She ran her finger across the page. “Until December, when he only read two books.”
“Yes, I’ve hardly seen him throughout the month, which is why I’ve been concerned. I thought I might go to his lodgings, but it seemed rather presumptuous to do so, and then of course, December can be so busy.” He took back the ledger and placed it on the desk.
“Can you recall him saying anything after November that might have accounted for the absence?”
Tinsley removed his spectacles and returned them to his pocket. “I seem to remember him saying he’d met an old colleague again, and they’d sort of struck up a friendship.”
“I’ve been away from London lately, so I’ve hardly seen Ian,” said Maisie. “I wonder who the old colleague was?”
“He never mentioned the man’s name, and I can’t remember exactly what he said about him. I just thought Ian would come along again when he wanted a book, do some work for me, and we’d carry on as usual. He liked to discuss literature, and I was grateful for the company. It can get quiet sometimes.”
At that moment the doorbell sounded the arrival of a customer, and the man stood up. Maisie thanked him and, before he could say more, left the shop and made her way toward Tottenham Court Road.
“MISS, I RECKON I’ve got it!” Billy was already at the café and waved as Maisie approached the table where he was seated.
She leaned forward and whispered, “Ian Jennings?”
“Flat 15a, Wellington Street, Kennington,” added Billy. He stood up to go to the counter to buy two cups of tea. “And I thought I was being dead clever. Got all his particulars from the Boots library—bit of a regular, he was. Took out a book or two a week.”
“And he read a book every two days or so from a shop on Charing Cross Road.”
“Blimey, he must’ve been a clever one.”
Maisie nodded. “He was—and I’m gasping for that cuppa, Billy.”
* * *
SO AS NOT TO BE LATE, Maisie ran from the underground station to Special Branch headquarters at Scotland Yard, where she bumped into Stratton as she entered.
“Steady on there, people running in this place end up in the cells if they’re not careful.”
“Sorry—I’m a bit late and didn’t want to incur MacFarlane’s wrath.”
“I doubt you’ll do that, Miss Dobbs. Darby thinks that, as far as Robbie MacFarlane is concerned, you can do no wrong.”
Maisie stopped. “What on earth do you mean?”
Stratton turned his wrist to consult his watch. “I, however, can do wrong—come on, we’ll be late.”
Together Maisie and Stratton made their way toward MacFarlane’s office, only to find Colm Darby making notes on several sheets of paper.
“Darby.” Stratton nodded as they entered the room.
“Stratton, Miss Dobbs. Any luck today?”
Maisie was about to speak when the door opened with a thud against the wall, and MacFarlane entered the room. His face reminded Maisie of a storm-laden sky, dark and brooding, while lines around his eyes spoke of the pressure to find a man who had proved that he could and would kill to be heard.
“Stratton! What have you got for me?”
“Sir, our narks within Mosley’s party are coming up with precious little, I’m afraid, though we do have evidence to support the existence of an inner group who might be up to no good.”
“Can you infiltrate further?”
“I understand money talks. Oh, and apparently there is some kind of recruiting meeting for those interested in the party, at a church hall in Kilburn this evening. This inner circle will be in attendance, and I understand they are a more militant strain.”
“Hmm.” MacFarlane took up a penknife set alongside a collection of pens and pencils on his desk, opened the blade, closed it again, then opened it once more. He snapped it shut, set it down, and looked at Darby. “Colm? Anything?”
“It’s quiet, gov, to be sure. I’ve got my informers, but the IRA have had trouble regrouping lately. My only lead is a mere hairsbreadth of information to the effect that there’s something of a move to recruit men who aren’t all there upstairs, men who might have recently been discharged from an institution, for example. They offer them a sense of belonging, claim their loyalty, then set them off to do their dirty work. Apparently, the theory is that someone who’s not dealing with the whole deck, if you know what I mean, can be easily directed, and won’t have the same qualms about killing as a sane person.”
Maisie cringed. The suggestion that the insane might be used to kill had not occurred to her.
