Past Lives

Ten

Macandrew now realised that neither he nor Karen Bliss had even considered a place other than the Russian capital when Emma had said her home was near Moscow. He even recalled feeling vaguely relieved when she had come out with it because she had been making them feel uncomfortable by sounding so perfectly sane and rational. There had been such a ring of truth about everything she’d said that anything to remind them that they were dealing with a deranged woman had seemed strangely welcome.

As he thought back to the events of that morning, he remembered Karen asking her why she didn’t speak Russian and Emma’s bemusement at the question. They had been happy to take that as a sign that everyday logic was absent from her thinking — a clear indication of mental dysfunction. But if Emma’s Moscow had not been in Russia then her reaction had been perfectly understandable. But surely this was all some kind of weird coincidence. “Emma” couldn’t possibly have meant the Moscow he had just seen direction to on the traffic sign. Common sense rebelled at the idea. There were probably lots of Moscows in the world. Hell, there was even one in Idaho, now he came to think about it. This niggling train of thought however, occupied him all the way back to Edinburgh and was still on his mind when he picked up his room key at the front desk.

‘Did you have a good trip, Doctor?’ asked the girl on duty.

‘I found exactly what I was looking for.’

‘Not many people can say that in life,’ said the girl.

Macandrew smiled at the philosophy and asked — almost on a whim — ‘Tell me, is Forsyth a Scottish name?’

‘It certainly is,’ said the girl.

‘I was afraid of that.’

Macandrew lay down on the bed for a few moments, looking blankly up at the ceiling while he tried to think things through in a calm and rational manner. A Scottish Moscow and a Scottish name: it could still be coincidence but he could no longer dismiss it out of hand. He would have to go back and take a look at the place. Something told him that he wouldn’t have peace of mind unless he did. He remembered that the tape of Karen’s interview with Jane Francini was in his travel bag and came to a decision. He would drive out to the Scottish Moscow in the morning and listen to the tape on the way.

Macandrew slowed as he neared the roundabout just north of Galston where he had seen the sign the night before. Seeing it made him just as uneasy again. Perhaps even more so this time because the Francini tape was playing and the sound of Jane’s Emma Forsyth voice was bringing back things he’d been trying to forget. He had played it through twice with an extra playback of the section containing the description of the house where the Forsyth family lived — Fulton Grange.

On a cold November morning, Moscow did not seem any different to many of the other small villages he had passed through on the way. It was grey and nondescript. There were certainly no big houses to be seen and very little signs of life outside the small ones. There didn’t even appear to be a shop in the village. Two elderly women, shapeless in heavy winter coats and headscarves, were talking on a corner. One of them had to rein back her dog to stop it making a run at Macandrew’s car. The women regarded him suspiciously as he passed slowly by, a half smile on his face by way of apology for invading their space.

Macandrew was almost relieved that the place seemed so ordinary but Emma had not said that her home was in Moscow, only that it was near it. But in which direction? An added problem might be that large houses were often hidden from the road. People with money could afford privacy.

The main road out of Moscow led north but there was a minor road crossing from east to west. At the mental toss of a coin, he headed slowly east with frequent checks in his rear view mirror for any traffic coming up behind. The road was little better than a farm-track and wound steeply uphill through a forest of Scots pine trees.

He had travelled less than half a mile when he saw what looked like evidence of a broad path leading off to the left. It didn’t seem like a farm track because it was almost overgrown but it did look as if it might have been the entrance to a property at some time in the past. He parked the car on the verge to take a closer look and found clear evidence of what had once been a stone-built perimeter wall and two gate posts, although the gates themselves were no longer there. The position of the rusting hinge-bolts embedded in the stone posts suggested that the gates must have been well over eight feet high.

Macandrew cleared a path through the tangled undergrowth that had largely reclaimed the junction with the road and started to make his way up what would have been the drive. The sound of the wind in the tall trees and the darkening of the sky made him shiver and pull up his collar as he made his way to the far end of the drive where he had to stop and fight his way again through tangled shrubbery and a dense cluster of wild rhododendron bushes. This he did holding his hands up in front of his face for protection, but when he finally succeeded and stepped out into a clearing, he saw what he had almost been afraid of finding. There was a big house standing there.

