Among the Mad by Jacqueline Winspear Page B

getting Doreen into the ambulance—I can’t believe it’s all happened,
to tell you the truth.”
    “I know someone at the Clifton who might help.” Maisie
spoke as she walked over to the card file and pulled out a drawer. She began
flicking through the cards. “In fact, I should see her soon anyway, about this
case. Let me make a telephone call and see what I can do.” She crossed the room
to the telephone, and picked up the receiver. “And I’ll be in touch with
Maurice—perhaps he’ll be able to pull a string or two.”
    “Miss, I feel awful, I mean, here I am again, in
trouble and you’re sorting it out.”
    “We all have trouble at times.” Maisie held up a
finger to indicate that her call was answered, and when Dr. Elsbeth Masters was
not available, she asked the secretary to let her know that she would call
later.
    Maisie replaced the receiver and sat down again opposite
Billy. “Look, you go on home now, spend some time with the boys this afternoon.
You can see Bert Shorter tomorrow. We’ll see if we can get Doreen into the
Clifton. And then it won’t be long before she’s home, right as rain.”
    Billy brightened, and thanked Maisie once more. He
gathered his coat and hat, and with a wave left the office.
    As soon as she heard the front door close, Maisie put
her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes, pinching the top of her nose to
fight fatigue. The bump on the back of her head still throbbed yet she had much
to accomplish before making her way to Scotland Yard and her next meeting with
Special Branch. And more important than anything, now, was getting Doreen Beale
out of an asylum with antiquated ways of dealing with its patients. Old ways
that, under the guise of kindness, could kill, or drive an almost-sane person
mad.
     
    Time and tide, time and tide. They wait for no man.
Now another letter to Mr. Home Secretary. And one to Mr. Prime Minister, Mr.
This and Mr. That. Perhaps I’ll send one to Mr. Robert Lewis MacFarlane, and
even one to Miss Maisie Dobbs. Or perhaps not. Another rabbit down the hole,
another mouse in the jar, another bird falling down. And will they listen now?
Will they hear my voice—our voices? Voices, voices, voices. I am not one man,
no, I am legion. And will they remember who we are, and what we are owed?
     
    The man paused and held his head to one side,
listening. He looked around to regard the silhouette negotiating the steps down
to his door.
     
    Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes .
. . Croucher.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    SIX
     
     
    Maisie arrived at Special Branch headquarters at
Scotland Yard and was shown directly to Robert MacFarlane’s office. He was in
the midst of a telephone conversation as she entered, but he waved her in and
pointed to a chair. Maisie looked around the room while the call was completed,
noticing that it was tidier than she might have imagined, with files and papers
stacked in a neat pile, and a clean blotter on the desk. On the walls a series
of framed photographs were evidence of a career in the police force, from a
young policeman in uniform, to senior officer in an important department. In
the middle of the gallery, a single photograph bore testimony to MacFarlane’s
war service, showing him in the uniform of a Scottish regiment.
    “Beaumont Hamel, June the thirtieth, 1916.”
    Maisie turned to face MacFarlane. Having finished his
call, he had leaned forward in his chair and was making a notation on a piece
of paper before placing it in a folder and turning to look at the photograph.
    “Just a day before the worst day of my life.”
    “Yes, I would imagine it was.”
    “And in all my years in the force, the people I would
really like to bang to rights are the men who thought taking on the enemy along
seventeen miles of the Somme Valley was a good idea.”
    Maisie nodded. “You’re talking about men who cannot be
touched, Superintendent.”
    “Och, aye, lass, I know. But it doesn’t stop