Among the Mad Page 3

  Maisie had planned a return to London early on the morning of December 27th, taking Boxing Day off to further recuperate and enjoy her father’s company. She had arrived at Chelstone railway station late on Christmas Eve, and was collected at the station by the estate’s chauffeur, who had been released to do so by her father’s employer, Lady Rowan Compton, who was delighted to know that Maisie would be returning for the holiday. Lady Rowan held a special affection for Maisie and had played a part in her rise from a lowly position on the household staff to the professional woman she was today. For his part, Frankie Dobbs had been relieved to have his daughter home on Christmas Eve, and felt all was well as they dressed the Christmas tree together and placed their gifts underneath, as they had done when Maisie was a child.

  Now, waking on Boxing Day morning, Maisie reached for the small clock next to her bed. It was six o’clock. Her father was already downstairs pottering in his kitchen and talking to Jook as he prepared breakfast. For once, Maisie did not scramble out of bed to go to the kitchen, though she loved to share in the cozy warmth while sitting at the table in front of the black cast-iron stove that seemed to push out enough heat to drive a train. She had always enjoyed this time in the morning with her father, when the tea was strong in the pot, the hearth welcoming and the sizzle of bacon and eggs tempting her senses. But today she wanted only to listen to the morning sounds—a solitary bird outside singing despite winter’s onslaught and the wind against the glass panes. She closed her eyes and must have fallen asleep again, for it was the shrill ring of the telephone that woke her. She heard her father complain, heard his steps along the red flagstones that led from the kitchen to the sitting room, and heard the telephone continue to ring while he considered who it might be.

  Picking up the receiver and without first reciting his telephone number, Frankie shouted, “What do you want?” and then was quiet. Maisie sat up in bed, waiting.

  “Well, she’s not well, Inspector. Caught a bit of a throat and hasn’t been feeling her usual self, you know.” Silence again. “All right, all right, you wait here and I’ll get her for you.”

  Maisie leapt from her bed and reached for her woolen dressing gown hanging on a hook behind the door. “I’m coming, Dad.”

  She ran downstairs and straight into the sitting room, where she smiled at her father as she took the receiver from his hand. “Yes, this is Maisie Dobbs.”

  “Miss Dobbs. Richard Stratton here. Sorry to bother you at home.”

  “How did you find me?” She paused. “Stupid question, Inspector. How can I help you—and on Boxing Day?”

  “We have a situation of some urgency and importance on our hands. I would like you to come to the Yard as soon as you can.”

  “Well, I was planning to come back to London tomorrow on the train—I decided not to drive after all.” She looked around to see whether her father was in earshot, then turned her back on the kitchen. “And thank you for not saying anything to my father about the incident on Christmas Eve. I can’t have him worrying.”

  “Of course, I understood the situation. Now then, can you return today? I can have a motor car at your door by eight.”

  “That’s certainly urgent.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it was not critical. We need to draw upon all resources, Miss Dobbs, and in this case, I believe you are a most valuable resource.”

  “I’ll be ready at eight.”

  “Thank you. I will brief you on our return to London.”

  “Until then.” Maisie frowned when she realized that Stratton would himself be coming to collect her. She set down the receiver and walked into her father’s kitchen. Jook rose from her place alongside the stove and came to Maisie, nudging her hand with a welcoming wet nose.

  “Dad, I’m sorry about this, but I’ve got to go back to London.”

  “I thought as much. You don’t get these Scotland Yard blokes making telephone calls early on a Boxing Day morning for nothing.” He paused, taking a frying pan from the stove and slipping two eggs and a rasher of bacon on a plate. “I’ve had mine, but you can’t be shooting off up there without a good breakfast inside you, so get stuck into that. We can at least sit together for a while until you’ve to leave.”

  Maisie sat at the table and as she began to eat, her father filled two mugs with tea, set one in front of her and seated himself opposite his daughter.

