‘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 welclass="underline" 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.