'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 well: 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.
'We are a contemplative order here,' said the monk. 'It is not permitted for John to see anyone without good reason.'
'I have good reason,' said Macandrew, without elaborating.
'I'd best tell Father Abbot you’re here,' said the monk, deciding to pass the buck.
Macandrew was left standing in a long, covered cloister. There were several doors leading off into what he presumed would be the monks' sleeping and living quarters. He looked out at the wet grass and noticed there was a fairy ring in it. He was wondering what the inmates would make of that when the shadow-faced monk returned, accompanied by a tall, thin man whom he introduced as, Father Abbot.
'You wish to see Brother John, I understand,' he said in a voice that suggested Irish rather than Scottish origins.
'I do,' agreed Macandrew. 'I've come a long way.'
The Abbot held Macandrew's gaze for a moment – long enough for Macandrew to wonder what was going on inside his head because his eyes gave no clue. Finally, he said, 'John has been ill. He's recovering well but what he needs most at the moment is peace and tranquillity. He has renounced his past life and I am reluctant to let anyone from it intrude on his recovery. If this were a matter of family crisis or bereavement it would of course, be different, but I suspect that this is not the case?’
Macandrew had to agree that it wasn’t.
'You're from the medical world. You want to ask him about his research, don’t you?'
Macandrew was taken aback. 'I do.'
'I’m going to have to deny your request,' said the Abbot.
'Doesn't Dr Burnett have any say in the matter?' Macandrew asked.
'No,' replied the abbot evenly. 'I decide.'
'John Burnett’s research could make the difference between a possible cure for one of my patients and spending the rest of her life in a mental institution. There is no one else doing the work.'
'I know about Brother John’s research. He told me about it when he first came here.'
'And the answer is still, no?'
'Still no,' said the abbot.
Macandrew started back down the drive, reflecting on how much he disliked organised religion and its professional proponents. There was something about the look in their eyes which irritated him, a smug self-satisfaction in their self-delusional belief that they were in possession of all the answers. As he neared the gates of the abbey grounds he caught sight of a monk approaching from a path to the left of the car park. He was carrying two metal milk churns. He had his cowl pulled up and was looking down at the ground so that he didn't see Macandrew standing there. On impulse, Macandrew called out to the white-clad figure. 'Dr Burnett?'
The monk stopped and turned. Macandrew had anticipated him being startled but the look in his eyes was quite different. It spoke more of anguish than surprise. In that instant he knew he'd struck lucky. This man did not have the calm assuredness of Brother Francis or the Abbot. He’d found John Burnett by accident.
'Yes?' said the man uncertainly.
'I've come a very long way to see you, Dr Burnett. Would you at least spare me a few minutes of your time?'
'I'm no longer a doctor. That was all in the past. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work . . .'
'At least, hear me out, Doctor. My name is Macandrew; I'm a neurosurgeon at Kansas University Medical Center. ‘A few weeks ago I removed a malignant tumour from one of my patients; a Hartman's tumour. I don't think I need tell you
what sort of state she's in now.'
'There's nothing I can do,' replied Burnett, avoiding Macandrew's eyes, 'nothing at all.'
'These tumours were your special interest, Doctor. You know more about them than anyone else in the world; I've read your papers. Your work was going well. You were on the verge of being able to treat these patients and then suddenly, you give it all up . . . for this? That's why I’m here. I had to find out, why?'
'I was called to do other things,' replied Burnett.
'Called? Other things?' questioned Macandrew. 'What other things?'
'I've been called to serve God.'
Macandrew said nothing but his eyes never left Burnett. Burnett briefly met his gaze but then looked away, aware of the silent accusation.
'You don't think you can serve God by doing what you're best at?' said Macandrew. 'You don't think you can serve God by saving a group of people from the mental institutions where they'll undoubtedly spend the rest of their lives if you don't?'
'That is conjecture. There was never any certainty of success,' countered Burnett.
'But there was a chance,’ insisted Macandrew, ‘and a very good one by all accounts. Now there's none at all because you've decided to "serve God" and, just for good measure, you took all your research notes with you so no one else could move things along. What the hell was that all about?'
'You don't understand!' protested Burnett through gritted teeth and then with more control, ‘You just don't understand.'
'So, help me. Talk me through it. Make me understand. Convince me it's a better idea to spend your time chanting Latin on your knees six times a day than working in your lab doing some real good.'
'You're deliberately twisting things,' accused Burnett. 'It’s a rare condition. We're not talking about thousands of people.'
'No,' agreed Macandrew, 'But there are a number and one of them just happens to be my patient. Her name’s Jane by the way.’
Burnett did not respond but Macandrew thought he detected a flicker of doubt in his eyes when he glanced up at him briefly. He continued, 'There's something special about these patients, isn't there, Doctor? They aren't really brain damaged at all in the conventional sense. There's more to it. They become . . . other people?'
For the first time, Burnett looked Macandrew straight in the eye as if conceding the conversation had moved to another level. 'So you know that much . . .’
'One of our psychiatrists thought it might be a form of multiple personality disorder or whatever they call it these days but that didn’t quite fit what we were seeing . . .'
Burnett appeared to consider for a few moments before picking up the two milk churns. 'I’m sorry, I really must be getting back,' he said.
'There's one other thing that bothers me,' continued Macandrew as Burnett started to move away, 'Why did Ashok Mukherjee and Simone Robin give up too?’
No reply.
'Were they called by God too?' asked Macandrew, determined to sting Burnett into responding.
'You really don't understand any of this,' said Burnett, without turning round, his voice full of exasperation. 'You don't understand and I can't tell you.'
'Why not, for Christ's sake?'
'That's about right,' said Burnett quietly. 'For his sake.'
'Fine,’ stormed Macandrew, ‘and a couple of
mea culpas
on your part will make the whole thing right. I'll just tell my patient that,' he said angrily. 'Not that she'll understand of course . . . she’s a thirty-eight year old woman who thinks she’s an eight year old girl. Still, don't you worry about that; you've got hymns to sing ... prayers to chant . . . Maybe you could put in a good word for her? Like I said, her name’s Jane, Jane Francini.’
Burnett stopped in his tracks and Macandrew felt that he might be on the edge of success. He said more calmly, 'Think about it; that’s all I ask. If you change your mind about telling me what's been going on I'll be staying at the Bruntsfield Hotel in Edinburgh for another week.’
Burnett turned round and Macandrew sensed that he was wavering. He walked slowly towards him and, despite the failing light, could see the tortured look in his eyes.