  “You know, I don’t hanker after the Smoke at all.” Frankie shook his head and shrugged. “I thought I would when I first came down to Chelstone, in the war. But aside from sometimes missing the market, you know, a bit of banter, the companionship of it all, I don’t miss London. Not one bit. Last time I went up there to see you, it’d changed too much for my liking. I couldn’t believe the racket. I mean, when I was boy, you had your noise, but not like now, not with all them motors and lorries and the horses and carts vying for a bit of road. And when you go into a shop, there’s tills with bells, them adding and typewriting machines in the background when you’re at the bank. Can’t hear yourself think. And now it’s full of people out of work. Then, of course, there’s them who’ve got too much—mind you, that’s always been the way. But it seems, oh, I dunno—a desperate sort of place to me.”

  Maisie stopped eating for a moment and regarded her father. It was at times like this that he surprised her most. He often began such proclamations with the words, “I’m an ordinary bloke, but . . . ” And on such occasions, Maisie found him far from ordinary.

  “Yes, it’s a desperate place for a lot of people, Dad. And the irony of it is that it means, in many cases, someone like me stays in business.”

  Frankie nodded. “That’s what worries me. And Detective Inspectors who know where to find you and ring early on a Boxing Day morning. Desperate, I would say.”

  Maisie changed the subject, though she knew Frankie was more than aware of her conversational maneuver. He would take her lead and speak of this and that, of minor goings-on at Chelstone Manor, anything except the fact that soon his beloved daughter would be collected by a senior Scotland Yard detective because something untoward had happened in what he considered to be a desperate sort of place.

  “HERE’S THE SITUATION.” Stratton turned to Maisie as the driver negotiated the narrow country lanes that led from Chelstone to Tonbridge and then on to the main London road. “A threat has been received by the Home Secretary and is now in the hands of Scotland Yard. I am one of three senior officers designated to deal with the situation. Seeing as the threat pertains to what amounts to murder, I was called in immediately.”

  “What sort of threat is it?”

  “That’s just it, it hasn’t been spelled out, just the consequence. A letter was received at Westminster—you’ll see it later—plain vellum, no postmark, no prints, no distinguishing marks at all, the handwriting could have come from anyone, though we have an expert looking at it, obviously.”

  “But there are demands.”

  “Yes. The man—or woman—is asking the government to act immediately to alleviate the suffering of all unemployed, starting with measures to assist those who have served their country in wartime. There’s a bit of a rant about what they did for their country and now look at them, and there’s a threat to the effect that, if no action is forthcoming within forty-eight hours—which will be up tomorrow morning—then he will demonstrate his power. We have to entertain the possibility that such a threat may be to the life of the Home Secretary, the Prime Minister, or another important person.”

  “And what about the possibility of a hoax, or some disenfranchised individual letting off steam?”

  “As you know, Miss Dobbs, some of those disenfranchised people can be dangerous—take the Irish situation, the Fascists, the unions. There are a lot of holes in which this particular rodent might be concealing himself.”

  “Yes, of course.” Maisie paused, looking out of the window as she considered Stratton’s synopsis of the situation. She turned back to Stratton. “Look, I must ask you this, especial
ly as I am now traveling back to London when I could have spent the day with my father—but what has this got to do with me? You have senior detectives working on the case—how can I help?”

  “I can think of several different ways in which you can help, Miss Dobbs, and the talents that might render you a valuable member of the group. Certainly you are known at the Yard, and your contribution to the training of our women detectives has not gone unnoticed. But the fact is that your presence has been”—he slowed his speech, as if choosing his words with care—“requested, because whoever is behind the threats has mentioned you by name. ‘If you doubt my sincerity, ask Maisie Dobbs.’ That’s what he said. So, whether you like it or not, you are part of this case. And unfortunately, the first thing you will have to do is submit to questioning.”

  Maisie shook her head. “So that’s why you’re accompanying me to Scotland Yard, to bring me in for questioning. I’m a suspect. I wish you had been honest at the outset.”

