Past Lives

Twelve

‘How did you come to know this man?’ Clements asked as the police car sped south to join the city by-pass. Sergeant Malcolm sat in front beside the uniformed driver. Clements and Macandrew sat in the back.

‘He’s a researcher in a field I’m interested in,’ replied Macandrew. ‘I thought that, as I was in Scotland, I would look him up. It was then I found out he was in the process of becoming, a Benedictine monk.’

‘That must have come as a bit of a shock,’ said Clements.

‘You can say that again.’

‘What field would that be?’

‘I’m a neurosurgeon. Burnett had carried out some interesting research on brain tumours and their after effects. It seemed promising stuff.’

‘But then it all went wrong and he killed someone?’

‘Pardon?’ said Macandrew, taken aback.

‘Sorry, I thought I saw a guilt trip looming up,’ said Clements. ‘I had a Catholic upbringing — spent a week in a monastery once. My mother — a devout woman all her days, God bless her — thought it would do me good to be exposed to truly good people who had denied themselves everything to follow God.’ Clements snorted and turned to look out of the car window.

‘I take it, it didn’t work?’

‘I don’t think there was a single one of them — apart from maybe a little Irishman, who had never known anything else — who wasn’t on some kind of guilt trip. They hadn’t given up anything at all: they were running away from things; hiding; the lot of them; and mainly from their real selves. Show me a monk and I’ll show you one screwed-up individual with a past.’

Macandrew didn’t comment, but was forced to concede that guilt might well be playing a role in George Burnett’s life. He had seemed a deeply troubled man.

‘Shit!’ exclaimed the driver suddenly and the car braked and swerved slightly as a slower car in front pulled out to overtake. The driver hit the siren and got the required response from the vehicle in front. Macandrew saw a very sheepish man cower behind his wheel and stare straight ahead as they passed.

‘I don’t know,’ rasped the driver. ‘We’re lit up like a runaway Christmas tree and still the buggers don’t see us!’

‘Just drive,’ said Clements. ‘You all right?’ he asked Macandrew.

‘Sure.’

Macandrew sensed that they were slowing.

‘Haddington,’ said the driver.

‘We’re being met at the second roundabout,’ said Malcolm to the driver.

Almost on cue, the orange stripe on the side of a blue and white police patrol car was picked out in their headlights. It was parked on a grass verge to the left of the entrance to the roundabout, its blue roof light flashing silently up at the night sky.

‘They haven’t seen us,’ said Malcolm.

A whoop of the siren and the silhouettes in the front seats of the panda sprang to life as if being attacked by a swarm of bees. Caps were replaced, the engine was started and the car bumped heavily on to the road to lead the way.

‘Shit, I felt that...’ murmured the driver.

It was less than two miles from the main road to the long stone building that had once been the seminary of St Bede’s. The last four hundred metres took them up a rough, stony track that had the car bouncing on the limits of its suspension. When they finally came to the broad, ivy-covered entrance, there were two police cars already there and signs of intense activity.

‘I think you’d better wait in the car,’ said Clements to Macandrew. It made him nervous. He suspected that Clements knew what all the activity was about while he could only speculate. He watched Clements confer with a uniformed man with braid on his cap who seemed to be in charge. When they both glanced back at the car, he sensed that they were talking about him.

The two men were joined by Sergeant Malcolm and they disappeared inside the building. Macandrew was left alone with the driver. ‘My sister’s married to an American,’ he said.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ said Macandrew, ignoring the small talk.

‘Looks like it,’ agreed the driver quietly. ‘They’re setting up a mobile incident room.’

Macandrew let out his breath in a long weary sigh. He stared glumly at the comings and goings outside the building until Clements and the two others emerged and came towards the car. Clements got in the back and shut the door.

‘You’re going to tell me, Burnett’s dead,’ said Macandrew.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Clements. ‘At least you two weren’t close.’

‘How did he die?’

Clements turned and looked at Macandrew with a look that suggested he might be editing his reply. ‘He was murdered.’

‘Shot? Stabbed? Strangled?’

‘Stabbed... in the end...’

‘Jesus.’

‘Do you feel up to identifying him?’

Macandrew nodded. He felt numb.

