Among the Mad (38 page)

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
date 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.

“I think he’s a bit crazy himself, only he doesn’t
restrict himself to a week of it,” said Stratton.

Maisie shook her head. “No, he’s all there. Doesn’t
miss a trick. But I’ve never heard of a night like this, not from the Yard.”

“And I certainly haven’t.” Stratton reached for his
glass of whiskey, which appeared to be the only beverage on offer.

MacFarlane cleared his throat as the hot cock-a-leekie
soup was served. “I’ll now say the traditional grace, and for you Sassenachs,
this is known as the Selkirk Grace.” He cleared his throat again. “Some hae
meat and canna eat, and some wad eat that want it. But we hae meat, and we can
eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit.”

Courses followed speeches, and speeches followed more
drinking. Maisie eventually bid farewell to MacFarlane, Stratton and Darby, and
by the time she stepped into a taxi-cab it was the early hours of the morning.
She arrived back at her flat, glad that she had made one glass of the amber
liquid last several hours. As she opened the door into the hallway and switched
on the light, she saw a plain brown envelope waiting for her—it had been pushed
under her door. She picked it up, recognized the handwriting, and ran to the
dining table, flicking on lights as she went. As luck would have it, she had
discovered that one of the residents at the block of flats was a photographer,
and to make extra money, he would develop film for friends and other
associates. Maisie had taken a roll of film up to him as soon as she returned
home from her weekend in the country with Priscilla and her family.

She spread out the photographs and began picking up
each one in turn. The early prints revealed a lack of familiarity with the
equipment, but later photographs demonstrated that she had become more adept at
focusing the lens, at using the rangefinder. As she studied each successive
image again, she smiled, and though the flat was chilly, she felt the residue
of the evening’s warmth rekindled. Unwilling to wait until she could buy more
frames, she brought a small box of drawing pins from the kitchen and began to
pin photographs to the wall, and soon they flanked the painting of a woman
alone on a windswept beach. Then she looked at each photograph once more. There
were the Partridge boys sitting on the MG’s bonnet, and Priscilla and Maisie
bearing the brunt of a snowball fight—she had passed the camera to Douglas and
he was clearly a better photographer. There were photographs taken during
walks, photographs taken of the boys in the garden. And as she looked at the
prints, she felt as if the eyes that had looked into the lens were looking
straight at her, and she knew she belonged.

Soon she would add more photographs. There would be
Frankie and Jook, and Maurice. There would be photograph after photograph of
the people she loved. But as was her way, Maisie could not help but think of
Stephen Oliver again, and of Ian Jennings and those like them. She thought of
the dispossessed who saw nothing but people moving to one side as they shuffled
along the street, people who looked down as they passed so that they need not
catch a glimpse of desperation lest it be a disease—something they might catch
if they weren’t careful. Maisie grieved for the two men, despite their crimes.
She grieved for the men they could have been, men who were complete in body and
soul. And she grieved for their innocent victims.

Again her attention came back to the prints, this time
to a single photograph of herself. She leaned closer to the image and
concentrated on her own eyes. And she smiled, for at last she knew she had
reclaimed her soul.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the following friends and
colleagues who became, in effect, my “pit crew” as I wrote Among the Mad. Holly
Rose—thank you for being my first and number one writing buddy and reader. To
my cannot-be-named “Cheef Resurcher” (yes, the spelling is a joke between us),
who has given me so much valuable information on the inner workings and history
of Special Branch—thank you. To my parents, Joyce and Albert Winspear—as
always, thanks for fielding those questions about the London you knew and loved
in the best of times and the worst of times.

Once again, deepest thanks to the terrific team at
Henry Holt, especially John Sterling, Maggie Richards, and Kelly Lignos.

I can never extend enough gratitude to Amy Rennert, agent
extraordinaire, friend and mentor.

And to the Bluesman—my husband, John Morell—thanks for
your unfailing support. It means the world to me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JACQUELINE WINSPEAR is the author of An Incomplete
Revenge—a New York Times bestseller—and four other Maisie Dobbs novels. She has
won numerous awards for her work, including the Agatha, Alex, and Macavity
Awards. Originally from the United Kingdom, she now lives in California.