  “It’s not quite like that, Miss Dobbs.” Stratton took a deep breath. “On the one hand, we know who you are, we know your reputation. But at the same time we need to ensure that you are on our side before we go any further, especially as there’s a suspicion that you may be implicated in some way.” He paused. “And there’s one more thing: Special Branch is taking care of this one.”

  “I should have guessed. And how are you connected to Special Branch?”

  Stratton turned to look at Maisie directly. “Let’s just say I’m moving in that direction. Detective Chief Superintendent Robert MacFarlane is leading the inquiry. And it’s on the cards that I’ll be reporting to him by Easter—leaving the Murder Squad and joining Special Branch—and that information is a bit hush-hush.”

  “Congratulations, Inspector Stratton.” She wiped a hand across condensation inside the window and looked out at the frostcovered landscape for a moment. “Tell me more about MacFarlane—‘Big Robbie’ has a reputation that goes before him. Maurice Blanche has worked with him, and he came to talk to us when I was studying at the Department of Legal Medicine in Edinburgh.” Maisie smiled and shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I liked him. I had a sense that you knew where you stood with MacFarlane—though I’ll be honest, I thought he was a bit of a one with the ladies.”

  Stratton gave a half laugh. “Oh yes, and probably more so since his wife left him a couple of years ago. But there’s no doubt, you know where you are with Robbie, all right. He’s fair, speaks his mind, and gives his people the leeway they need to get the job done. Mind you, at the same time, he expects every ounce of you on the case.”

  “Well, I look forward to meeting him again. I wonder if he remembers me.”

  “Yes, he remembers you, Miss Dobbs. That’s another reason why you were summoned at an unearthly hour on Boxing Day morning.”

  MAISIE’S FIRST VISIT to New Scotland Yard, on the Embankment, had taken place when she was working with Maurice Blanche as his assistant. She found the grand red-brick building intimidating, with its ornate chimneys, projecting gables and turrets at each corner. In the intervening years, she had come to take visits to “the Yard” in her stride. Today, though, she was escorted to the area of Scotland Yard occupied by Special Branch, and led into a sparsely decorated room, where she waited while Stratton left to inform others involved in the investigation that they had arrived. Soon she heard a voice booming down the corridor, but when Robert MacFarlane walked into the room with Stratton, the timbre was lower, with a soft Scottish burr belying his position, and the situation. Maisie rose from her chair and extended her hand in greeting.

  “Miss Dobbs, thank you for coming.” The Detective Chief Superintendent shook her hand, then nodded toward the chair. “Sit down, lass, sit down. I trust your father was not too upset by your sudden departure from the family hearth.”

  “He understands the nature of my work.”

  “Good, I’m glad one of us does.” Taking his seat behind a wooden desk that seemed too small to accommodate his height—MacFarlane was well over six feet tall and, thought Maisie, had the frame of a docker. He was about fifty-five years of age, light of foot and precise in his movements. A track of baldness revealed a scar where a stray bullet had nicked him in the war—the fact that he had simply wiped blood away and sworn at the enemy for putting a hole in his tam o’shanter was the stuff of legend—and the cropped hair that flanked his shining pate was gunmetal gray and controlled with a whisper of oil.

  “Stratton, bring in Darby, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Soon the four were seated: Maisie, MacFarlane, Stratton and Colm Darby, a man who had worked alongside MacFarlane since before the war and, when the policeman returned from France, joined him once more. Darby was probably a good five years older than his superior. Maisie knew him to be an expert in the analysis of personal markers left behind by the perpetrator of a crime. The nature of one’s handwriting was an area in which he was said to have great insight. He had been with MacFarlane since the days when the main roles of the department encompassed intelligence and security to protect the country from extremist activity known as the “Irish problem.” Now Special Branch had a broader role, and it seemed as if Colm Darby might never retire. MacFarlane introduced Maisie, then leaned forward so that his forearms rested on the desk.

  “Miss Dobbs, I am dispensing with protocol here—because I can, and because I believe we have no time to lose.” He sighed, looking directly into Maisie’s eyes. “I know Maurice Blanche, I’ve worked with him in the past, and I remember you from Edinburgh—Blanche sent you there, I understand.”

