“I believe he is a solitary person, one who would not be welcomed into such company. But he might have tried to join, perhaps while looking for a suitable vehicle for his discomfort, his anger.”
“So he might be in with one of these mobs of anarchists?”
“He could. Perhaps.” She drew back from the desk and leaned into her chair. “His body might also be disfigured. A curvature of the spine, lameness, and it might come and go, so he may well be listed as having physical disability.”
“Blimey, we’ll be going through records from now to kingdom come!”
“Yes, you’re right, it may take a while.” Maisie picked up a pencil on the table and tapped it on her palm.
“And you’ve nothing else to add? Names?”
“No, no names for you. I am sure you have contacts at the psychiatric hospitals and you can have your men in there faster than I can visit all of them.”
Billy cleared his throat. “I’ll see you downstairs, then, Mr. Urquhart.”
Urquhart stood up and extended his hand toward Maisie, who remained seated.
“I trust you’ll contact me should you acquire knowledge that will help us.”
“I have made the same promise to MacFarlane, so I must trust that he will inform you of all useful information that comes his way.”
Urquhart walked to the door, where Billy was standing ready to escort him to his motor car. He turned to Maisie as he set his hat on his head. “You’ll hear from Robbie MacFarlane again, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Before Maisie could respond, he left the room and was gone. Billy looked at Maisie and raised his eyebrows, then followed Urquhart down the stairs and returned as the motor pulled away.
“The cheek of it!” Maisie came to her feet.
“Bet you’re glad he’s gone, Miss.”
“If he’d remained one second longer, I would have boxed his ears.”
“He was a bit familiar, wasn’t he? It’s not on to talk about the Chief Superintendent like that.”
“There’s probably no love lost between Special Branch and Section Five.”
“You gave him a lot of information, I thought.”
Maisie reached for the telephone. “I can’t, ethically, withhold information. We’re under the gun, simply as people who live in London.”
“You think it’s that bad?”
Holding the telephone receiver in one hand, Maisie flicked through a series of index cards. “Yes, I do. We have to keep looking, even if we aren’t being paid.”
“Oh, I think there will be something for us.”
Maisie rested the receiver back in its cradle. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I think Urquhart had a point. If you don’t mind me saying so, I think the Chief Superintendent has taken a bit of a shine to you—I could see it myself. He won’t see you go short.”
“That’s enough of that sort of speculation, Billy. Now then, where was I? Oh, yes . . . ” She reached for the telephone once again, but it rang as her fingers touched the receiver.
“Fitzroy five—”
“Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie turned away from Billy. “Chief Superintendent. What can I do for you?”
“Our little Catherine the chemist says she wants to see you again. Could you come back to the Yard? I can have a motor car pick you up.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll come straightaway by taxi-cab.” She replaced the receiver and turned back to Billy, and spoke to him while keeping her head down as she leafed through papers on her desk.
“I have to go to Scotland Yard immediately, and I am not sure how long I’ll be.”
“What do you want me to do, Miss?”
She looked up, now with less of a blush to her complexion. “First job—review all current client work in progress, see where we are, and make sure we have something to report to our clients. We can’t afford to lose business. Next—compile a list of every single psychiatric hospital or convalescent home in London. I’d like to know how we can get a roster of patients who’ve been discharged over the course of the past two years.” She took a key from her shoulder bag and opened the bottom drawer of her desk. Taking out an envelope, she removed several pound notes and held them out to Billy. “You may need this to ease the flow of information.”
“Right you are, Miss. Meet back here at the usual time?” He held out Maisie’s blue woolen coat for her.
“Of course. See you later.” She smiled as she left the room, but called back as she ran downstairs, “And, Billy, don’t wait if I seem to be taking a long time. You should go home.”
Billy walked to the window to watch Maisie run down the steps and toward Warren Street Station, then he turned to the bank of wooden drawers that held the collection of index cards. There was much to be accomplished before he saw his employer again.
AS MAISIE APPROACHED Scotland Yard, she counted four police vehicles screeching away from the curb, bells ringing as both motor and horse-drawn traffic pulled aside to let them pass.
“Oh, no . . . ” she spoke the words aloud as she ran toward the main entrance, only to almost collide with MacFarlane, Stratton and Darby as they left the building.
“Excellent timing, Miss Dobbs.” He pointed to an idling black motor car. “There’s been another attack. We’ll brief you on the way.”
Maisie took a seat alongside the passenger window, while MacFarlane sat next to her and Stratton and Darby took the pull-down seats to face them.
“Has anyone been killed?” Maisie knew that this time the stakes would be ratcheted up a notch, that human life would be at risk.
“Yes. A junior minister with the Home Office, at his flat on Gower Street. They’re cordoning off the street now and my instructions are not to touch the body. Sir Bernard Spilsbury and his cohorts have been called.”
“Do we know the cause of death?”
“He was found by a housekeeper, and from the description—oh, merciful God help us . . . ” MacFarlane closed his eyes and pressed his lips together as if in prayer. Both Stratton and Darby looked away, mirroring each other’s unease.
