Among the Mad

by Jacqueline Winspear

  But the fact remained that it was Tuesday and not the end of the week, so after sitting with Billy to go through other current cases, and to look at one or two inquiries regarding her services that had been received since the turn of the year, she knew it was time to begin the process she referred to as her “final accounting.” This accounting did not require her to add or subtract rows of numbers, but rather to look back at a case and consider what had happened, person by person, event by event, and then to close the book so that work on new cases might begin with renewed energy. Indeed, it bore a resemblance to the passing of the old year, when one took stock of what had passed and started anew on New Year’s Day, filled with determination and looking forward to what might come next.

  Having given Anthony Lawrence due consideration, she realized that she could not let her previous regard for his work slide into the quicksand of recent experience. She had no knowledge of what had passed between Lawrence, Gale and the men of Military Intelligence, Section Five, but she knew that she could not burn her bridges. His actions had surely been directed by ambition and a professional curiosity, for even though he was a doctor, he was also a scientist, his area of expertise the geography of the human mind.

  She took up her pen and began to write a letter to Lawrence. It was not a long communiqué, but spoke of her regard for his work, her appreciation for what he tried to accomplish with the men under his care, and how much she hoped his book would bring him the acclaim he deserved. She did not say that she thought he must have learned much from Stephen Oliver, and would continue to owe him a debt. Nor did she say that she thought his association with Urquhart ill-considered, as she suspected he may have had little choice. As her pen wavered toward the end of the letter, she wondered how she might refer to the previous day’s heated exchanges without apology. She regretted neither her words nor her accusations, so puzzled over how she might phrase a sentence that would reflect her sadness that there had been such a level of discord, while also expressing that she felt betrayed by a level of subterfuge that undermined the words: First, do no harm. Tapping her pen on the desk, she wrote:

  I am sure we will both reflect on the events of the past weeks with regret, and with concern that there might have been a more positive outcome. For my part, I believe there is much I can learn from what has come to pass. I remember you to be a man who cared deeply for his patients, and who always looked at what might have been done in this situation or that, and I believe the case of Stephen Oliver has given us both pause to reconsider how we could have conducted ourselves in our work in a different way, a way that might have been better for all concerned . . .

  Maisie tapped her pen once again, then finished the letter with a note to the effect that she hoped that, when the body of Stephen Oliver had served its purpose, there could be a respectful disposal of the remains, and that she would like to pay her respects at that time. She asked Lawrence if he would be so kind as to inform her when a service of cremation or burial would take place.

  With the envelope sealed, Maisie decided to walk to the post office to mail the letter herself. Having struggled to find the appropriate words, she thought it best to send the letter before she tore it open, ripped up the pages and started again. Halfway along Warren Street, she was drawn by the three golden spheres above the pawn shop and decided to drop in to see if there were any inexpensive frames for sale. Pawn shops had been doing brisk trade in recent months, with all manner of goods going up for sale at knockdown prices. She peered though the window, then opened the door and went in, the bell ringing to summon the proprietor.

  “Miss Dobbs, keeping well?”

  “Very well, Mr. Lombard, though it is a bit nippy out, isn’t it?” She removed her gloves and unwound her scarf.

  “Not going to get any better, if my rheumatism is anything to go by.” He took out a handkerchief and rubbed his half-moon glasses. “Looking for anything in particular, or just looking?”

  Maisie laughed. “I’m not your best customer, am I? All I ever do is poke around and never buy anything.”

  “No charge for looking.”

  “I’m actually after some smallish frames, for photographs.”

  The man shuffled around the counter to the front of the shop, and began moving an assortment of items displayed on a bookcase—a pair of binoculars, a geometry set, a collection of gentleman’s brushes, a glove stretcher, a camera—before reaching for a trio of matching silver frames.

  “Wait a minute.” Maisie came to his side and pointed to the camera. “Is that easy to use?”

  “Nearly new, that. Owner bought it in New York, then came back to London and went bankrupt, if you can believe it.”

  “Oh, I believe it.” She reached for the camera and began studying it, turning it around with care.

  “There’s a handy little book that came with it, and rolls of film too. They’re all up there in a box. It’s called the Number Two C Autographic Camera, and it’s got this thing that goes with it. They call it a rangefinder, helps you out when people are standing a bit of a way off.” He looked up toward the top shelf and squinted over his half-moon glasses, then reached for a box. “See, it’s made by the Eastman Company. Lovely piece of work, that.”

  “But do you think I could operate it?”

  “Have a look at this book—looks simple enough to me.”

  Maisie studied the book, then opened the camera and pulled out the bellows. “How much?”

  “Well, reckon that cost a pretty penny when it was first bought, you know. Let me have a look in the ledger.”

  Mr. Lombard stepped behind the counter and opened a thick ledger, running his finger down a list of entries. “What was the number on the ticket, Miss Dobbs?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty-three.”

