Among the Mad

by Jacqueline Winspear

  The words echoed into the room, and then there was silence. Maisie looked at MacFarlane as he lifted his spoon again, and gauged the degree to which she should take him into her confidence, whether to share her belief that she would find a thread of possibility at the hospital tomorrow. There was a sense she had, an excitement that welled in her chest when she was close to the trickle of information that would lead to a stream, and the stream to a river. That sensation was with her now. She set down her spoon and leaned forward.

  “Chief Superintendent.”

  MacFarlane had just lifted a spoonful of broth to his mouth and stopped when she spoke. “Yes, Miss Dobbs?”

  “I think tomorrow’s appointment will bear fruit.”

  “I know you do.”

  She nodded. “I believe I am close, very close.”

  “Aye, lass, you may be. But we all have to go on with the search, which is why Stratton is keeping an eye on the Fascists, and Colm Darby is still sniffing away at his Irish leads. We’ve seconded two of Dorothy Peto’s women detectives to shadow our latter-day suffragettes, and we have infiltrated the unions. Our friend Urquhart tells me that there are German agents who have been trying to test their own nerve gases on our underground railway for months now—it’s a wonder he told me anything, but this is no time for us all to take to our corners, much as we have to fight the urge to get into a huddle. And you have your orphans, and your doctors and your professors. We’re all hoping for that little tap on the shoulder, aren’t we? The wee bit of excitement when we know we’ve got something.”

  Maisie nodded.

  MacFarlane’s voice had taken on a softness she had not heard before. “So, you go on down your path, and you keep me well informed. And if you get that fish on the line, don’t think you can land him yourself. I’ve seen your resolve, seen what you’ve accomplished—remember, it was my job to investigate you—but bringing in this man may take more than even you think.” He finished the second bowl of soup, wiped his mouth with the table napkin, and leaned back. “Now, I don’t want to outstay my welcome, Miss Dobbs. You’ve done me proud.”

  “I’m glad to have had the company, Chief Superintendent.” Maisie stood up. “I’ll get your coat and hat.”

  Having closed the main door behind Robbie MacFarlane and watched as he walked into the night, Maisie returned to the flat and locked the door. While attending to washing the plates, cutlery and utensils, she realized that she really was glad to have had the company. Though there was the occasional supper engagement, so often her evenings were spent alone, her staple diet being the large pan of soup she made at the beginning of the week. And later, as she donned her flannel pajamas and pulled a pillow from her bed to the floor, where she sat cross-legged to meditate before sleeping, she acknowledged that the Chief Superintendent gave no more weight to her inquiry than he had to the other leads being investigated by Special Branch and Military Intelligence. But he had made her feel as if she were accepted, part of his group. He let her know that she was not alone, that, in a way, she belonged.

  December 31st, 1931

  Maisie began her journey before seven in the morning. Despite being close to the river, and the mist that wafted in swirls around motor cars, horses and riverboats, the morning was crisp, and the ribbon of grass alongside the flats dusted with frost. The roads would doubtless be icy, so she expected the journey to take longer than usual.

  Setting off, Maisie crossed the Albert Bridge and made her way toward the Brighton road, which would take her out of London, through Streatham and Coulsden, then down to Redhill. As was her habit, she used the journey to reflect upon the case in hand, and thought back again to the meeting with Anthony Lawrence. There was something changed about him, she thought. Was it a certain disillusionment with his work? At one time he had demonstrated the mark of an innovative thinker, but now, though he seemed no less dedicated to his role, there was something jaded about his demeanor. Perhaps writing the book was part of an endeavor to rekindle his former energy. She also remembered that, despite promises, he had never managed to effect access to the hospital’s records so that she might peruse the lists of men discharged from care during the past several years. And she hadn’t pressed him because they had discovered the name of the Christmas Eve suicide. She reminded herself that, though Christmas seemed as if it were months ago now, it was only a few days past, with the New Year almost at hand—not the best time to try to overcome the machinations of a hospital’s administrative departments. And besides, she knew Urquhart’s men were supposed to be doing just that, and hoped they would alert her if they found something of note.

  She checked the hour on a church clock as she drove through Purley, and wondered if she might have time to go on to Oxford following the meeting with Dr. Rigby. She wanted to question John Gale further, but reminded herself that she would need to collect the substance sample from MacFarlane before setting off again.

  The sun was poking through as she approached Merstham, where she stopped to check the address of the Foundling Hospital, before proceeding on to Redhill, the next town. Already busy by half-past eight in the morning, the High Street was flanked by two lines of shops and a large red-brick town hall, another testament to Victorian ostentation. Soon she was approaching the Foundling Hospital, now housed in a former convent, a building almost as dark and gothic as the Wychett Hill Asylum.

  Dr. Rigby greeted Maisie with the efficiency she had observed before in those responsible for the institutionalized. He checked his watch upon greeting her and repositioned the monocle that made him seem older than his years, though he must have been past sixty. With his furrowed brow emphasizing his importance, she thought he resembled photographs she had seen of Rudyard Kipling, when the newspapers published photographs of the author and his wife visiting the battlefields of northern France in search of their only son’s final resting place.