The building was clearly very old and in a poor state of repair. The windows had been boarded up and not recently for the wood had started to rot, leaving ugly jagged gaps and weeds had gained a foothold on nearly all of the crumbling stone ledges. What caught his attention more than anything else however, was the fact that the house had a round tower. Emma’s room was round because it was in a tower.

He moved slowly towards the house, fighting the fear of finding out more. There was a struggle going on in his head between his firm belief in scientific values and what was unfolding before him. He came to the steps leading up to the front door and paused to run his fingers through letters etched into a decaying stone pillar. They spelt out — as he was dreadfully afraid they must — Fulton Grange.

Macandrew rubbed his forehead gently and sought a rational explanation. How could Jane Francini have known about this place? She had never been to Scotland in her life. She had told him this in their early conversations when they had talked about their common heritage. Even if she had, it seemed unlikely that she would ever have found her way here by accident. So what was the connection between Jane Francini, Emma Forsyth and Fulton Grange?

He looked up at the brooding walls and clutched at straws. He supposed that the house might have appeared as an illustration in some story that Jane had read as a child. Emma might even have been one of the characters in it — a particular favourite of Jane’s and one that had stuck in her mind. He knew nothing at all about the history of this place but he did remember “Emma” telling Karen Bliss about the secret compartment in her bedroom where she kept her doll. Now, if he were to find that... It didn’t bear thinking about.

He walked around the outside of the house until he found the window that seemed most susceptible to forced entry and started pulling away the boards. They were in such poor condition that it did not require much effort but the glass behind them was still intact. He found it harder to free the sash window in its frame than remove the wood shuttering but, in less than ten minutes, he was standing inside Fulton Grange with the smell of wood rot and fungus in his nostrils.

There was no furniture in the room and the wind moaned in the chimney of a huge stone fireplace — a sad, lonely sound. He closed the window and the air became still again. The moaning stopped and a deathly silence took its place, only to be broken by his footsteps as he walked slowly through empty apartments and finally across the main hall with its stone coat of arms above the door.

He paused as he came to the passage leading to the steps that gave access to the tower. He would have to be careful; if any of the floorboards should give way and he should injure himself, the chances of ever being found were remote.

The steps in the tower were dangerously steep — as Emma had suggested — but had the advantage of being solid stone. He climbed up, using the broad edges of the spiral steps because there was no hand rail, although he could see that there had once been a rope threaded through iron rings on the wall to serve that purpose — there was still threadbare evidence of it. He came to a heavy wooden door and paused. The house had been uninhabited for a very long time but he still felt like an intruder when he turned the ring handle and put his shoulder to it. The door swung back to reveal the panoramic windows that Emma had described. A pulse was beating palpably in his neck as he tested the floorboards in advance with his toe and then moved gingerly across to look down at the wilderness that had once been the garden. Emma’s voice was in his ears, ‘Please bring me my doll...’

Macandrew saw the rose carving in the stone below the large window and applied fingertip pressure to each of the petals in turn. Nothing happened. He tried again but still without success. One final attempt and, as he touched the centre of the rose with one hand and the petal below with the other, the stone turned against a hidden counter-weight to reveal a dark space. He reached in... and brought out Emma’s doll.

The clothing on the little doll turned to dust in his hands and he was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of sadness and bewilderment. He didn’t understand what was going on but the one thing he felt sure of was that Jane Francini was not mad. She was trapped in the mind of some long-dead character, the little girl who had owned and cherished this doll. He looked out of the window at the wild garden below and absently brought the doll up to his cheek to hold it there for a moment.

This changed everything. He had been trying to put the Francini affair behind him but this was no longer possible. He felt an obligation to Jane to talk to John Burnet at the University of Edinburgh and ask him why he had stopped such promising research.

Macandrew hurried back to the car for it had started to rain. He had done his best to replace the boards over the window and leave things as he’d found them but he had brought the doll with him, cradling it gently inside his jacket to protect it until he was inside the car.

It was three in the afternoon when he got back to Edinburgh and it was — he reminded himself — Friday afternoon. He would have to get a move on if he was to talk to Burnett before the weekend intervened. He found a safe place in his room for Emma’s doll — an otherwise empty drawer — and left immediately for the medical school.

He couldn’t find a place to park near the school so he took a chance and drove straight into the quadrangle, ignoring the warning signs about the need for permits. He was aware of a man in uniform starting out towards him as he got out of the car but pretended not to see him and hurried into the building.