  “Yes, that’s correct, in preparation for my work with him, when I was his assistant.”

  MacFarlane looked down at an open manila folder, flipped over a page of notes, then closed the folder before resuming eye contact with Maisie. “Now, first of all, in your own words, describe the events of Christmas Eve.”

  Maisie drew breath and, as she had for Stratton before, described approaching the man on Charlotte Street, and witnessing him take his life with a Mills Bomb.

  “Not a pretty sight, I’m sure.”

  “I’ve seen some ugly sights in my time, Chief Inspector.”

  “I bet you have, Miss Dobbs. And we don’t, any of us, want to be seeing any more, though I imagine that might be a wee bit of a faint hope.” MacFarlane cleared his throat. “Can you explain how a man who has made veiled threats that amount to a risk to our country’s security might know the name of a little wee lassie like yourself?”

  Maisie bristled, but checked herself, aware that the goading was deliberate, though she knew that, in the circumstances, she might have employed the same tactic herself. She leaned forward, mirroring MacFarlane’s position. Darby looked at Stratton, and raised an eyebrow.

  “Chief Inspector, to be perfectly honest with you, at this juncture I have no idea why I was mentioned in such a letter. However, your line of questioning regarding the tragedy I witnessed on Christmas Eve would indicate that you see a relationship between the two events, and I am inclined to veer in that initial direction myself.” She turned to face Stratton and Darby, bringing them into the conversation. “I was the closest person to the victim to walk away without significant physical injury—and yes, I see him as a victim. So if—if—there was an associate of the dead man nearby, I would have been seen. If the two cases are linked, the person who wrote the letter could be that same individual, perhaps using my name as leverage to give some kind of weight to his endeavor. It might also be a means of subverting your attention, of course.”

  MacFarlane leaned back in his chair, as did Maisie in hers. The policeman smiled. “Just like bloody Blanche! I move, you move, I do this, you do the same thing. It’s like being followed.” He shook his head. “Look, Miss Dobbs, I know—know, mind—that you haven’t anything to do with this tyke, but you might have had some brief contact with him, you might have seen him, or he might have an interest in you.” He brushed his hand across his forehead. “I know this could be the work
of a bit of a joker, but my nose tells me this boy is serious, that he means what he says. Now then, we can play a waiting game, see what happens next, or we can start looking. I favor action, which is why I’ve asked you here. You’re involved in this whether you like it or not, Miss Dobbs, and I would rather have you under my nose working for me than anywhere else.”

  “I’m used to working alone, Chief Inspector.”

  “Well, for now you can get un-used to it. First of all, let me apprise you of the work of Special Branch. Even though I am sure you have some familiarity, if you are going to be reporting to me, then I want to start us off on the right foot. So, a little lesson, and I’ll make it snappy. The Special Branch is, technically, part of the Criminal Investigation Department, but as you may have heard we like to go about our business in our own fashion. Suffice it to say that we only answer questions when the person asking has a lot of silver on the epaulettes, or around the peak of his cap. Our normal work is in connection with the protection of royalty, ministers and ex-ministers of the Crown, and foreign dignitaries. We also control aliens entering our country. We are responsible for investigation into acts of terrorism and anarchy, and to that end have a lot of people to keep an eye on. Before I go on, I should add—mainly because I can see a bit of a problem looming here—that on occasion we cross paths with Military Intelligence, Section Five, for obvious reasons. We try to get along, and they need us, mainly because we have powers of arrest. There, now I can take off my professoring hat and get down to business. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Back to the case in hand. Let’s look at what we’ve brought together here in the way of information—facts. I want action and I want the man behind the letter brought in as a matter of urgency. And Miss Dobbs—whatever you’re doing, I want you to report to Inspector Stratton here every single day.”

  Maisie nodded. “If that’s the case, Chief Superintendent, before I see the letter, perhaps we can discuss my terms. The financial terms, that is.”