‘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?’