“What has he used this time, Chief Superintendent?” Maisie thought she knew the answer, even before it was spoken.
“I can’t fathom how he’s done it, but from the description we’ve received, it has all the hallmarks of mustard gas.”
Maisie felt the color drain from her cheeks, her hands become cold and damp, but she recovered quickly given the urgent circumstances. “Not only must we not touch the body, but people should be evacuated until we know the extent of possible exposure. And no one else should go into that building without protective clothing—gowns, gloves and masks.”
“Don’t worry—I’ll get on to it as soon as we’re there,” said Stratton. “I’ll have someone procure gowns and whatever else we need from the hospital.”
MacFarlane was still deep in thought, talking as much to himself as to the group. “Could someone, an ordinary person, not only develop such a substance, but bring it to a private address and then kill another person with it?”
Maisie responded. “It would be a difficult task, but not insurmountable, especially for someone trained in the handling of volatile matter. Until we have a laboratory analysis we don’t even know if it is mustard gas—it might be something completely new, or certain compounds might have been used to leave clues to tempt the olfactory system into thinking it is something known.”
“But now he isn’t even giving us the time he stated in his last letter—you’ve got forty-eight hours here, a day there, and it feels as if every day he’s throwing out more proof that he can run rings around us. How does he do it? There must be a gang, a crew. One man could not pull off this sort of murder—that’s what it is, murder.”
“He may have no concept of time. The deadlines quoted in the threats are just what comes into his head.” She turned to face MacFarlane. “You see, this man is just existing in his everyday life. He may not be aware of passing time except in the
vacuum that is his world. There is only one point of control, and that is in this ability to work with chemicals.”
“And it’s not little Catherine Jones, is it, Miss Dobbs?”
“Not unless she can creep out of your cells in the middle of the morning.”
“I apologize if . . . ”
Maisie was aware of Stratton and Darby exchanging glances and directed her next question to ensure they were included. “Inspector Darby, do you agree with my speculation regarding our man?”
Darby looked at his hands. “Like you, I think he is at the edge. We may have only hours before he strikes again. However . . . however, he may now be exhausted. This outing may have worn him out, so he may lie low, may sleep fitfully for some hours, especially if—as you have suggested—he is poorly nourished. We may not hear from him for some time, but again, we may hear tomorrow.”
The brakes screeched as the vehicle came to a halt outside the Georgian terraced house on Gower Street, close to Bedford Square, and MacFarlane barely waited for the motor car to stop before he swung the door open and stepped onto the street and toward the front door. “Get these people off the street, Constable.”
Stratton remained aboard, ready to go straight to University College Hospital. Maisie spoke to him before joining MacFarlane. “Inspector Stratton, it’s most important you ensure the housekeeper is kept in isolation at the hospital, and that everyone who has had contact with her is also quarantined. Talk to the doctors—they must know that they are likely dealing with a very dangerous substance. There may be no cause for concern and though I don’t want to cause panic, my instinct tells me to be careful.”
“I’ll send the driver back with the gowns and gloves, and ensure the registrar is notified.”
Maisie and Darby stepped from the motor car, which sped off along Gower Street with the bell ringing. They joined MacFarlane, who was speaking to a constable. He pointed to a gathering on the other side of the road.
“I want this road completely closed from Great Russell Street all the way down to the Euston Road, and I want all streets blocked from Tottenham Court Road across to Woburn Place. The only people on this thoroughfare should be in uniform.”
“Not quite, Robbie.” Gerald Urquhart slipped past another police constable and stood beside Maisie. “Nice to see you back in the fold, Miss Dobbs.”
“Never mind the pleasantries, Gerry.” MacFarlane turned to walk into the house.
“Wait!” Maisie reached for MacFarlane’s sleeve. “Chief Superintendent, I cannot impress upon you the importance of delaying your investigation of the premises until suitable covering has been procured.” She turned to the constable. “Is anyone in there?”
“The photographer went in some time ago, and another constable. Should have been out by now, I would have thought.”
“Blast!” Maisie opened her document case and removed two linen masks. She handed one to Darby. “Come on, we’d better go in.” She reached into her bag for a pair of rubber gloves, which she pulled onto her hands, then turned to MacFarlane and Urquhart. “I’m sorry, I don’t carry supplies for an army, just myself. I think it would be best if you waited—I am sure the driver will be back soon. Is it all right if we continue, Chief Superintendent? I thought it best to give the mask to Inspector Darby, given his forensic knowledge.”
In truth, Maisie did not want to enter the property without a witness and, given Urquhart’s earlier veiled insinuation that MacFarlane may have designs on her, she did not want him to see her and the Chief Superintendent crossing the threshold together.
“Go ahead—I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
Maisie and Darby stepped inside the house, closing the door behind them. The hallway was typical of those found in terrace houses built from Georgian times onward. It was long and narrow, with a staircase ahead leading to the upper floors. A dado rail ran along the wall several feet up from the skirting board, with dark green paint below the wooden rail, and cream above. To the right, doors led to reception rooms, and if one continued along the passage past the staircase, there would be stairs down to the kitchen, and there would also be a means to enter a small walled garden, possibly through French doors at the back of the property.