  “Here it is. Now let me see. Yes, I can let you have that for thirty bob.”

  “One pound ten?” She reached out to return the camera to its place. “I don’t think I can run to that.”

  “What about a guinea?”

  “Fifteen bob?”

  “Phew, that’s a bit of a difference, eh? A pound?”

  “Seventeen and six if you add the frames.”

  “You’ll see me poor, Miss Dobbs.”

  She smiled and looked around at the contents of the shop. “Oh no I won’t, Mr. Lombard. Not with this little earner you’ve got here.”

  The pawnbroker laughed as Maisie pulled a one-pound note from her purse and set it on the counter. He packed up the camera along with six rolls of red and yellow film, and the small instruction book, then balanced the frames on top and gave Maisie her change. “You might be back for more frames then?”

  “I’m sure I will. Good-bye, Mr. Lombard.”

  AS SOON AS SHE arrived back at the office, Maisie penned another letter, this time to John Gale. She did not need to see the professor again, but he was a friend of Maurice’s and he had been as fair as he could in his dealings with her, so recognition of his time and expertise were warranted. She found his work unsettling, but she thanked him for his time, and his willingness to help her.

  When she had finished with her letter writing and other tasks, she gathered her document case and shoulder bag and the box containing her new camera. Balancing the frames on top, she left the office and collected her MG, which was parked in Fitzroy Street. But she wasn’t going back to her flat. Despite the fact she had drawn back from visiting Lawrence and Gale, there was one place she wanted to see again, to consider from afar, before returning home. She started the motor and began driving out of London on the Reading road.

  She parked the MG on a hill overlooking Mulberry Point in the distance, close to a sign that informed anyone passing that entry beyond the barbed wire was forbidden, that the land was government property and that trespassers would not only be taken to court, but could be shot. The wind whipped around her as she stepped from the MG. Maisie counted ten or more huts clustered together in the shallow valley, and she noticed that, to the left of the comp
ound, construction work was in progress. More building, more laboratories in which to invent and test the weapons of war. She remained for a while, considering Mulberry Point and wondering if spring itself might pause in such a locale. Did birds fly overhead as the grass grew tall? And could flowers bloom around a place where people’s minds were on the business of killing? Where they worked toward the invention of a means of death less visible to the naked eye, with no sound, unless one counted the screams of the poor souls who were struck down.

  January 6th, 1932

  “How’s Doreen settling in at the Clifton, Billy?” Maisie found that, increasingly, her first question of the morning was regarding Billy’s family.

  Billy set an enamel mug filled with hot tea on Maisie’s desk, and picked up another for himself. He stood with his back to the fire as he replied. “Not so bad, Miss. They drugged her up a bit for the ambulance, so she’s been a bit wobbly on her pins. I only saw her the once, but I’m going in on Saturday.”

  “With the boys?”

  “No, Dr. Masters says it’s best not to bring them yet, though Doreen might be up for it the following weekend.”

  “Has she spoken about treatment?”

  “First of all she said they needed to stabilize her diet. None of this milk-only lark, and no procedures—well, at least until she’s been there for a bit, then we’ll have to see.”

  Maisie nodded. “I’m going in to see Dr. Masters today. Nothing to do with Doreen, though. I have to complete my final accounting, and wanted to see her so that I can get on with drawing my work on this case to a close.”

  “Wonder if she’ll say anything about Doreen?” Billy turned to face Maisie.

  “She won’t tell me anything that she wouldn’t tell you, Billy. Don’t worry, your Doreen is in very good hands now.”

  “I know, I know, but . . . it was seeing her in that other place, the way they strapped her down, the things they did to her when she hadn’t even been there for five minutes.”

  “But she’s away from Wychett Hill now, so you have to get that particular institution out of your mind.” Maisie sipped her tea. “How are the boys?”

  “On the one hand they’re missing their mother, but on the other, I think they’re scared of her coming home. My old mum has been a diamond, coming in to help out, so they’ve been used to things being calmer, if you know what I mean. But I worry about her, because even though it’s not far for her to walk to ours, she’s not getting any younger.”

  “Is Bobby still having trouble?”

  “Not so much, not really. I did what you said, tried not to draw attention to it, just kept him nice and dry. Bit of a job, in this weather.”

  Maisie looked out of the window and saw snow falling again. “It doesn’t help matters, does it?” She turned her attention back to Billy. “Don’t worry, you’re doing everything you can. It will be all right.”

  ELSBETH MASTERS WAS sitting sideways next to her desk, with her stockinged feet resting against the side of the radiator, when Maisie arrived at her office.

  “Oh, come in, come in. Do excuse me, but I cannot stand this cold weather. It goes straight to my bones.”

  “I’ve felt like that since I was in France, in the war. A friend once asked me how I could be that cold and not be dead.”

  Masters laughed. “What can I do for you? Is this about Mrs. Beale?”