  “Dr. Rigby, thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  “Quite, Miss Dobbs. I understand this is a police matter.”

  “Yes. I am currently seconded to Scotland Yard—I have a letter of introduction, if you would like to see it.”

  “If you don’t mind, yes.” He held out his hand to a chair, then waited until she was settled before taking his seat on the opposite side, next to a window overlooking the playground.

  Maisie took an envelope from her document case and handed it to Rigby, who adjusted his monocle several times as he read.

  “Detective Chief Superintendent . . . Special Branch.” He raised his eyebrows, a move requiring another repositioning of the monocle, then handed the letter back to Maisie. “What can I do for you?”

  “Sir, I’m looking for a man who might have been one of your children, perhaps some thirty-five years ago. I have little to go on, except that I suspect he would be in his mid-thirties at the present time.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Oliver.”

  “May I ask what the man has done, why he is wanted by the police?”

  “I am sorry, Dr. Rigby, I cannot divulge that information. However, the man I am looking for is—I think—an intelligent and academically accomplished man.”

  Rigby shook his head. “Then you won’t find him among our boys.” He leaned back, then forward, and clasped his hands together, circling his thumbs around each other as if part of his body had to continue moving at all times. “Right from the start, our boys here are groomed for military service, a fine place for a young man who has none of the advantages of a higher-born life.” He pointed to photographs on the wall, of young boys in military-style trousers and jackets, and girls in the uniform of domestic service. “Our girls are steered toward service, where they will have a roof over their heads and, with a strong moral compass instilled in them, will not repeat the folly of their mothers.”

  “And what if a child shows a particular academic inclination?”

  Rigby pulled a collection of school exercise books toward him. “This is my marking for this morning. Have a look
through the children’s work.”

  Maisie took several of the books from the top and began to leaf through. The children’s penmanship was perfect, the lines sharp, the curves exact. And though the number work did not demonstrate academic excellence, there was a level of workaday proficiency that would stand each child in good stead.

  “When our children leave us, they leave with the ability to care for themselves. They can read and write, they understand the importance of personal hygiene and a strong individual discipline. In addition, they are exposed to the arts, to music and to a healthy level of recreation. But there are no academic miracles, no pauper-to-university stories to tell you.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Rigby.” Maisie replaced the books on the top of the pile. “However, I wonder, might it be possible to look at your records for the years 1892 to the century’s turn? Just in case I find something?”

  Rigby shrugged. “As you wish. Of course, the records are packed away—we expect to move again in a few years, into new premises in Hertfordshire. The old convent here is but a stopgap. However, our records are catalogued. I’ll have them brought to my office here.”

  Less than an hour later, Maisie closed the last ledger and placed it back into the box from which it came. She checked that she had replaced every folder, every book and piece of paper as it was found, and stood up, rubbing the small of her back. She had discovered nothing. Nothing among the Thomases, Fredericks, Arthurs, Alberts and Williams. Many of them had joined the army, and most of them were likely now dead. As instructed when Dr. Rigby left her to work in his office, she pulled a cord on the wall, and one of the school’s secretaries came into the room.

  “I’m finished now. Could you inform Dr. Rigby that I am ready to leave?”

  Rigby returned, and began walking her to the front entrance. Maisie stopped to watch children playing a team game on an adjacent field.

  “They are happy enough, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “They have fresh air, they have food, an education, and our staff here are as dedicated today as Sir Thomas Coram was when he founded the hospital.” He walked down the steps, and turned to Maisie. “I must confess, I am not sorry that you are leaving empty-handed. It would be a sad day when the actions of one of our boys or girls attracted the attention of Scotland Yard in such a way. Of course, there are the wayward ones, but the fact that you are involved with Special Branch in a police investigation is gravely ominous.”

  Maisie nodded and smiled. “Thank you. I am grateful for your time and assistance.”

  She drove slowly along the graveled driveway, careful in case a child should run across chasing a ball. Pulling out through the gates and onto the road, she shook her head. She had been sure, absolutely convinced, that she would find the thread she was looking for today. And now she had nothing, and that nothing tugged at her all the way through Merstham, through Purley, Coulsden, Streatham, across London toward Lambeth and Scotland Yard. She would report to MacFarlane and watch his face as he observed her disappointment. Robbie MacFarlane would know how she felt. She would telephone Billy to gather the list of orphanages, and in all likelihood MacFarlane would ask if another line of inquiry might be more fruitful. She parked the MG, entered Scotland Yard, and was taken to Special Branch headquarters by a police constable.

  “There you are!” MacFarlane’s voice echoed down the corridor when he heard Maisie talking to Colm Darby, who had also just arrived back at the Yard. “There’s been a man on the telephone asking for a Miss Maisie Dobbs.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Name of Rigby. Didn’t want to talk to me, or to anyone else, but wanted Miss Dobbs, ‘if you would be so kind’—be so kind, if you don’t mind—as to place a telephone call to him.” MacFarlane pointed to his office. “So you’d better get to it. And when you’re done with that, I have something for you to take to Oxford.”

  Maisie stepped into MacFarlane’s office and reached for the telephone while taking an index card from her document case. “Could you put me through to a number in Redhill? Yes. Thank you.” She gave the number and waited.

