From the airport, I took a taxi to a townhouse on Moray Place, a circle of lovely Georgian homes in a crescent surrounding a private park, in what is generally referred to as the New Town of Edinburgh, although there, new is a relative term. An elderly woman, well into her eighties, answered the door at my ring. Her hair, once red, had faded to a lovely soft beige. I rather thought she had just had it done, perhaps because of my visit. I handed her my card and was shown into a rather dark parlor. A man in a leg cast, his crutches propped up against a piano, was sitting in a chair by the window. "Sit doon, why don't ye," she said. "There's my young neighbor, Nigel," she said. "Nigel, this is… ooh I've forgotten your name already."
"Lara McClintoch," I said. "How do you do."
Young Nigel, who wasn't a day over fifty, got out of his chair with some difficulty and shook my hand.
"I got the scrapbook out last night," she said, pouring me some tea. "When you've had your tea and biscuits, I'll show you the pictures. There are letters, too. How did you hear about my aunt Selena?" she asked. "No one has asked about her before."
There it was, you see. Rereading the diaries the previous evening in light of what I now knew, I realized I should have known they were written by a woman. Karoly had missed it, Frank had missed it, but I shouldn't have. It harkened back to that story Cybil had told the first time we got together only a few weeks ago, the one about the man and his son in an accident in which the man was killed, and the surgeon refusing to operate on his son. The surgeon, of course, was a woman. We just couldn't see that in 1900 an explorer and person of science could be a woman. But it was so obvious when, unfettered by that prejudice, you read them. T was her lover. It was as straightforward as that. I would hazard a guess that he was married. That's why she was never going to marry. She went to Budapest, not because it was the obvious place to find evidence of early man, but because she wanted to be with him. That there were limestone caves in the vicinity must have seemed a happy coincidence.
"I came across your Aunt Selena while I was doing some research in Budapest," I said, "It was on a different matter entirely." I was determined to come as close to the truth now as I could. There'd been enough lies told on this subject over the past hundred years. "I found her name on a list of people working on what I guess you'd call an archaeological dig in Hungary. I thought at first it was a man, you know, and of course the spelling was unusual and a Scottish name in Budapest at that, so I suppose I just became very curious about this woman and what she would be like. This is very good of you to talk to me about her."
"Oh, it's my pleasure, especially since you're interested in the Morisons. A 'dig' you say. I wouldn't have thought women would have been allowed on such things then."
"It was a bit unusual, I'm sure," I said. "A lot of people will be surprised to hear about her."
"There are Morisons in Canada you know, with one r, the same as us. No doubt one of the cousins emigrated. I'm the last of this particular branch of the family. My two older brothers died in the last war, as did my fiance. One brother died at Dunkirk, the other in Holland somewhere. My Mick was shot down over France. They never found the body. For a long time I hoped he was taken prisoner, and I waited for him to come home for years after the war ended. It wasn't to be. I never met anyone after that I could love as much as him. That's them, my brothers and Mick, in their uniforms in that photograph on the mantelpiece. Go have a look."
"They were all very handsome," I said, taking the photo down for a close look.
"Ay," she said. "They were that. But you didn't come to talk about my troubles. You came to hear about my aunt. Selena Boswell Morison, that's her name. I'm Selena Mary. The Mary is for my mother. I never met her, you know, my aunt. She was long gone when I was born. My father talked about her a great deal, though, so I have a sense of her. She was his only sister, there was just the two of them, and with both parents dying when he and Selena were young, they were very close. He never understood why she left like that. Myself, I've often wondered if it was because of a man. We'll never know, I suppose.
"I think you're right about the man," I said. "His name started with a T. He may have been Hungarian, Tamas, perhaps."
"You have done your research, haven't you, hen? What did I tell you, Nigel? Nigel is here because when I told him yesterday I'd invited you to tea, he thought you might be planning to rob me, that it was a scam of some sort. I told him I didn't think he'd be much help when it came down to it, what with his broken leg, and anyways you sounded right nice on the telephone, but he insisted on being here."
Nigel laughed. "In truth, it was the shortbread I wanted. She always brings it out for company."
"It's delicious," I said. "May I have another?"
"Of course you can, hen," she said. "But to get back to my aunt. She must have been very brave to go off to the continent all by herself like that, and in 1900! I've read since about Victorian lady travelers, Mary Kingsley and the like, but still, I think my aunt must have been a very special person. I wish I'd known her. The sad thing is, she never came back. A terrible accident. Would you like to see the scrap-book? I got it out for you. It has the letter from someone in Hungary telling my father, her brother, that she'd died. In Hungarian, it was. He had quite a time finding someone in Edinburgh to translate it for him, and when he did, it was very bad news. There's a picture of her, there on the wall, a portrait. My father told me about her often. He told me she was very pretty and very smart but that she'd some funny ideas in her head, about science and also about marriage, which she insisted was not for her. Why she went to Europe my father never understood. She met some Hungarian boys who put crazy ideas in her head, according to my father, so maybe what you're telling me about this man, Tamas, is a fact. Here it is, the letter. It's dated as you can see. April 30, 1901. She was only twenty-four, poor thing." I got up and walked over to the portrait as she spoke. Selena Morison had been more than very pretty. She was beautiful, with red hair and green eyes and pale, pale skin. It seemed to me that there was both a strength and yet a fragility to her. She had a strong mouth, a determined gaze, but there was something a bit tremulous, vulnerable, perhaps, about the eyes. I turned back to read the letter Selena held out to me.
Dear Sir:
I am writing to you with very bad news as to the health of your sister. There was a terrible accident. She was walking in the hills and lost her footing. It was a treacherous spot on Molndr Peak, and she fell a great distance. Despite all efforts by doctors, she was taken by the angels yesterday. She was a very fine lady, and not one to be taken lightly. I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news. She was very brave at the end. My employer has seen to a Christian burial, so you can set your mind at rest on that score.
Perhaps when you are feeling more consoled, you will tell me what you would wish me to do with her belongings. There is not much, a few items of clothing and some unusual stones, some bones she found, and a carving, rather strange. If you would like me to send these items to you in Scotland, I would be most grateful if you could send me the postage as I am not a person of means. I have returned your letter, unopened. It is from this I have your address. She spoke of you often.