“Did he say where he worked?”
“He said he couldn’t tell me, that it was a secret.”
“What else did he say—and what else gave you cause to doubt him?”
“Oh, I didn’t doubt him, Miss Dobbs. No, I didn’t doubt him because we talked a few times about work, the sort of work I used to do but don’t now because I don’t have a job. This man knew what he was talking about. I would say he knew a lot more than me.”
“Then what is it that you question?”
“Miss Dobbs, I do not know if you are aware of the leaps one has to take to become a university student, especially if one is a woman, and all the more so if one does not come from wealth.”
Maisie allowed no emotion to show on her face, or in her manner. “I am aware of what is required to gain entrance, especially if one’s field of study is in the sciences.”
“And you know the cost?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this man said, one day, that he was a foundling. ‘I might have had a better chance in life, had I not been a foundling.’ I thought it was a bit archaic, using the word ‘foundling.’ I thought he was gilding the lily, telling a lie about himself to spark interest. I mean, he could have been a boy from one of the Barnardo Homes, couldn’t he? But how many of them go to a university to study?”
“Did you believe him, when you reflected on the conversation afterward?”
“I didn’t know what to believe, to tell you the truth. He might have been a man with a gift for a tall story, and he certainly didn’t seem all there.”
“Did he have obvious wounds?”
“Sometimes he limped, then at other times he didn’t, as if it came and went. And on those days when he was lame, there was no doubt that it was genuine. I had the feeling that he only came along for the company, and as I said, he only turned up to a few meetings.”
“Were you afraid of the man?”
Catherine was silent for a moment, considering the question before she replied. “Funny you should ask that, because I was afraid of him. When you were talking to him it was as if you were in one of those rooms where the floors aren’t level, you know, the sort you get in an old house, where the ground has settled and you could put a marble on the floor and it would start to move because there’s a slope. You never felt as if you were on firm ground.”
“Is that enough to point the finger at a man?”
“Probably not, Miss Dobbs. But he did tell me, the last time I saw him, that he could bring the city to its knees before the year was out.”
“His name?”
“Oliver. Just Oliver. As in Twist, I would imagine.”
TWELVE
Maisie checked her watch upon leaving Scotland Yard. It was now past noon. She had briefed MacFarlane on her conversation with Catherine Jones and thought he seemed skeptical at best.
“Oliver bloody Twist? A right joker, that one. If she thinks she can get out of—”
“I’m going to follow the lead anyway, Chief Superintendent. We have precious little to go on, so this may be just the breakthrough we need.”
“Stratton’s working on another tip-off, so I can’t spare anyone to help you.”
“That’s all right, it’s best that I work alone, or with my assistant.”
“Telephone if you need anything.”
“I will.”
“And you can have that sample by tomorrow morning. I could be shot for this, Miss Dobbs.”
“You won’t be, Chief Superintendent. And thank you for your trust in me. I doubt if anything but a specialist laboratory will be able to shed light on the constituent properties of this particular compound—and I think I know just the person in just the right place to do the job.”
Maisie asked the driver to take her directly to her flat in Pimlico. From there, she collected her MG, went to a petrol station to fill the tank, then drove to the asylum, where she hoped to find Anthony Lawrence. On the way, once again she tried to negotiate the web of clues left in the wake of a man who would kill to be heard.
Following the Embankment, she wove her way toward the City, then away from the river, and as she drove along the Gray’s Inn Road, she remembered walking this very route just a couple of years before, on her way to Mecklenburg Square. And she remembered wondering about the rubble left behind following the demolition of a hospital built some two hundred years earlier, a place of great innovation in its day. It was not an institution where medicine was practiced, though it could be argued that it was a place where lives were saved. It was a place where unwanted children, some just hours old, were left to be cared for. Now it was closed, and with only part of the original building left standing, the site was languishing in the midst of the country’s economic depression. Maisie felt a sensation across the back of her neck, as if the gossamer wings of a butterfly had touched her skin. She remembered the name: the Foundling Hospital. When first built, it provided respite for children who might otherwise have died on the streets, situated as it was amid fields and gardens. Now it was part of a growling metropolis where horses were giving way to motor cars, where trains belched their way across and underneath London, and trams clattered back and forth. If she remembered correctly, the Foundling Hospital had not closed entirely, but had moved out of London so the children would be where they were originally intended to be—in the country.
Foundling. It was a word used only by those of a certain generation, a word that spoke of the time in which the hospital was first built, when the life of the poor was all but worthless, and new life was cast aside to die in the gutter. Foundling. An infant deserted at birth, a child abandoned, unwanted. Maisie turned the word around in her mind. Could the man who had the power to kill thousands have been an orphan? And if he were, how would he gain an education? How might someone of that order—Maisie checked herself. Though there was no witness to her thoughts, her cheeks burned with shame. She had been considered of a lower order herself, and but for good fortune and a serendipitous discovery by her employer, she herself might never have had the advantage of an education, or a profession. Other gifted children of working-class origins had been sponsored by her mentor, Maurice Blanche, but it was an unusual opportunity—and one for which she was eternally grateful. But to begin life as a foundling represented a more arduous ascent. And if a boy was able to make such a climb, he would be known and remembered. Unless, of course, he was something of a chameleon. Like herself.