  “Rigby.”

  “Dr. Rigby.”

  “Ah, Miss Dobbs. I had a thought after you left. Strange—didn’t put two and two together before. I tried to catch up with you, even sent a boy running after your motor car, but you’d gone.”

  “What is it? Do you recall a boy who fits the bill?”

  “In a way, yes, I do, though he was not one of ours, strictly speaking.”

  “Go on.”

  “Sydney Oliver will probably go down as one of our most dedicated teachers. He spent every moment at the school, put his life into his work.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Oh, Sydney and his wife—Amelia—are gone now. Amelia passed away some time ago now, and Sydney died a couple of years past.” The line crackled.

  “Hello!”

  “Yes, still here. Anyway, to continue—no, it’s not Sydney I thought you would be interested in, though he was an interesting study. Brilliant mathematician, but he devoted himself to our children rather than to life as an academic. Amelia was a housemother of sorts and taught our girls the domestic arts. But it’s their son I wanted to tell you about. Sydney and Amelia came to us before Stephen was born, having made a pact to dedicate their lives to helping unwanted children. So, he was, in fact, a late child, born while they worked at the Foundling Hospital.”

  “And how old would Stephen Oliver be now?”

  “If I am right, he would be thirty-six years old. However, there’s more I must tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  “He was considered to be something of a genius, always excelling at school.”

  “Where was he educated?”

  “That’s the thing—Sydney and Amelia saw fit to send him to boarding school as soon as he was old enough. At six he went away to a prep school, in Eastbourne, I think. Then off to Kings College at Canterbury at eleven.”

  “You sound as if you found that odd.”

  “I confess, I did find it odd—and I am sorry, I was so busy thinking about the children here today that it didn’t occur to me that you might be interested in Stephen.” He paused and the line wheezed again. “You see, they had wanted a child very much—so I was always surprised that they sent him away at such a young age. There were perfectly good schools in London, and though I could see sending him at eleven or twelve, six seemed a bit much, and he was awfully upset. Here at the Foundling Hospital, we try to ensure our children are not unduly wounded by life in an institution, and Sydney was one of those who was almost soft on the children, and had a great deal of empathy for them. So you can imagine how it seemed, when they sent their own son away.”

  “I get the impression that, in your estimation, Sydney Oliver did not have that same empathy for Stephen.”

  “He held him to very high standards of accomplishment and behavior. They even had a tutor for him in the holidays, so he hardly saw the light of day. He went up to Oxford at seventeen, if I remember correctly. I confess, I lost track of him after that—it seems that when children reach a certain age, suddenly they’re adults and before you know it, you find out that their parents are off to see the grandchildren. Only that wasn’t the case with Stephen.”

  “He wasn’t married?”

  “No, it’s not that. He was killed, in the war.”

  Maisie felt the excitement drain from her body. “Oh. I see.”

  “But he was quite brilliant, at the time considered to be on his way to greatness in his field. He was a scientist.”

  “You have been most helpful, Dr. Rigby. Is there anything more you can tell me?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but if you like, I’ll look through his father’s record of employment here, and if I come across any details that might be of interest, I will be in touch again.”

  “Thank you. And I’m sorry to have to remind you, but I must ask for your confidence in this matter.”

&nbs
p; “Of course. I am responsible for the lives of many children who come to me as foundlings. I am well used to secrets.”

  Maisie bid the man good-bye and replaced the telephone receiver.

  “First you look excited, now you look as if a bomb has dropped,” said MacFarlane as he reentered his office.

  Maisie sighed, and without thinking, slumped into his chair. “I had my man, then he slipped through my fingers.” She ran her hands through her hair. “And to make matters worse, I could barely hear Rigby when he was speaking.”

  “And how did he slip through your fingers?”

  “He was killed, in the war.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I was just told as much.” Maisie bit her lip and ran the telephone cord through her fingers.

  MacFarlane smiled and narrowed his eyes. “But you don’t quite believe it, do you?”

  She shook her head. “You’re right. I don’t. I’ve worked on enough cases to doubt the official line regarding the dead and missing.”

  MacFarlane leaned across the desk toward Maisie, resting his weight on his knuckles. “Then keep chewing on that bone, Maisie Dobbs. My gut tells me you might be on to something. Now then, if you don’t mind, you’re sitting in the chair of the Detective Chief Superintendent.”

  Maisie apologized and stood up. She thanked MacFarlane and moved toward the door.

  “And thank you, again, for that lovely drop of soup yesterday.”

  Stratton was passing the open door, so walked alongside as she left the office. “What soup?” he asked.

  FOURTEEN

  Before leaving Scotland Yard, Maisie was given a vial of the powder extracted from the clothing of the junior minister who had been killed by a suspicious substance. The pathologists had corked the vial and sealed it with wax, then wrapped it in cotton wool before placing it in a small tin resembling one that might have been used for tobacco, the lid also being sealed with wax. Maisie placed the tin in a plain brown paper bag and pushed it down into her document case. MacFarlane warned her to take care, though they had agreed that it was better she travel alone and without a police escort, in case her movements were being observed.