“Let’s take these seats before someone else claims them.” Stratton pointed toward two available places at the end of a row of hard, straight-back wooden chairs. “If we’re seated at the back, and on the end of the row, we can make a quick departure before the end, if we so wish.”
“I take it you have other men here, should they be required?”
“Yes. They’re ready if I give the signal to move on the leaders.”
Maisie nodded, and began to read the pamphlet handed to her as they entered the room. Following a message of welcome, the pamphlet outlined the New Party’s manifesto, much of it based upon a document known as the “Mosley Memorandum,” which supported more power to the government and advocated a strong national policy to overcome the country’s economic crisis. Though Mosley’s party had not been as successful in the October general election as he might have hoped, the party was regrouping, and the wording of the pamphlet suggested a deeper engagement with the tenets of Fascism. Maisie closed the pamphlet. She had read enough.
As more people came into the church hall, Maisie looked around to survey the scene. Many of those attending the meeting were well turned out, and she thought they would be the target of requests for contributions. There were others, poorly dressed, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, people who wanted for a good meal and a warm room. She turned back and was just about to comment to Stratton on the broad spectrum of followers, when a scuffle broke out at the back of the room. Raised voices drew attention to the entrance, where several men had grabbed another man and were punching him to the ground.
“I’ve got as much right to be here as anyone else.” The man’s shouts attracted more attention, and Maisie was not the only one to witness two of Mosley’s followers pushing him out.
Stratton looked at Maisie, and without words they agreed not to intercede. Instead they would continue to observe. First Maisie would keep an eye on the door, then, without attracting attention, Stratton would look around the room, all the time giving the impression that they were waiting for the meeting to begin.
“I think I know what they’re doing,” said Maisie.
Stratton nodded. “At first I thought they were getting rid of the rougher element, but they’re not, are they?”
“No. If I’m not mistaken, they’re not letting in any people who look as if they might be Jewish. It’s appalling.”
Stratton cleared his throat and nodded toward the front of the room. “Here we go.”
A man walked up the steps to a small stage, where he talked about the New Party, and about their leader, Sir Oswald Mosley. Encouraging everyone to stand up, he then elevated his voice to introduce the politician Maisie had seen just once before, and whose manner had caused her to shiver. Oswald Mosley’s eyes seemed as black as his hair, which was swept back close to his skull accentuating his high forehead. His moustache was narrow and clipped, and seemed as controlled as his manner of dress. He wore a well-tailored black suit, with a white shirt and black tie. Nothing was out of place.
Maisie closed her eyes as he began to speak and felt again the sense of foreboding as his words rallied those present to his cause. Even though his manifesto reflected what so many wanted to hear, Maisie felt that she was witnessing a man whose ideas for the country might one day, if allowed, become not so much a government, but a regime. She looked at the assembled crowd, watched their eyes seem to catch fire with Mosley’s rhetoric.
“We must build up our home markets, we must insulate ourselves from current world conditions and build a better Britain. You cannot build a higher civilization and a standard of life which can absorb the great force of modern production if you are subject to price fluctuations from the rest of the world which dislocate your industry at every turn, and to the sport of competition from virtually slave conditions in other countries.”
His speech continued on apace, as he covered all aspects of life, from defense of the country and using military force only to protect Britain’s shores, to the centralization of power, until he began to draw his oration to a close.
“What I fear much more than a sudden crisis is a long, slow, crumbling through the years until we sink to the level of a Spain, a gradual paralysis beneath which all the vigor and energy of this country will succumb . . . ”
Another disturbance at the back of the hall claimed Maisie’s attention, and as she turned, she saw a man beaten, his wife kneeling to his aid, and then both of them pulled out of the building. In her heart she knew that this was not the place where they would find a clue to the identity of a man who would kill to ensure his message was heard. But it was not a wasted evening, because she had seen evidence that there was indeed another man who would halt at nothing to achieve power. Such a man should be stopped at all costs.
Maisie nudged Stratton. “I think I’ve seen enough. Mosley is all but foaming at the mouth.”
Stratton leaned down to whisper, “You’re right. I don’t think there’s anything for us here. Too obvious. This man, or his followers, would not resort to threats and quiet killing. They’re performers and they want to demonstrate power—despite their talk of inclusion.” He looked past Maisie. “Come on, let’s go.”
Maisie stepped out of the row, followed by Stratton, and together they crept to the back of the room and opened the curtain that formed a barrier between the entrance and the main hall.
“Leaving so soon?” A man stepped forward from alongside the door.
“Yes, afraid so,” said Stratton. “My wife is not feeling very well, so we thought it best to leave. Pity, though, great chap, isn’t he?”
The man looked at Maisie, who held her hand to her stomach, then he stepped aside for them to pass.
“Perhaps we’ll see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will. Good night.”
They left the meeting hall and walked down the road, Maisie’s hand resting on Stratton’s arm. They did not speak until they were sure Mosley’s men on guard outside the church hall were out of earshot.
“Do you think Mosley sanctioned what we just saw?” asked Maisie.
