Among the Mad (4 page)

December 26th, 1931

Christmas Day had passed with a mellow quietness, as
Maisie and her father spent time by the fire, sometimes talking, sometimes
reading, with her father’s dog, a lurcher known as Jook, temporarily changing
allegiance to sit at her feet. They shared a hearty festive meal of roast capon
and all the trimmings, and enjoyed a short walk across fields whitened by
ground frost, the length of the stroll dictated by Frankie’s years and her
lingering concussion, which, though subsiding, still caused some dizziness if
she remained on her feet too long.

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, especially 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.