ll see you then. Thank you, Professor.”
Maisie did not want to discuss any aspect of her work with John Gale on an unsecured telephone line. She knew operators often eavesdropped on calls, flagging one another when a “good one” came on the line, to which they would all plug in and listen. She was sure Maurice had a secure line, with telephone calls to his number routed via a special government exchange. And the lines to Scotland Yard, especially to MacFarlane’s office, would have been subject to the same level of security. But a telephone conversation with a professor at Oxford would not have been safe, and the last thing they needed was the mass confusion brought about by panic. She had already seen, in her career, the terror that can be wrought by an epidemic of fear.
MAISIE HEARD THE front door close with a thud, followed by Billy’s uneven footfall on the stairs.
“Afternoon, Miss.”
“Did you find Bert Shorter?”
“I found out where to find him, but he wasn’t there. I hung around for a while, but he didn’t turn up, so I thought I would come back here.”
Maisie looked at Billy as he took off his coat and went to his desk, where he began going through files and his daily list. She chewed the inside of her lip for a moment, wondering whether to broach the subject of Doreen’s health, then decided that now was as good a time as any.
“How’s Doreen, Billy? Will she be seeing the doctor?”
Billy sighed, shaking his head. “I’ve got a confession, Miss.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk in front of him, and could not meet Maisie’s eyes as he spoke. “She first saw the doctor, you know, about how she was feeling and some of the things she was doing, a couple of months after we lost Lizzie. I saw that she was having trouble and I thought we should do something about it.”
“Oh, Billy, and you’ve been struggling all this time?”
“Well, it wasn’t too bad when we got away to Kent, but as I’ve told you, as soon as we got back here, it all came rushing back again. And I blame myself, I do.”
“What do you mean?” Maisie pulled a chair across the floor so that she could sit in front of Billy’s desk.
“Well, look at what she’s had to put up with. First there’s me hardly sleeping for years, getting up at night to go for a walk because if I closed my eyes I didn’t like what I saw. Then because I was hurting—and you remember this—I took some of that white stuff to help me. I don’t know what I was thinking, really I don’t.”
“You can’t blame yourself. There are so many men, so many families struggling as you have.”
“But then Lizzie died, and it tipped her—as I’ve told you already. So I broke into the Canada money to take her to the doctor, and now . . . ” He pressed his lips together, as if he might himself break down.
“Now what? What’s happened now?”
“I didn’t want to say anything, because I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Billy—”
“They came for her ear
ly this morning, with the ambulance.” He supported his head in his hands, and his voice cracked as he continued. “Things got bad last night. I thought I’d make a cup of hot milk for Doreen, to help her sleep.” Billy breathed as if he had been running, and held his chest. “I had the saucepan on the stove, the milk was coming to the boil, so I turned around to ask her if she wanted a bit of sugar in the drink—and there she was with the carving knife in her hand, holding it over her wrist. I tell you, Miss, she was just about to slice into her vein, and I nigh on cut myself trying to stop her.” He paused and pressed his lips together for some seconds, as if to stop himself breaking down in tears. “I banged on the wall to the neighbor, and yelled for them to run for the doctor. I didn’t say what it was, mind, but they ain’t stupid. They know. Anyway, the doctor came, took one look at what’d been going on and said he had no choice but to commit her, especially as there were children to consider. He gave her an injection of something to knock her out, and said that if she kept on trying to hurt herself, she might go for them too. So, she’s been committed. They’ve taken her to Wychett Hill, out near Epsom. She’s been taken to the bleedin’ nuthouse.”
“Oh, Billy, it must have been much worse at home than you’ve let on.”
“It’s been bad, Miss. And she’s got a temper on her now, I can tell you.”
“What about the children?”
“When we got home yesterday I sent them over to me mum’s for the night, you know, to give Doreen a bit of a break. What with all the Christmas goings-on—you know how nippers can get. They’re still there. And once she’d gone, the house was so quiet . . . and that’s why I came over here to work. I’ll go and get the boys from their nan’s later.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Part of me thinks she’ll get the help she needs and be back with us in next to no time, and part of me wants to go down there, put my arms around her and bring her home now. But there again . . . ”
“There again what?”
His voice cracked. “There’s a bit of me that’s just relieved. I won’t have to worry about her. Won’t have to wonder if the boys’ve been fed, or if they’ve been sent to bed with nothing inside them. And there’s something else.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s got to get well, because if she’s not all right upstairs”—he tapped the side of his head—“we won’t get into Canada.”
Maisie sat back in her chair. “Oh dear, of course.”
“You know, there’s times I think we’ve copped more of a bad innings than we deserve, but then I look at what some other people have to look at in life. They’ve no work, they’re still in pain with their war wounds, they haven’t got pensions, and their kids are starving—and that’s if they haven’t lost one or two into the bargain.”
Maisie stood up and paced to the window. “And they’ve sent her to Wychett Hill? Why wasn’t she sent to the Clifton, where I used to work, or the Princess Victoria? The Clifton’s closer, easier for you to visit—and it’d be much better for Doreen.”
“The doctor said it was something to do with who could take her, and the seriousness of her condition.” He shrugged. “I mean, I don’t know the difference. They’re all asylums, as far as I’m concerned.”
Maisie began to explain. “No, not quite. Right at the outset, the Clifton was designed to have a more welcoming aspect than the old asylums. The wards are lighter, there are rooms where people can get together to play games or read. They have an outpatient wing, so I would imagine that, following initial treatment, if she were there, Doreen could be released with regular checkup visits. They are far more modern, nothing like the old-fashioned asylums. And it’s also a teaching hospital, so there are many new methods employed, plus it’s in Camberwell, so it’s not stuck out in the country and hard to get to. The patients don’t feel as if they’re being isolated away from civilization, from everything they know.”