The building had clearly not been used for a long time. It harboured the kind of damp, clinging coldness that only stone buildings in the depth of winter can manage and there was a strong smell of mouldy plaster. There was no electricity so police torches and flashlights sufficed while they waited for a generator to arrive.

‘He’s in here,’ said Clements as they came to a solid wooden door. He led the way and Macandrew followed. Sergeant Malcolm brought up the rear, doing his best to provide illumination of the floor ahead to complement Clements’ horizontal torch beam.

There were two parallel rows of wooden benches facing a raised stone altar — currently without adornment — behind which, a tall, arched stained glass window rose. Macandrew felt puzzled. There was no sign of Burnett’s body. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

‘Behind you,’ said Clements.

Macandrew turned round to see John Burnett, wearing the habit of a Benedictine monk. He had been crucified to the back of the chapel door.

‘Sweet Jesus Christ,’ he whispered, starting to feel vaguely unwell. His throat had tightened: he found he couldn’t swallow.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Clements.

Macandrew nodded, putting his hand over his mouth until he felt composed enough to continue.

‘Is it John Burnett?’

Macandrew approached and looked up into the monk’s cowl. Sergeant Malcolm directed his torch beam up into the agonised face of the dead man.

‘Yes, this is John Burnett,’ murmured Macandrew. ‘For God’s sake, why do that to him?’

‘Somebody wanted to know something,’ said Clements. ‘They tortured him by banging nails into him until he told them what they wanted to know or until they were satisfied that he really didn’t know. At some point they broke his left kneecap too. They finished him off with a knife under the ribs to the heart.’

Macandrew noted the large bloodstain on the front of Burnett’s habit. ‘Sweet Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.

‘Sic transit gloria mundae,’ said Clements dryly.

‘Whatever happened to Brigadoon?’ murmured Macandrew.

‘Walters Scott and Disney both have a lot to answer for,’ replied Clements.

Macandrew saw that the forensic team was anxious to be about its business. He turned and headed for the door. The fresh air smelt good. He took several deep breaths and relished the cutting cold of it. It seemed clean, antiseptically clean.

‘I’m going to be here for some time,’ said Clements, joining him outside. ‘I’ll have someone drive you back but we’ll need to talk to you later.’

Macandrew didn’t protest. He now regretted having come in the first place. He was pleased when the same driver who had brought them down was detailed to take him back to Edinburgh. He wanted to hear all about his sister and her American husband.

Macandrew threw back a second whisky and reflected on how his vacation had turned into a living nightmare. He couldn’t understand how Burnett had ended up where he had. Why had be been “called to Edinburgh” in the first place? Once again he was forced to conclude with a sinking feeling that the Abbot of Cauldstane would know the answers to these questions. But would he tell? And more importantly, did he really want to know any more?

The manner of Burnett’s death had shaken him to the core and the agonised expression on the dead man’s face would live with him for a long time to come. Right now, he wanted to walk away from everything but it wasn’t that easy. He felt an obligation to comply with Burnett’s (last?) request that he warn Simone Robin even though common sense was telling him that the minute he set out on that course, he too would become involved and therefore be at risk. Jane Francini’s plight was also playing a part in his thinking. Simone Robin knew something about Hartman’s tumours that no one else did.

The whisky dulled his unease although he still felt far from relaxed about what he was getting into. He decided that he would go to Paris, but first — and much against his will for he had very little heart for it — he would confront the Abbot of Cauldstane yet again in an attempt to get more information out of him. He needed to know as much as possible up front if he were to cross swords with the sort of people who’d done what they had to John Burnett. He would drive up to the abbey in the morning after trying to contact Simone Robin by telephone. If everything went to plan, he would fly to Paris the following day.

Macandrew got the number for the Seventh University of Paris from International Directory Enquiries and tried calling at eight am when it would be nine in France. There was no reply from Simone Robin’s extension. He tried at fifteen minute intervals until, at a quarter before ten, a woman’s voice answered, ‘Oui?’

‘Dr Robin?’

‘Oui.’

‘You don’t know me but my name is Dr John Macandrew. I’m calling from Edinburgh, in Scotland. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’ He told her of John Burnett’s death and heard the sharp intake of breath.