Macandrew knew — from the address given in his published work — that Burnett was attached to the Pathology Department at the university. He followed the signs and called in at the departmental office.

‘I’m afraid Dr Burnett is no longer with us,’ said the woman. ‘He left some time ago.’

Macandrew felt deflated. He had been psyching himself up for the meeting. He said, ‘I’ve come such a long way. I’d really like to get in touch with him if at all possible. Perhaps you have an address?’

The secretary appeared hesitant. ‘I’m not sure I can give out that sort of information.’

Macandrew felt that he was making a perfectly reasonable request and tried reassuring her by introducing himself, adding, ‘I’m a neurosurgeon at the University of Kansas Medical Centre.’

‘Would you wait here for a moment,’ said the woman. She eased herself out from behind her desk, keeping her knees together in an obviously well practised move and disappeared through the door behind her. She returned a few moments later to say, ‘Perhaps you’d care to have a word with Professor Roberts?’

Macandrew was shown into a small, cluttered, gloomy office. The only view from the single, tall window behind the desk was of a stone wall less than four feet away with a drain pipe running down it. Lichen grew on the wall in the dampness on either side of it. Roberts, an elderly man with wayward tufts of white hair above his ears, held out his hand and invited Macandrew to sit. He himself leaned back in his swivel chair and let his intertwined fingers rest on his ample stomach. ‘Mona tells me you were asking after John Burnett?’

‘I was hoping to speak to him about his work on Hartman tumours,’ said Macandrew. ‘Your secretary tells me that he doesn’t work here any more?’

‘Very sad,’ said Roberts.

Macandrew was alarmed by the word. ‘Sad?’

‘John has given up science. He had what people like to call a complete nervous breakdown: he decided on a complete change of direction in his life.’

‘What sort of a change?’ asked Macandrew.

‘Religion got to him — as it does to so many at their most vulnerable. John sought retreat in a monastery. I think he has decided on making that his future.’

‘He’s becoming a monk?’ exclaimed Macandrew as if it were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

Roberts shrugged almost apologetically at Macandrew’s reaction. ‘A brilliant career thrown away,’ he said. ‘And for what?’ Roberts shook his head and lapsed into silence.

‘Is anyone carrying on his research?’ asked Macandrew. ‘It seemed far too important just to abandon.’

‘I agree,’ said Roberts. ‘The trouble is that John took it into his head to remove all his research notes when he left. No one could pick up where he left off, even if they wanted to.’

‘But his colleagues, Dr Mukherjee, Dr Robin. Surely they could have carried on?’

‘To be quite frank,’ said Roberts, ‘I never quite understood their behaviour at the time. Suffice to say that neither decided to complete their contract with us. I don’t know what happened to Mukherjee but Simone returned to France and has been working on a new line of research. I understand she’s doing quite well: she had a paper in the Journal of Molecular Biology quite recently.’

‘But why change when things were going so well?’

‘I really don’t know,’ said Roberts. ‘Do you have some personal interest in John’s research?’

‘At home, I operated on a patient with a Hartman’s brain tumour. The surgery went well but she’s now in a mental institution. According to the literature, this is what happens to all Hartman’s cases: the cancer is stopped but the patient is left brain-damaged and hopelessly confused. Burnett’s published work suggested that he was on the verge of finding a treatment for the after-effects of this type of tumour.’

‘I see,’ said Roberts quietly. ‘In that case, I’m sorry. I only wish I could be of more help.’

Macandrew got up to leave but, before he did, he asked about Burnett’s whereabouts.

‘He’s with the Benedictines at Cauldstane Abbey,’ said Roberts. ‘It’s near Elgin in the north of Scotland.’

Macandrew pulled the parking ticket from below his wiper blade and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. His frustration at what he’d learned turned to annoyance when he thought about the missing notes. Things hadn’t improved by the time he was back at the hotel. Being a medical researcher wasn’t just an ordinary job: Burnett had a responsibility to carry on a promising line of work or at least should have taken steps to make sure that someone else could. What kind of Christian behaviour was it to do the opposite and make sure they couldn’t?

At around half past eleven that evening — his resolve strengthened by several malt whiskies — he decided that he would go visit Burnett and tell him to his face exactly what he thought.