Maisie’s eyes began to water, and as she looked at Darby, he was pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his eyes.
“Nasty stuff, whatever it is.”
Maisie nodded. “Hello! Anyone there?”
A groaning came from a room to the right of the hallway.
Maisie and Darby ran toward the room, where they found the photographer and the police constable slumped on the floor, and the body of the junior minister partially covered in a white sheet.
“We need to get them out of here, now—look, the back door. There’s a small garden at the back.” She looked around the room. “Cover your hands with something before you touch them.” Darby opened doors until he found a lavatory, and grabbed a cloth towel hanging next to a hand basin. Together they dragged the two collapsed men out into the cold, diminishing daylight of a winter afternoon, now silent, given the lack of traffic noise from Gower Street.
“Close the door into the parlor, and if you can find a bowl or bucket, bring me cold water to bathe their skin—and bathe your hands and face too, anything exposed to air in the house.”
Though she was in the garden, Maisie heard the front door slam in the distance.
“What the bloody hell’s going on?” MacFarlane shouted as he entered the house with Urquhart at his heels, both wearing doctors’ gowns, surgical masks and rubber gloves.
“Exposure to the substance the visitor employed to kill the junior minister,” said Maisie as the men came out into the garden. “They’ll be all right, but we have to get them down to the hospital—and quarantined, like the housekeeper.”
“The PM should be informed,” said Urquhart, his tone dictatorial.
“Sod the PM for just a minute, will you, Gerry? I swear, I will knock your block off one of these days, so I will.”
“Now then, Robbie, I don’t know who you think you are, but—”
“Don’t you come the old ‘I don’t know who you think you are’ with me, Mister Cambridge University. This is my murder, my case, and I’m in charge until the Commissioner decides otherwise. Right then, now we’ve got our matching frocks on, if you want to stay and observe, shut up and follow me.”
Urquhart did not look at Maisie, who had exchanged glances with Darby and both had raised their eyebrows. She came to her feet and reached out for one of the white hospital gowns held by MacFarlane.
“Thank you, Chief Superintendent. I’ll show you where the body is.” Maisie led the way into the parlor, cautioning the men first. “Keep your masks on at all times, gentlemen, and do not under any circumstances touch the body with your bare hands.”
“I think I’ve seen it all by now, lass, no need to warn me, though Gerry here might faint.”
“Careful, Robbie.” Urquhart’s retort was bitter, his face still flushed with embarrassment.
The junior minister had been a man of approximately forty years of age, and was wearing a shirt, tie and woolen trousers when the attacker had struck. His jacket had been placed on the back of a chair and there was an open box with papers strewn across the table. The flesh of his face appeared to be melting across his cheekbones, and the skin at his neck was sunken, as if pulled in by the fight to breathe through what was left of his nose, and the frothing mass that had once been his mouth. With her gloves on, Maisie pressed against the back of the dead man’s hands, only to see the skin concertina like the top of a custard when pulled away by a serving spoon. The veins broke open, and blood oozed in small clotted lumps.
“I would say that he invited the attacker into the house, brought him into the parlor.” Maisie pointed to the table. “The victim reached for some papers—it’s possible he was looking for something to write on—and when he turned around a substance was unleashed upon him with some sort of pneumatic spray,
perhaps, to have accomplished such coverage. Pain was immediate, and he was blinded, falling backward. His tongue is doubtless little more than liquid where he opened his mouth to scream, and you will see his lungs have belched up froth as they have also liquefied. His hands took the brunt when a second dose was administered.”
Urquhart began to cough, and left the room. He could be heard retching in the garden as policemen in white overalls, masks and gloves helped the photographer and constable to a waiting ambulance.
“Was it a gas, do you think?” MacFarlane spoke softly, then began to rub his forehead.
“We should all leave this room now,” said Maisie. At that point, the police pathologist and two assistants arrived, each of them dressed as if to paint a room, rather than remove a body from the premises.
Within half an hour the house was evacuated of both the living and the dead, and with the hospital gowns removed for incineration, Maisie was on her way back to Scotland Yard with MacFarlane, Stratton and Darby.
“So, what do you think, Miss Dobbs?” Once again, MacFarlane singled out Maisie to answer a question.
“I think that, somewhere in London, there is a very clever man who has been marginalized by society. He may just have invented a new and very dangerous substance. At first blush, it could be taken for mustard gas, but I’m convinced it’s something different—for a start, I don’t like the look of this white powdery residue, but the laboratory people will no doubt get to the bottom of its chemical structure.” She shook her head and looked around the room. “What we have to assume is that a man who has the ability to kill one person can use this same substance to kill many.”
“And the way he’s escalating his attacks, he could kill and maim a whole street—or the whole of London—tomorrow,” added Stratton.
“Urquhart will have alerted the PM by now.” MacFarlane looked out the window as he spoke.
“What does that mean for the investigation, sir?” asked Stratton.
“It means it becomes a three-ring circus. The Funnies, Special Branch, those boys at Mulberry Point, and not forgetting the mad professors. That’s all I bloody well need—a cartload of boffins to deal with.”
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