‘But how?’

‘There’s no easy way to say this, I’m afraid. He was murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ exclaimed Simone. ‘But that’s ridiculous. John was the kindest, most gentle man. Who would want to murder him?... Who are you? How do you know me?’

‘John telephoned me before he died: he asked me to pass on a warning to you that you were in danger too.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a neurosurgeon at Kansas University Medical Center; I’m here in Scotland on vacation. I went to see John to ask about his — your — work on brain tumours. The university told me about his change of... direction, so I went to see him at the monastery. He suggested I should come to Paris to speak to you.’

‘John said you should speak to me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s true,’ insisted Macandrew. ‘I admit it wasn’t easy. He didn’t want to tell me anything at all but I bullied or shamed or embarrassed him, whatever you want to call it, into helping me.’

‘How can I help you exactly?’

‘I have a patient back home. I carried out an operation on her to remove a Hartman’s brain tumour. She’s now confined to a mental institution.’

‘I see.’

‘John gave me the impression that you might be able to help? He gave me a token to give you,’ Macandrew added, ‘a silver St Christopher medallion.’

‘I gave it to John when he decided to give up science,’ said Simone distantly. ‘You said you had a warning for me?’

‘John seemed to think that you were in danger. Something to do with having his research notes?’

‘What do you know about the people who killed him?’

‘Absolutely nothing. I sort of stumbled into this whole damned thing and believe me, I wish I hadn’t.’

‘You must know something?’

‘I suspect that there’s some kind of Israeli connection.’

‘Israeli?’ exclaimed Simone.

Macandrew told her about the Israeli news story and how Burnett had reacted. Simone went quiet. ‘Mean anything?’ he asked.

‘Someone used it,’ said Simone.

‘That’s what he said. What’s going on?’

Simone ignored the question. ‘Do you still intend coming to Paris?’ she asked.

‘You tell me,’ said Macandrew. ‘Will I hear something that might help my patient? If so, I’ll come.’

‘I can only tell you what I know,’ said Simone.

‘Can’t ask for more than that,’ said Macandrew. ‘But it might be safer if you kept a low profile for the time being,’ he added.

‘We must arrange a meeting place,’ said Simone.

‘Just say where,’ said Macandrew.

‘Somewhere public,’ said Simone.

Macandrew admired her caution.

‘The square in front of Notre Dame. Tuesday afternoon at three.’

‘How will I know you?’

‘I’d prefer if I were to recognise you,’ said Simone.

‘I’m thirty-six, six foot two, dark hair. I’ll be wearing... a grey suit over a dark blue roll neck sweater.’

‘If for any reason you can’t make it, you can get a message to me at the number you’ve called today. Ask for Aline D’Abo; she’s my research assistant. She’ll pass it on.’

‘Understood,’ said Macandrew, noting down the name.

‘More sight-seeing doctor?’ asked the girl on the front desk when Macandrew passed on his way out the hotel in the morning.

‘Such a lot to see,’ replied Macandrew with a weak attempt at a smile. The prospect of the long drive north again had done little for his spirits but four hours later he was walking up the drive to the abbey and asking to see the abbot.

The monk he’d asked put his hands together as if in prayer and shrugged apologetically. He beckoned him to the door and Macandrew followed him into the abbey where they stopped outside a small, gloomy side chapel. The monk pointed to a figure kneeling in front of the altar. It was the Abbot. Macandrew gestured that he would wait. The monk looked uncertain but Macandrew ushered him away with a series of reassuring nods and hand gestures.

Macandrew stood immobile at the entrance to the chapel, staring at the back of the kneeling Abbot as if trying to engage him through telepathy. It was absolutely silent here but the sound of Latin chant came from somewhere else in the building. Snowflakes started to drift past the high windows.

‘Father Abbot,’ said Macandrew softly but firmly.

A slight raise of the head told Macandrew that he had heard but he continued to pray.

‘Father Abbot, I need to speak to you.’

The kneeling man seemed to stiffen then got up slowly and with some difficulty to his feet. He genuflected to the altar and turned round, his eyes betraying annoyance.

‘You’ve heard about John Burnett?’

‘I was praying for his soul.’