Next morning, Macandrew wasn’t quite so comfortable with his decision. The wind had risen to gale force and he was sitting in a queue of traffic waiting to cross the Forth Road Bridge at South Queensferry. High-sided vehicles and motorcycles were being turned back on the grounds that it was too dangerous for them to cross. As it was, his heart was in his mouth more than once as he negotiated the mile and a half crossing with the wind threatening to snatch the steering from him. But, after that, it was a more or less straightforward four-hour drive north to reach Elgin. He took a couple of wrong turnings in the city itself but finally found the road leading out to Cauldstane Abbey. The rain had stopped but it was still overcast. He was beginning to think in terms of an overnight stay rather than return to Edinburgh in the dark if weather conditions should worsen.

The road leading to the abbey itself was narrow, winding as it did through the vale of St Andrew and, on more than one occasion, Macandrew found himself having to slow right down and mount the grass verge in order to ease past traffic coming the other way. He let out a sigh of relief as he turned down the lane leading to where the abbey stood at the foot of a pine-clad hill.

He left the car in the small visitors’ car park outside the main gate and walked up the tree-lined drive towards the abbey. He tried to picture how it would look in spring, lit by pale yellow sunshine instead of grey November light. There was no doubt about the peace and tranquillity of its setting but today there was a raw coldness about everything.

He noticed a small graveyard where the main drive curved round to the left and detoured briefly to take a look. It proved to be the burial ground of the monks.

The abbey itself was impressive; a thirteenth century building with pointed gothic windows and arches. Sections of scaffolding and masons’ tools lying near blocks of stone suggested that it was currently under restoration. He entered by the abbey’s main door but found no one inside. There was a small exhibition with model buildings and photographs recording the abbey’s history and current restoration programme, which he looked at before spending a few more solitary minutes walking around, gazing up at the high vaulted ceiling and admiring the stained glass windows. He came to a door which had a sign on it saying that visitors were not permitted to enter and decided that this might be the best way to attract attention.

After knocking three times without response, he entered. Within seconds, the white-robed figure of a monk materialised to ask who he was and what he wanted.

‘I’m Dr John Macandrew from the University of Kansas Medical Centre. I was hoping I might be able to talk to Dr John Burnett.’

‘I see,’ said the monk. He was a short man, completely bald and with a dark beard shadow that made him look unshaven although Macandrew was close enough to see that his skin was perfectly smooth — if slightly moist. He had a particularly large Adam’s apple that brushed against the stole of his robe when he spoke.

‘We are a contemplative order here,’ said the monk. ‘It is not permitted for John to see anyone without good reason.’

‘I have good reason,’ said Macandrew, without elaborating.

‘I’d best tell Father Abbot you’re here,’ said the monk, deciding to pass the buck.

Macandrew was left standing in a long, covered cloister. There were several doors leading off into what he presumed would be the monks’ sleeping and living quarters. He looked out at the wet grass and noticed there was a fairy ring in it. He was wondering what the inmates would make of that when the shadow-faced monk returned, accompanied by a tall, thin man whom he introduced as, Father Abbot.

‘You wish to see Brother John, I understand,’ he said in a voice that suggested Irish rather than Scottish origins.

‘I do,’ agreed Macandrew. ‘I’ve come a long way.’

The Abbot held Macandrew’s gaze for a moment — long enough for Macandrew to wonder what was going on inside his head because his eyes gave no clue. Finally, he said, ‘John has been ill. He’s recovering well but what he needs most at the moment is peace and tranquillity. He has renounced his past life and I am reluctant to let anyone from it intrude on his recovery. If this were a matter of family crisis or bereavement it would of course, be different, but I suspect that this is not the case?’

Macandrew had to agree that it wasn’t.

‘You’re from the medical world. You want to ask him about his research, don’t you?’

Macandrew was taken aback. ‘I do.’

‘I’m going to have to deny your request,’ said the Abbot.

‘Doesn’t Dr Burnett have any say in the matter?’ Macandrew asked.

‘No,’ replied the abbot evenly. ‘I decide.’

‘John Burnett’s research could make the difference between a possible cure for one of my patients and spending the rest of her life in a mental institution. There is no one else doing the work.’

‘I know about Brother John’s research. He told me about it when he first came here.’

‘And the answer is still, no?’

‘Still no,’ said the abbot.