Stratton shook his head. “I doubt he’s given his blessing, but he may be turning a blind eye—you know, ‘what the eye doesn’t see’ and all that.”
“But that’s approval by default. My guess is that his blind eye will lead to more violence if those men are allowed to continue in such a thuggish vein, then he’ll be in trouble.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Stratton looked across the road as the lights on the Invicta came on. “Ah, here’s the motor car.” He whistled and four men emerged from the shadows as he stepped away from Maisie to speak to them. “You know who to take in, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Don’t wait until the end. Go now, softly-softly. Buckman and Smith are on the other side of the hall, and the van’s around the corner. Take those thugs in one at a time and nail them for assault and battery—and that’s just the start. Did you get the names of the victims?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll see you back at the Yard.”
The first man nodded and opened the door of the motor car. Stratton took Maisie’s hand as she stepped aboard, and sat down next to her, looking out of the back window as the Invicta drove away.
“Time to take you home, Miss Dobbs. You’ll be seeing your protesting women tomorrow.”
“Another bark up the wrong tree.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re making your way up your own path on this one.”
She smiled, but said nothing.
When they arrived outside the block of flats in Pimlico, Stratton alighted first and held out his hand to steady her as she stepped onto the pavement. She thought Stratton held on to her hand for one second too long, and drew back from him to take her keys from her bag.
“Good night, Inspector. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“Good night, Miss Dobbs.”
MAISIE WALKED TOWARD the glass front door, a
nd when she turned saw that Stratton was still standing by the Invicta, watching until she was inside with the outer door locked once more. She waved one last time, and then stepped toward her flat, key in hand.
Later, as she sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, a dressing gown covering her loose pajamas, she closed her eyes to meditate on her day, and to clear her mind for tomorrow. She now knew the identity of the man she had seen blow himself to pieces on Christmas Eve, but she knew nothing about him, except that he loved books and had been wounded and gassed in the war. He had met a friend, a neatly turned-out man, in Soho Square, and he had recently become reacquainted with someone who might have been an old colleague. Could there be two men, and were these men connected? And what of Ian Jennings? Who was he? Where had he come from, who knew him—who might have grieved for him?
Thoughts of grief brought back memories of Simon, of his passing, so recent and still so raw. Simon Lynch was the army doctor for whom she had burned a candle for so long, even though he was no more than a shell of the man who had stolen her heart. It was a strange death; after so many years he had simply slipped away. She felt as if she had been in mourning since the war, but only allowed to grieve for the past few months. Of course, there were the years when she did not see him, when she could not face the memories, or the terror of reflection upon the explosion that had wounded them both. She shook her head, as memories of France in wartime merged with Christmas Eve’s tragedy and flooded her mind’s eye.
Somewhere, most likely in London, a desperate man was planning another attack—of that she was sure. The dead creatures were just the beginning, until his demands were met or he was found. And as she knew too well, the latter was the only option, because the government would never act upon the petitions of someone considered a madman. She thought of her father, who held strong views on such subjects.
“You know, Maisie, that when you look at one of these politicians, you’re looking at a thief, a liar and a murderer, that’s the way I see it.”
“Come on, Dad, that’s not like you.”
“No, I mean it. Look—they take our money, they lie through their teeth, and then they send our boys off to their deaths, don’t they? And all the time, they’re in clover, never a day’s risk or a day wanting.”
EIGHT
December 29th, 1931
Maisie had been to Wychett Hill in the past, and as she turned the MG into the driveway, she looked at Billy in the passenger seat, and saw the tension in his jaw when he, too, looked up at the clock tower. She thought the years had tempered neither her memory of the asylum nor the reality of the building itself. Wychett Hill was a fine example of ornate Victorian construction that seemed both austere and ostentatious at the same time, like so many hospitals opened in the middle of the last century, including the Princess Victoria, the domain of Anthony Lawrence. But there was something even more foreboding about Wychett Hill, situated as it was on the North Downs in Surrey, where clouds congregated all too gray and all too ready to threaten with cold breezes and rain-filled air.
“Spooky sort of place, ain’t it, Miss?”
“It gives me the shivers.”
Billy turned to her as she negotiated the final sweep toward an area dedicated to the parking of motor vehicles. “I appreciate you bringing me here, Miss. It would have taken so long otherwise, what with the trains, then the walk from Tattenham Corner. I would never’ve been able to do it without leaving at the crack of dawn.”
“I know. But don’t worry about it—I’m concerned about Doreen’s well-being too, you know.”
“Yes, I know, Miss.” Billy bit his lip and looked out of the window, then down to the base of an adjacent wall. “You’re all right on this side, I reckon that’ll do you.”
Maisie braked and turned off the engine. “Look at that rain, it’s really coming down now. Thank heavens for the humble umbrella, eh? Come on, we’d better run for it.”
“You wait there, Miss.” Billy turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled his flat cap down deep on his forehead, grabbed the umbrella, and alighted from the vehicle. With the umbrella unfurled, he came to the driver’s side and opened the door for Maisie, who was pulling a scarf around her neck, tucking it into the collar of her mackintosh.
