There was still no sign of rain when he had finished eating so he continued exploring the myriad streets and lanes leading away from the main thoroughfare and the small shops he found there with their treasure troves of times past. He was beginning to feel a little tired — but not unpleasantly so — when he happened upon a large dark-stone building and a notice outside telling him that it was the medical school of the University of Edinburgh. He realised that this must be where Burnett and his team had carried out their work on Hartman’s tumours.
The huge, arched entrance spoke of an age when doctors wore frock coats and stolen corpses were trundled through the streets by body snatchers under cover of darkness to supply the needs of the infamous Dr Knox’s anatomy classes, an age when anaesthetics had yet to be discovered. Come to think of it, anaesthetics were discovered here. Simpson had carried out his early experiments with chloroform in this very city. And antiseptics too! Joseph Lister had introduced carbolic acid to the world of surgery in the hospital adjoining this very medical school.
Macandrew felt suitably awed to be standing outside a building that had played such an important role in the history of medicine but its more modern link to the Francini affair through the work of the Burnet group was making him feel uncomfortable. He flexed his fingers subconsciously as he looked up at the windows surrounding the quadrangle, wondering if John Burnet was sitting behind any of them. He even considered going in and asking but stopped short of doing that. For the moment, the events in Kansas City were a long way away and that’s how he wanted to keep it. Maybe he’d call in before he went home but, for now, he was here on vacation. He turned his back on the med school and walked off. He had a trip to the Ayrshire coast to plan.
Hertz delivered the hire-car to the hotel just before nine on Wednesday but Macandrew decided to let the morning rush hour pass before setting out — although he did want to be in Ayr, some seventy miles away — by lunchtime. It was his intention to spend the afternoon visiting the local tourist agencies — hoping that they would be open at this time of the year — to ask about Drumcarrick. If not, he’d try local museums or historical societies.
‘Your luck’s still holding,’ said the breakfast waitress as she cleared the table and nodded to the sunshine outside the window. It was another cold clear day.
‘I think you were kidding about the weather here,’ said Macandrew. ‘It’s beautiful.’
The waitress — who had told him earlier that the weather could change every ten minutes — gave him a pitying look.
Nine
Macandrew decided against using the motorway and opted instead for a meandering route across the central belt. He wanted to see as much of the countryside as possible.
‘There’s no much tae see either way, mind you,’ warned Willie Donaldson, the hall porter. ‘If it’s scenery yer after, you should be headin’ north.’
After thirty minutes of driving through a bleak landscape that even sheep seemed vaguely unhappy with, Macandrew was ready to concede that Willie had a point. The countryside he’d passed through had been mainly barren, windswept moor land. His spirits began to pick up however, when the road started to wind down the slopes of the Clyde valley with its more fertile soil and fruit farms — although it was entirely the wrong time of year to visit. Two hours had gone by when he finally joined the dual carriageway that led south from Glasgow to the Ayrshire coast. Another twenty minutes and he was entering the outskirts of Ayr.
It struck him almost immediately that the town had a feeling of small town prosperity about it as he headed slowly towards its centre between rows of neat bungalows sitting smugly behind well-manicured gardens. The roads were pleasantly wide, giving the place an air of space and openness and the traffic seemed light. He eventually picked up a sign pointing to Beach Car Park and couldn’t resist following it. This would be his first glimpse of the western shores of Scotland from where his great grandfather had set out for the New World and a new life.
On a November day, Macandrew found himself the only person in the car park by the sea. He brought the car to a halt, facing the water, and leaned forward to rest his arms on the wheel and take in the view. The beach was windswept and utterly deserted but the sand seemed white and clean and the wind was whipping it up in small clouds making the surface seem liquid. Gulls wheeled and screamed above white crested waves which, with the tide out, were a good hundred yards away. He buttoned up the front of his jerkin, pulled his cap firmly on to his head in deference to the wind and got out of the car to jump over the low wall and start making for the water’s edge.
After only a few minutes standing there, he was forced to turn his back to gain respite from the biting wind and also to get his bearings. There was a wide expanse of parkland between the shore and the first houses, which were large, stone-built villas, but he could see the spires and towers of the town to his left. He found it slightly unnerving that he seemed to be the only living thing in the whole wide, flat landscape and felt relieved when he saw a woman step on to the beach about three hundred yards away with her dog. He walked by the water’s edge for another ten minutes before returning to the car and rejoicing in its calm stillness while he thought what to do next.
A first priority was a whisky to warm himself up and then he’d have some lunch. With this in mind, he headed back along the route he had come in on — remembering that he had passed a few likely hotels — and pulled into the car park of one of them. A large whisky was followed by hot soup, smoked trout and apple crumble and several cups of coffee — the waitress insisted on refilling his cup while she sought his advice about a Florida holiday.
By four in the afternoon Macandrew had visited all the tourist offices in Ayr that were open and also two local museums. No one had ever heard of Drumcarrick. It wasn’t marked on any of the many maps that were consulted for his benefit and he was beginning to feel thoroughly depressed.
‘You could try George Tranter,’ suggested the curator of the last museum when she finally had to admit defeat. The woman was small and stooped and carried her spectacles in her hand. She would put them on and take them off again at thirty second intervals while she spoke, as if uncertain of the effect they had on her appearance.
‘He’s a local historian and an amateur, but he knows more than many of the professionals round here,’ said the woman.
‘How do I find him?’ asked Macandrew.
‘He works down the coast at Culzean Castle.’
‘A castle?’
‘It’s a National Trust property a few miles south of here. George works on the estate. He lives in one of the cottages. Just ask any of the staff there and they’ll direct you.’
Macandrew glanced out of the window and saw that the light was fading. ‘Too late tonight I suppose,’ he said.
‘Mm,’ agreed the woman. ‘It’ll be dark soon.’
Macandrew booked himself into the nearest, reasonable-looking hotel for the night and telephoned the hotel in Edinburgh to tell them that he wouldn’t be back until the following day. He spent the remainder of the evening in a pub that boasted live music, listening to a slightly out-of-tune folk group called The McCreadys and an accordionist who played Scottish country dance music. The more he drank, the better they sounded.
After a good night’s sleep, Macandrew could hardly believe his luck when he looked out of the window and saw once more that the sun was shining out of a clear blue sky. It was bitterly cold and there was a frost on the grass where it was shaded from the sun but everything looked wonderful, especially the sea which sparkled in the distance. It looked even better close-up when he saw it crash on to the rocks below the high ramparts of Culzean Castle.