“But she’s in Wychett Hill now. I can’t do anything about it.” Billy shook his head. “I’m stuck, just as if me hands were tied behind me back. I just couldn’t think straight. There was all this commotion, what with getting Doreen into the ambulance—I can’t believe it’s all happened, to tell you the truth.”
“I know someone at the Clifton who might help.” Maisie spoke as she walked over to the card file and pulled out a drawer. She began flicking through the cards. “In fact, I should see her soon anyway, about this case. Let me make a telephone call and see what I can do.” She crossed the room to the telephone, and picked up the receiver. “And I’ll be in touch with Maurice—perhaps he’ll be able to pull a string or two.”
“Miss, I feel awful, I mean, here I am again, in trouble and you’re sorting it out.”
“We all have trouble at times.” Maisie held up a finger to indicate that her call was answered, and when Dr. Elsbeth Masters was not available, she asked the secretary to let her know that she would call later.
Maisie replaced the receiver and sat down again opposite Billy. “Look, you go on home now, spend some time with the boys this afternoon. You can see Bert Shorter tomorrow. We’ll see if we can get Doreen into the Clifton. And then it won’t be long before she’s home, right as rain.”
Billy brightened, and thanked Maisie once more. He gathered his coat and hat, and with a wave left the office.
As soon as she heard the front door close, Maisie put her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes, pinching the top of her nose to fight fatigue. The bump on the back of her head still throbbed yet she had much to accomplish before making her way to Scotland Yard and her next meeting with Special Branch. And more important than anything, now, was getting Doreen Beale out of an asylum with antiquated ways of dealing with its patients. Old ways that, under the guise of kindness, could kill, or drive an almost-sane person mad.
Time and tide, time and tide. They wait for no man. Now another letter to Mr. Home Secretary. And one to Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. This and Mr. That. Perhaps I’ll send one to Mr. Robert Lewis MacFarlane, and even one to Miss Maisie Dobbs. Or perhaps not. Another rabbit down the hole, another mouse in the jar, another bird falling down. And will they listen now? Will they hear my voice—our voices? Voices, voices, voices. I am not one man, no, I am legion. And will they remember who we are, and what we are owed?
The man paused and held his head to one side, listening. He looked around to regard the silhouette negotiating the steps down to his door.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes . . . Croucher.
SIX
Maisie arrived at Special Branch headquarters at Scotland Yard and was shown directly to Robert MacFarlane’s office. He was in the midst of a telephone conversation as she entered, but he waved her in and pointed to a chair. Maisie looked around the room while the call was completed, noticing that it was tidier than she might have imagined, with files and papers stacked in a neat pile, and a clean blotter on the desk. On the walls a series of framed photographs were evidence of a career in the police force, from a young policeman in uniform, to senior officer in an important department. In the middle of the gallery, a single photograph bore testimony to MacFarlane’s war service, showing him in the uniform of a Scottish regiment.
“Beaumont Hamel, June the thirtieth, 1916.”
Maisie turned to face MacFarlane. Having finished his call, he had leaned forward in his chair and was making a notation on a piece of paper before placing it in a folder and turning to look at the photograph.
“Just a day before the worst day of my life.”
“Yes, I would imagine it was.”
“And in all my years in the force, the people I would really like to bang to rights are the men who thought taking on the enemy along seventeen miles of the Somme Valley was a good idea.”
Maisie nodded. “You’re talking about men who cannot be touched, Superintendent.”
“Och, aye, lass, I know. But it doesn’t stop me thinking about it. I reckon there’s more crooks over there in Westminster than there are lurking down the Mile
End Road—but let that be between us, eh?”
“I didn’t hear a thing.”
“Stratton and Darby should be here in a minute or two. I thought we could have a little chat, a bit of a conversation, about the Battersea deaths. Never thought I’d be interested in dog murder.”
“It could be just the beginning.”
“Aye, of something pretty bloody nasty, if you ask me.” He looked at her without moving for a second or two, then pressed his lips together before continuing. “Stratton’s not sure anymore that this has to do with the fellow in Charlotte Street. He thinks it’s a bit of a red herring.”
“If you recall—” Having spoken, Maisie wondered if she had chosen her words wisely—after all, the Chief Superintendent gave the impression that there was nothing he would fail to recall. “The connection to Christmas Eve was drawn because my name was mentioned.”
MacFarlane sighed, signaling a level of exasperation, not with Maisie, but with progress on the case. “Yes, and that might have thrown us off—have you thought of that?” He did not wait for an answer. “I’m very familiar with your work, Miss Dobbs, and with some of the more public cases you’ve been engaged with, and you might just as easily be known—very well known, in fact—to members of the underworld, or, given your social contacts, to the likes of Oswald Mosley’s followers.”
“I must point out that I am not at all acquainted with Mosley.”
“Oh, but you know people who are—he was seen at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Partridge, for example, and was known to be spouting his ‘come one, come all’ rhetoric at a supper there, and I believe you were present on that occasion.”
“I have known Mrs. Partridge since I was seventeen years of age. She worked tirelessly as an ambulance driver in the war, and I do not care to have her character besmirched because a certain man was under her roof. To set the record straight, yes, there was a supper. No, he was not invited, but came for drinks—prior to the guests sitting down—with people who wanted the Partridges to meet him. No, he did not stay. No, they didn’t really care for him, because he hasn’t been invited back. And finally, I was late because I was working, so by the time I arrived, Mosley had left, therefore we did not meet. I know him no better than you, Chief Superintendent.”
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