“Thank you, Billy.” Clasping her black document case in her left hand, she locked the MG and nodded to Billy. Together they ran to the main entrance, and were assaulted by the anticipated hospital smells of disinfectant and urine.
Maisie ran her hands across her shoulders to flick rain from her mackintosh, and stamped her feet. She looked around her and sighed. What had she ever done to deserve spending so much time in hospitals? But her choice of a professional life steeped in matters of life and death must of course include the place to which humans are tended in a time of sickness, whether that sickness was of the body or the mind, or both.
“That was a big sigh, Miss.”
“Oh, I know, Billy. I was just wondering how many hospitals I will set foot in, in my life. Remember I’ve an appointment with Dr. Elsbeth Masters at the Clifton Hospital this afternoon.” She shrugged. “Every one has its own mood, its own feel. Yet I could be put into a hospital blindfold and know where I was—there’s the smell, the sounds, and if you touch the brick outside, or the plaster inside, there’s always that same sensation. It’s as if the suffering, the hope, the grief expended had seeped into the walls.”
“And don’t forget that reek of cabbage boiled until it’s nothing but sopping wet shreds.”
Maisie laughed. “You’re right, the smell of overcooked vegetables.” She looked around. “Now then, where do we go from here?”
“It’s this way, Miss.” Billy checked the time on his wristwatch and led the way up a staircase flanked by a cast-iron filigree banister, the top rail rough and cold to the touch.
In the distance Maisie heard a scream, then moaning. She heard footsteps moving back and forth, and echoes from the various wards ricocheting off the brick walls and sliding along the banister, so that it seemed as if the building itself had taken on a certain volatility, and a visitor might believe the staircase would begin to shake at any moment. Billy continued to lead the way to one of the women’s wards, then stopped alongside locked double doors with frosted glass at eye level. He pulled a cord to the right of the door and soon a nurse came to let them in.
“Mr. Beale. I’m here to see Mrs. Doreen Beale.”
The nurse nodded, looking Maisie up and down as she allowed her to pass.
“And this is a very good friend of ours, Miss Maisie Dobbs.” Having introduced Maisie, Billy glanced back and forth along the row of beds. “Where’s my wife?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Beale, she’s in a recovery ward. She’s as well as can be expected, but don’t expect her to be able to speak.”
Billy turned on the nurse, his mounting distress revealed by the swollen vein at his left temple. “What do you mean, ‘don’t expect her to speak’? What’s the matter with her?”
Maisie set her hand on Billy’s forearm and smiled at the nurse. “My friend is very concerned about his wife, as you can imagine. Perhaps you could describe her situation as we walk along to see her—has she been taken to a room on her own, by chance?”
The nurse relaxed her shoulders, and pursed her lips, frowning at Billy, but appeared more accommodating as she spoke to Maisie. “There was a little op, and she was, well, she was making a bit of a fuss afterward, so we had to put her on her own for a while so she wouldn’t start the rest of them off.”
Maisie glanced on either side of her as they walked along the ward. The “rest of them” seemed to be catatonic, with mouths open or staring into the distance. She suspected that peace and calm were achieved with various pills and medicines. The aroma of sour dairy suggested that some had been put on a milk diet, which Maisie thought had been discontinued a decade earlier. As they approached a third set of double doors, the nurse took a chain from her pocket and selected a key. She slotted the key in
the lock, rattled the left door toward her and turned the key back and forth until she was able to unlock the door.
“Always sticks, that one.”
Maisie nodded, but did not look at Billy. She felt his composure breaking again, realizing that his wife was now deeper in the bowels of asylum control, kept behind another set of locked doors.
“I understand that Mrs. Beale has undergone some kind of insulin therapy.” Maisie volunteered the statement in a conversational manner.
“Yes, she had the second treatment yesterday.”
“Do you know why?”
“The doctor thought it would get her mind on the rails again, give her the push she needs to overcome her melancholy.”
“And there were difficulties?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. She became a bit hysterical as she came out of it, so she’s been sedated.”
“I see. So, the insulin therapy is having no effect whatsoever, then?”
The nurse did not respond to Maisie’s question.
They reached another door, and through the small observation window could see that this was the room where Doreen Beale was recovering. The nurse set the key in the lock and turned to Billy. “Now, she’s not to be excited. She should remain calm—remember she’s still not quite conscious.”
She led the way into the room, where Doreen was lying on a cast-iron bed, her eyes wide open, her face contorted as she jerked her head back and forth on the pillow. Her wrists were secured to the bed on either side of her body, and her feet had been strapped to the bottom of the bed. Her slender wrists reminded Maisie of a sparrow’s tiny bones, set against the dark leather biting into her skin. Doreen had lost so much weight it seemed as if the sheet and blanket were flush across the bed, with slight protrusions to indicate the position of her feet, knees and hips.
“Oh, my darlin’ girl, my darlin’ girl.” Billy rushed to his wife’s bedside and rested his hand on her damp brow, then leaned down to kiss her cheek.