MAISIE SLIPPED INTO a lower gear as she approached the Princess Victoria Hospital. She parked the MG outside and ran up the steps to the main entrance, where she pulled open the oak doors and stated her business with the porter.
“I’m afraid the doctor has only just arrived for his rounds. He was at the Queen Elizabeth all morning, and is very busy.” The porter checked a list of staff, then verified the information again on a timetable of rounds that was hanging up on the wall behind the counter.
“Yes, I am sure he is, however, I wonder if you could tell me when I might see him.”
The porter pulled a fob-watch from his waistcoat pocket and frowned, then ran his finger along a row on the timetable with Lawrence’s name at one end. “Well, I doubt it will be before two.”
“May I wait?”
“Suit yourself, Madam, but as I said, you could be here for an hour or so.”
“Right, Mr. . . . ”
“Croucher.”
“Right, Mr. Croucher, I’ll just wait over there, if you don’t mind. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to let me know when the doctor is available.”
The man straightened his spine and looked at his watch again, then at the clock on the wall above the bench where Maisie was now seated. He pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, don’t blame me if you’re sitting there for a long time today.”
Maisie took a notebook from her bag and smiled at the man. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
It struck her that the porter was as short in his manner as he was in stature. He was a stocky m
an, yet his movements were exact, and she observed—as she watched him across the counter—that he checked and rechecked every task, whether placing mail in departmental pigeonholes, or giving instructions to his fellow workers. He would say everything twice, verify an action twice, and then he would sweep his hands through his hair and back across his head. It was a lifetime habit, thought Maisie, looking at his receding hairline. And how old was this man? Probably about forty years of age, she thought.
She continued making notes, noticing that, as the turn of the hour approached, Croucher lifted the telephone and called to see if Dr. Lawrence had returned to his office. Half an hour later, a shrill single ring issued from the telephone and, after responding to the call, Croucher summoned Maisie to the counter, his finger crooked as he beckoned her to him.
“Dr. Lawrence is in his office now and can see you.” He pulled a chain from his pocket at the end of which was a large ring and several keys of varying sizes. “I will have to accompany you, of course.”
“Of course, I understand. I once worked with Dr. Lawrence, you know. Many years ago now, when I was a nurse.”
The man’s eyes opened wider at the news, though his only comment was, “You’ll know how busy he is, then.”
“THANK YOU, CROUCHER,” said Anthony Lawrence, when Maisie arrived at his office. “I’ll summon you when Miss Dobbs and I have finished talking.” He turned to Maisie, holding his hand out toward the visitor’s chair, and took a seat behind his desk. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Miss Dobbs.”
“It’s good of you to spare me some time, Dr. Lawrence.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I understand that you once worked at Mulberry Point, the government’s weapons testing laboratory, in Berkshire.”
He shrugged, much in the way that Croucher had shrugged earlier. “It was quite some time ago now—just after the war. Not there long, short-term business.”
“I understand that you were there to monitor the psychological effects of testing, and the effect of such work on the men who were employed at the laboratories.”
“How do you know?”
“I met with Elsbeth Masters this week—on quite another matter, I might add—and she happened to mention that you had worked together there.”
“I see. Yes, as I said, it was a long time ago.”
“Dr. Lawrence, may I ask about your work at Mulberry Point?”
Lawrence slid his hands on either side of a pile of papers, aligning them on the desk. He pushed them to one side, then pulled them to him, before pushing them away again.
“It was work to be held in the strictest confidence. I do not know what Dr. Masters thinks she’s doing, telling all and sundry.”
“I believe she felt confident in divulging the information.”
Lawrence lined up a collection of pens and pencils and graduated them by size next to the files. Then he changed the order, and placed writing instruments of like color alongside one another. Maisie, now accustomed to this habit, watched each movement, waiting for his response.
“It’s clear you know about the work that goes on at Mulberry Point, so I see little harm in allowing the following. The nature of experimentation at the laboratory is such that both physical and psychological responses to various substances had to be monitored. There is only so much testing that can be done on dogs, cats, birds and mice—and it seems the public are far more worried about the well-being of animals than they are human life—so various workers volunteered themselves for experimentation, in the interests of serving their country.”
“That sounds rather dangerous.”
“To a point, yes, it was.”
“Were people always aware of the consequences?”
Lawrence began moving the items on his desk again. “Miss Dobbs, remind me why you are asking these questions?” He gave a half laugh. “I am finding it hard to reconcile the memory of an adept nursing sister with the woman who is questioning me now.”
Maisie let the comment settle, and continued with her line of inquiry. “Was the testing with regard to weapons that might be used against our countrymen, or weapons that our scientists were developing?”
“Can’t have one without the other.” Maisie noticed that Lawrence’s response was candid. He continued as if speaking to a child unable to grasp simple concepts. “You have to be one step ahead of the enemy, you know. As I said, my job concerned the mind’s response to weapons that cannot be seen, the onslaught that can only be felt, experienced.”