  “No, I wanted to see you to thank you again for your time, not only in helping out the Beales, but in answering my questions when we last met.”

  Masters swiveled her chair to face Maisie, setting her feet on the floor. “And was it a case of all’s well that ends well?”

  Maisie nodded. “To the extent that it could be, in the circumstances.”

  The doctor pressed her lips together as if gauging whether to make further comment. “Lawrence was sailing close to the wind, wasn’t he?”

  The women looked at each other for a few seconds before Maisie replied. “You could say he was taking some chances with his research.”

  “Was anyone harmed?”

  “Not as many as might have been.”

  “You managed to control damage, then.”

  “By the skin of my teeth, but that’s between us.”

  Masters picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. “Not in my interests to tell tales out of school. As I told you before, I am in no hurry to create a legacy based upon publication to impress my peers. The sheer fact that I was accepted for medical training speaks as many volumes as I need to have to my name.”

  Maisie smiled. “I know. But your counsel helped enormously.”

  “Good.” She sighed, “I still wish you’d chosen to move into clinical practice.”

  “I love my job.”

  “Your country needs you, you know.”

  “Oh, I doubt that very much.”

  “Anyway, it won’t compromise my patient’s health or compromise confidentiality to tell you that I believe Mrs. Beale will make a full recovery. It won’t happen overnight, but it will come to pass. Our first steps will be toward getting her on an even keel, then we’ll see what needs to be done to help her leave the past behind. In a month I expect she will be able to go home on Saturdays and Sundays, then we’ll build it up from there. In about two weeks her boys can visit—only for a short time at first, mind. And all of that can change if she has a poor response to treatment.”

  “Have you told Mr. Beale all this?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Please tell him soon. It will give him something to look forward to, something to imagine. He’s rather lonely, I believe. His world revolves around his work and then his family, and he has such plans for the future.”

  “Canada?”

  Maisie nodded.

  “Not before a year has passed, I shouldn’t think.”

  “I thought as much.” Maisie stood up. “Anyway, I should be getting along now. I’ve appreciated making your acquaintance again, Dr. Masters.”

  “And you too, Sis— Miss Dobbs.” Masters shook her head and smiled. “Old habits. Almost called you Sister Dobbs then. Time and tide, eh, they wait for no woman.”

  THE VISIT TO BATTERSEA was brief. Mr. Hodges was not on the premises, so Maisie penned a brief note, and then set off again, back to her flat, where she once again took out her camera and the instruction book. She had never used a camera before, let alone owned such a thing. Two copies of a magazine called Kodakery came with the camera, more evidence that the previous owner had serious intentions regarding photography as a hobby when bankruptcy changed his plans. And on the following weekend, Priscilla gave Maisie an opportunity to test her new purchase, when she issued an invitation to her family’s country home—she was about to embark upon redecoration.

  “The boys are coming and Douglas will join us on Saturday afternoon. I have made arrangements for various people to come in to look at what needs to be done—painting, some carpentry, brickwork repairs, that sort of thing—so that I can gather estimates. Elinor is coming too, so she’ll keep the toads under control, and we can have some fun—do say you’ll come.”

  “Yes, of course I’ll come. I’ll bring my new camera—I can’t wait to use it.”

  Priscilla laughed and warned Maisie to keep the camera well away from the boys. “They break things, you know.”

  Maisie was still smiling when the telephone rang. It was Robbie MacFarlane.

  “You said you’d let me know if you were coming to the Burns’ night bash. What’s the verdict?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve been very busy, so I—”

  “It had better be a ‘yes,’ Miss Dobbs. Can’t have this lot together without you, not after you worked with us on the letters case.”

  “Yes, yes, of course I’ll come. The Palladium first, for Crazy Week.”

  “Aye, that’s it. Then we’ll all go on to the Cuillins of Skye from there.”

  January 6th – January 24th, 1932

  With her final accounting complete and her notes up to d
ate and filed away, Maisie was glad to turn her attention to challenges of helping several new clients who had come to her with problems requiring inquiry services. There was sufficient new work in hand to inspire what amounted to a rosy outlook regarding the fiscal health of her business.

  Doreen Beale remained at the Clifton Hospital. Though her progress was slow, Billy reported that she was looking a bit better each time he saw her, which he took as a sign that life was looking up for the family.

  At the same time, Maisie was spending more time with Priscilla, in particular a memorable sojourn at their country estate that was punctuated by deep conversation and much laughter. Indeed, despite the cloak of depression enveloping much of the country, for the first time in a long time, Maisie felt an optimism, a freedom that had been diminished by her wartime service, and that she had struggled to rediscover ever since.

  January 25th, 1932

  Stratton, Darby and Maisie were still laughing by the time they reached the upper dining rooms of the Cuillins of Skye, while Robbie MacFarlane was regaling one of the women detectives with the history of his family tartan.