“And as to union sympathizers,” Darby continued, turning to Stratton, “again, there’s a group within the Red Party of Britain, real Bolsheviks, who could up the ante. Mind you, they’ve never been known to keep quiet about who they are. In the meantime, I’ve got someone on it.”
MacFarlane opened and closed the penknife again, and looked to Maisie for an account of her progress.
“And I know the identity of the Christmas Eve suicide. I discovered his name before coming over here.” Maisie was aware of the attention of all three men as she spoke. “My assistant is paying a visit to his lodgings before going home this evening. If there is anything to report, he’ll make a telephone call to this office. I would imagine we might hear from him soon.”
MacFarlane looked up. “Name?”
“Ian Jennings. At least, that was the name given to a bookseller he befriended, and at a lending library in Soho—the man was an avid reader. According to the people who had made his acquaintance, he had lost one leg below the knee in the war, and the other leg was crippled with shrapnel wounds. Apparently, he also demonstrated symptoms associated with a gas poisoning.” Maisie scraped back her chair, pulled a selection of colored wax crayons from her document case, and approached the case map, which was still pinned to the wall. MacFarlane leaned back in his chair to watch her make notations, linking various pieces of evidence with red lines and a question mark above a stick figure she named “the Gas-Man.”
“Ian Jennings began spending time with a friend—he might have been an old colleague—in December. Could this man be our letter-writer? Or could the friend be associated with either Mosley’s group, the Irish, or the unions?” She turned to Darby. “I agree with you—I think we can scale back any surveillance of the latter, though obviously we want to keep in touch with informers.” Looking across at Stratton, she continued, “Jennings might have been recruited by the Fascists—certainly their rhetoric might resonate with a man living on the edge.”
At that moment the telephone rang.
“MacFarlane!” The Superintendent bellowed, his usually tempered brogue unleashed on the operator. He held out the receiver to Maisie. “Your man.”
Maisie reached for the telephone. “Billy?”
“Miss, I’m just leaving Kennington.”
“Right you are. Did you find anything?”
“The landlord lives in the house—old gaff, it is, split into about six rooms that he lets out. Bit grim. You could hold a cup to the walls and have enough water for tea in a minute.” He coughed. “There’s a right old pea-souper tonight, Miss.” He coughed again and she heard him thump his chest. “Anyway, I talked to the landlord, slipped him a couple o’ bob, and he led me upstairs to the room. Says that he was thinking of going in, but the rent’s not due for a few days, and even though he hadn’t seen Jennings since before Christmas, who was to say he wasn’t coming and going? Mind you, I don’t know how that poor man managed those stairs, even though he was only up one flight.” Billy coughed once more. “So, he let me in and we both stood there, just staring, because the place looked like it had never been lived in. Neat as a pin, it was—apart from the mold, of course. But the bed had been stripped and the blankets folded, the furniture had all been wiped. You’d’ve thought that it was ready to be let out again—in fact, it probably is by now.”
“And you didn’t find one thing, one scrap of paper, old photographs, anything
?”
“Not until I looked behind a chest of drawers. Found a pamphlet there, about that bloke, Mosley. Looked like it had fallen down the back, not hidden there on purpose.”
“Yes, it would appear so, from your description. The tidiness in the room gives me pause, though.”
“Very creepy, if you ask me.”
Maisie sighed. “Right you are, Billy. You go home—and bring the pamphlet into the office tomorrow morning, please.”
“Miss—”
“Yes?” Maisie looked around at the three men, who were waiting for her to complete the call.
“I telephoned Wychett Hill, before I made the call to you. Turns out Doreen is resting—that’s what they said—following a ‘procedure.’”
“What sort of procedure? Did they say?”
“Well, I asked, and of course it don’t mean a thing to me. They said something about her being out for the count, and that she’d been on insulin.”
“Insulin?” Maisie was aware of her raised voice, that the men were now all looking at her.