“I see.”
“Is that all?” Lawrence shifted his chair, as if ready to leave the room.
“Yes, I think that’s all—oh, no, one last thing.” Maisie gathered her document case and stood up to face the doctor. “Did you ever get to know the men—or women, I suppose—who worked at Mulberry Point?”
He shook his head, and looked at his watch. “No, not my job to make acquaintances of my patients.” He indicated the door. “Shall we? I expect Croucher is in the corridor somewhere—he’ll show you out.”
“So, you wouldn’t have known a man called ‘Oliver,’ then?”
“Good heavens, no. No names, no pack drill, just numbers. In fact, I have never known an Oliver in my life—except Twist, that is!” He opened the door and shouted along the corridor for Croucher, who came at once when summoned.
IT WAS CLEAR to Maisie that both Anthony Lawrence and the porter, Mr. Croucher, had been glad to see the back of her. The former did not care for her questioning, and the latter appeared to object to anyone taking up space in the entrance hall, over which he seemed to reign supreme. She felt sure that Lawrence was holding something back. Or could his manner be put down to being a doctor, one who was not familiar with having his word questioned in any way, especially by a former ward sister? He would object to her inquiry as it suggested she doubted him, and in Maisie’s experience, doctors saw their diagnosis as the last word, and their last word as law. One did not question the doctor’s decision.
She glanced at the clock on the way out and walked to the MG at a brisk pace, then drove back to Fitzroy Square. She parked in Warren Street and walked across the square, in time to see Billy Beale opening the front door to enter.
“Hold the door, Billy!” Maisie ran the last few yards.
“Afternoon, Miss. Sorry I’m a bit late, but the train was delayed. According to the guard, there was a fair bit of ice on the line up from Epsom this morning, and it’s slowed everything up all day.”
“Not to worry. Come on, let’s get a quick cup of tea and then get to work.”
“Something come up?”
At the top of the stairs, Maisie unlocked the door to the office and, well used to their ritual, both she and Billy took off their coats and hung them behind the door before Maisie ignited the fire, and Billy put the kettle on. Having not stopped to eat, Maisie was hungry, but food would have to wait now as there was work to be done. Soon they were sitting at the table by the window with the case map spread out in front of them.
“Do you remember the Foundling Hospital?”
“Over toward Mecklenburg Square?”
“Yes. It closed—oh, I think in 1926 or ’27, something like that. Can you remember where they placed the children? I don’t think it was closed as in never to open again, but I seem to recall it was moved, out of London, to the country.”
“I remember reading about that, Miss. I remember talking about it with Doreen, saying it was sad, you know, that little children aren’t wanted, and have to live in them orphanages, growing up with—”
“But where did they go?”
“I could have sworn it was down Surrey way. Somewhere like that—Dorking? Reigate? Redhill? Come to think of it, I think it was Redhill.”
“Find out for me—as soon as you can. I want the address, and I want the name of the principal, the headmaster, whatever they call the person in charge. Then I have to pay them a visit.” She looked at her watch. “You have to get back to your boys s
oon, Billy, so I’ll go alone.”
“You’ll never get down there at a decent hour today, Miss. Don’t mind me saying so, but no one will see you.”
Maisie gave a half laugh. “This is where I need a black motor with bells and a blue uniform. Or the words ‘Detective Superintendent’ in front of my name.’” She paused. “In fact . . . ” She drew her chair back and stepped quickly to her desk, where she lifted the telephone receiver and placed a call to Scotland Yard.
“May I speak to Detective Chief Superintendent Robert MacFarlane, please?” She paused. “Well, is Detective Inspector Stratton there?” Another pause. “Detective Inspector Darby? All out. I see. In that case, as soon as Superintendent MacFarlane returns, please ask him to return my telephone call.” Maisie gave her name and telephone number and replaced the receiver.
“Now what?”
“As soon as you have the information about the Foundling Hospital, Billy, I’ll make an appointment and go tomorrow morning.”
“What will you tell them?”
“Anything—whatever I have to say to gain an audience with someone who in turn has access to the records.”
Billy nodded as he stood up and went to the wooden card file set against the wall alongside his desk. Maisie noticed his matte-gray skin and the lines around his eyes, which seemed even more pronounced than yesterday.
“Oh, Billy, I am sorry. I was so anxious to get to my desk that I forgot to ask about Doreen—and she has been on my mind so much. How is she?”
Billy bit his lip. “I want her out of there, Miss. I wish I could have just brought her home, but—I don’t know what’s right anymore. I don’t know whether taking her out is worse than leaving her there, but at the same time, you should see her—I don’t know what they’re doing half the time. It seems to me they’re keeping on with this business of trying to shock her mind into going back to what it was, as if they’re trying to get a big enough jolt in her to come to terms with what happened to our Lizzie. She’s holding on to it—with all her mind she won’t let our little girl go. But she’s gone, and I miss her just as much. There’s the boys to think of, and our future, and the way things are going . . . ”