Macandrew ignored the implied rebuke. ‘You know more about this business than you told me yesterday.’

The Abbot remained impassive.

‘Lives are in danger. You must tell me what’s going on.’

‘I’ve already told the police all I know.’

‘Will you tell me?’

The Abbot, after appearing to consider for a moment, said, ‘Would you care for some tea, Doctor?’

‘Thank you,’ replied Macandrew. He felt both surprised and relieved as he followed him out of the chapel. He had been expecting a bigger mountain to climb.

The Abbot filled two earthenware mugs that looked as if they had seen better days but Macandrew was glad of the hot tea and cupped both his hands round his to warm his fingers.

‘There are things that I cannot and will not tell you because of the confessional but I can say that John Burnett did uncover something in his research that upset him greatly. His faith was important to him and he came here to seek reassurance and find help in saving it. In the course of my duties I submitted a report to Rome — as I’m obliged to do on any man who wishes to join our order. It appears now that the reasons given in the report for John wanting to join us may have fallen into the wrong hands.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘After I sent the papers, I received a request from Rome. A bible scholar named, Dom Ignatius, working in the Vatican, asked if he could come here to speak to John about his research work. John was reluctant so I didn’t grant the request at first but then Ignatius called me personally and sought my help in persuading John to speak to him. He was very persuasive and I finally agreed. Ignatius came here to the abbey and interviewed John at some length.’

‘This man’s a priest?’

‘Yes, but he’s an academic, a biblical scholar who had been working in the Holy Land for many years, engaged in the study of Holy relics and their validation.’

‘Like the Shroud of Turin, you mean?’

‘There are many lesser-known relics in the Church’s possession. Ignatius has given his life to establishing their authenticity through the interpretation of ancient scrolls and manuscripts, or not. Many of these documents have still not seen the light of day... for one reason or another.’

‘I suppose translation must be very slow and difficult,’ said Macandrew.

‘That’s just one of the problems. There was an unhappy time in our history when Holy relics appeared to... multiply.’

‘A piece of the genuine Cross for five ducats and no questions asked,’ said Macandrew.

‘Quite,’ said the Abbot coldly. ‘This tended to fog the issue greatly. What I didn’t know about Ignatius when he came here was that he had recently been recalled to Rome from Israel in disgrace after being caught misappropriating certain parchments originating from the Essene community at Qumran. He’d kept them for his own exclusive use and had failed to share the information with his colleagues.’

‘Sounds serious.’

‘The Vatican thought so too. The commission in Jerusalem had to be appeased so they reprimanded Ignatius, recalled him and put him to work on routine administrative duties in Rome — quite a comedown for an academic with an international reputation — even for one taught to fight against the sin of pride. In the course of these duties he must have come across my report on John.’

‘Why should such a scholar be interested in John Burnett’s research?’ asked Macandrew.

‘I don’t know,’ replied the Abbot, ‘but when you pointed out the Israeli story to John, he was extremely upset. He wouldn’t say why exactly but insisted that he had to speak to Ignatius as soon as possible. He asked that I contact the Vatican to arrange it.’

‘And did you?’

‘I called Rome and was told that my request had been noted and would be passed on but that Dom Ignatius was currently unavailable; no one would tell me why. John became very upset, so much so that I couldn’t make much sense out of what he was saying — something about Ignatius probably wanting more of the stuff.’

‘Why did John go to Edinburgh?’

‘We had a call, requesting John’s presence in Edinburgh. We were told that the bishop wanted to see him before his vows were finalised. We saw him on to the train and wished him well but he never got there.’

‘And the call?’

‘It turned out that none of the bishop’s staff knew anything about it. I had sent John to his death.’

‘You weren’t to know,’ said Macandrew. ‘Have you told all this to the police?’

‘I said nothing about Ignatius. I called Rome this morning after the police had left and refused to be fobbed off with “unavailable”. It appears that Dom Ignatius had recently made an unauthorised return to the Holy Land and was the priest involved in the convent scandal in Jerusalem. Apparently he has formed some kind of an association with a doctor he met out there; a shadowy character named, Stroud. They’ve both now disappeared.’

‘John was tortured before he was killed.’

The Abbot swallowed hard. ‘How awful.’