“Is that bad, Miss? I mean, she’s never been a diabetic or anything, so I wondered . . . ”
“No, don’t worry. It was just me, a bit surprised, that’s all—nothing for you to worry about. Look, I’ll go back to the office—I should have a reply from the doctor I telephoned at the Clifton Hospital. I’ll let you know tomorrow morning. Go home to your boys, Billy—is your mother with them?”
“Yes, Miss. Right then, see you tomorrow.”
Maisie passed the telephone receiver to MacFarlane, who placed it back on the cradle.
“Everything all right?” inquired Stratton.
“Um, yes . . . well, no, not with our Mr. Jennings. Seems his premeditated suicide—or his departure, anyway—was thoroughly planned. His room looks as if no one ever lived there. I would bet that, if you sent in the boys to check for dabs, he’d have cleaned every surface and they’d come up with nothing. My assistant and the landlord made a thorough investigation of the small room, however, and they found one item of interest, which had slipped behind a chest of drawers—a pamphlet from Mosley’s New Party.”
“Hmm—I still think the suicide has been a red herring in this investigation,” said MacFarlane. “But I don’t trust that Mosley. He’s been hobnobbing with the likes of the Italian, Mussolini, and there’s talk that he’s thinking of setting up a Fascist Party here. There’s a recipe for terror, if ever I came across it. Look, here’s what I want—you and Stratton, go along to this meeting of nutcase Fascists tonight. Dress well, but not too well, look well-to-do without flaunting it, if you know what I mean. Look, listen, and find out who’s in this inner circle, and what they’re doing. And there’s something else I’d like you to look into, Miss Dobbs.”
“Yes?”
“There’s a little coven of women who seem to have taken it upon themselves to agitate for women’s pensions.”
“Yes, I know, sir. I’ve contributed to the cause. However, I take exception to the idea that they are a coven. Surely prejudice against women hasn’t reached the point where we make accusations of witchcraft?”
“You’ve contributed to their cause?”
Maisie shrugged. “Why should an unwed woman not receive a pension, when she pays the same contributions as a married man?”
“It’s not as if . . . ”
“Not as if what?”
“Well, anyway, we’ve heard word that there are agitators among their number who aren’t prepared to wait—just as you’ll find in any group. There’s always those who splinter off because they think if they show how strong they are, they’ll get what they want. There are factory girls in there following their leader, and I’ll bet some of them have the know-how to handle those gases.”
“Sir, if I might make a bold statement, I think you’re wrong, and we can’t afford to have anyone following weak leads.”
“And I think it’s one for you, Miss Dobbs, being a woman. Apparently the girls are meeting tomorrow at lunchtime. Please wheedle your way in—here’s the address.” He handed a slip of paper to Maisie. “And in the meantime, Stratton, I want the Mosley group investigated. And the unions, Colm.” He always referred to Colm by his Christian name, with due regard for their years worked together.
“But . . . ” Maisie tried not to show her exasperation.
“You need to go to your office?”
“Yes.”
“Stratton, divert to Fitzroy Square, then to her flat. Miss Dobbs, you’ll have just enough time to assume some wealthy sort of character while Stratton waits. You’ll be brought back to your flat later. All right?”
“All right, sir,” echoed Stratton and Darby.
“Miss Dobbs?”
“Yes, that’s all right, however, Superintendent, I—”
At that moment the meeting was interrupted by a single knock on the door. A detective sergeant entered the room, leaned toward MacFarlane and whispered in his ear. The Superintendent nodded and stood up as the messenger left the room. Reaching for his coat he turned to face Maisie, Stratton and Darby.
“I was due to bring the Commissioner up to date, per the Prime Minister’s request, but the situation has just become more grave. A policeman in Hyde Park, close to Speakers’ Corner, has reported finding some fifty or so birds, dead, on the path. I suspect this might be our man again, and if it is, then he has gone a step further. As you probably all know, chlorine gas did not kill birds in the war. But chlorine mixed with phosgene silenced birds across the Somme Valley. The situation is no longer medium risk, if you didn’t know already. This man knows what he’s doing. I expect another letter will be received soon. Now, get to work.” He left the room.
STRATTON REMAINED in the Invicta while Maisie ran to her office, retrieving the post on the way. There was a card from Dr. Elsbeth Masters. She expressed pleasure at hearing from Maisie and suggested she visit her at the Clifton Hospital the following day, indicating she would be available after one o’clock. Maisie hoped that Doreen could deal with the indignities of Wychett Hill until her release was secured. There was a greater cause for her concern since the telephone conversation with Billy. Many of the old therapies and treatments for depression and mental imbalances in women had been less than humane. Maisie had been appalled observing some of the Faradism treatments—electric shock—as doctors tried to encourage traumatized patients to speak again or to lose the stammer that began when a young man saw his fellow soldiers blown up alongside him. But there were other kinds of shock, and insulin therapy had been used on women in mental institutions for many years. The patient was given excessive amounts of insulin so that the body began to break down under the pressure of toxic shock. It was thought that the shock would, in effect, startle the brain and lead to a resumption of normal behavior. In Maisie’s estimation it was barbaric, and the thought of Doreen Beale enduring such terror made her doubly convinced that she must find a way to have her discharged into more tolerable care as soon as possible. She had pinned her hopes on Dr. Masters being able to provide a solution.
Until then, though, Maisie knew she had to endure the New Party meeting this evening. Later, while Stratton waited outside her flat in the Invicta, she dressed in a plain black skirt, her burgundy jacket, matching black hat with a burgundy ribbon, and black shoes. Dark clothes seemed to be the order of the day with Mosley’s followers. Her hair had grown longer since the summer, and though it was still styled in a bob, it was less boyish, and in that regard, followed fashion, though Maisie was not generally interested in such distractions.
Although she was not convinced that this avenue of investigation represented good use of her time, she could not avoid the possibility that the man who committed suicide may have attended one of the meetings. After all, she was the one maintaining that a link between the dead man and the threats could lead them to the door of a man who had already made good on his warnings that he would kill.
Stratton opened the door of the motor car as Maisie emerged from
the block of flats. “You think this is a complete waste of time, don’t you, Miss Dobbs?” he said, as she reached the Invicta.
“I confess, I do. Even with the pamphlet found in Jennings’ room, I think we’re barking up the wrong tree, and we don’t have much time to sniff out the right one. And, to be perfectly honest with you, I still wonder why I am involved at all.”
“You are successful in your investigations, and you’ve been consulted by the Yard, particularly given your association with Maurice Blanche. I would have thought you would be delighted to be taken seriously by MacFarlane. He’s a maverick, to be sure, and—if you want my opinion—I believe he’s brought you in to shake things up, to challenge the way we do things, to inspire new ways of looking at a given problem.”
“Then why does he appear to dismiss my ideas?”
“Because that’s how he goes about his work, he likes us to keep asking questions. And I seem to remember you saying that a question has the most power before we rush to answer it, when it is still making us think, still testing us.”
“Yes, of course, I’ve said that many a time, and especially when I’ve been called in to lecture your new detectives. Touché, again, Detective Inspector Stratton.” Maisie wiped condensation from the inside of the window. “I think we’re here.”
The meeting place was a church hall constructed of gray granite. The entrance hall had a pitched roof, with carved eaves just visible through the smog. The front doors, shaped like those of the neighboring church, were open, and two men flanked the entrance. Another man sat behind a desk situated at the back of the meeting room. Stratton gave their names as Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson, and as they walked in, Maisie automatically linked her arm through his. Stratton smiled down at her, and she blushed, hoping he had not seen her reaction to an unfamiliar feeling that touched her. It was not that she harbored feelings for Stratton, but rather that she was reminded of a sense of belonging, one that she had not felt for some time, not since she ended her relationship with Andrew Dene—and even then, there was always a sense of detachment. She wondered if the death, just a few months ago, of her beloved Simon had perhaps released her in some way.
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