‘Why?’
‘You two were among his last patients. He’s an important and influential man who almost certainly knows more than he should about nearly everything. When he disappears – as he shortly will – the authorities will look very closely at anyone with whom he has had dealings. I need a date, so you won’t be implicated. We’ll get him and bring him back here to answer for his actions. Don’t worry – your St Mary’s will be represented and you’ll have your say. Just leave the rest to us, please.’
She swept out.
I said hopefully, ‘Is it too early for lunch?’
Of course it wasn’t. You can eat any time you like at St Mary’s and I frequently did. Mrs Partridge wasn’t in her office. I hoped I’d see her before I left. I felt strongly that she should be represented as well.
Farrell went off to see Katie Carr and I slipped quietly out of the building and trotted off to see the dodos. They hadn’t changed – as fat and clueless as ever. I watched them milling around, grockling in astonishment at a sinister twig or a threatening rock and smiled, remembering that happy day. And night. Life had been a lot simpler then.
I met Farrell in the dining room, where the kitchen staff rushed out clutching ladles, oven gloves and other implements of mass destruction and we submitted to having a fuss made of us. It wasn’t unpleasant.
There wasn’t a lot of talk over lunch. I was hungry and Farrell was distracted. Very distracted.
‘What?’ I said, finally.
‘I’ve been thinking about Knox.’
‘I think we all have,’ I said.
‘No. I mean, I think we might have another problem.’
‘Which is?’
‘I told him about Scotland.’
I stopped eating. A bit of a first.
‘Yes, you did, didn’t you.’
I put down my fork and started to think. He’d mentioned Scotland and Knox had changed the subject immediately afterwards. He’d been so keen to talk about the Chief’s condition and as soon as Scotland came up, he moved the conversation in a completely different direction. An hour later, I was on my way back to St Mary’s with our relationship beyond repair, and we’d barely spoken since.
‘Have a think about this,’ he interrupted. ‘History goes wrong in the 16th century – we suspect. Something else happened in the 16 th century that seemed – not trivial – but fairly minor in the scheme of things.’ He paused for me to catch up.
I shook my head.
‘Can I have a clue?’
‘Close to home.’
I got it.
‘Annie died. Oh, my God, Annie died.’
My mind flew back. Again, I heard Farrell telling me the story. 16th century Scotland. James VI. Three young historians, Edward Bairstow, Clive Ronan, and Annie Bessant are on assignment. Annie catches some disease. Quarantine is not declared. Protocols are ignored. Ronan shoots Edward Bairstow, leaves him to die and brings her back to St Mary’s. But, Edward is rescued. Ronan is arrested, breaks free, steals Number Nine, causes Annie’s death (to the everlasting and unspoken grief of Dr Bairstow) and disappears before anyone can stop him.
I moved cutlery and condiments aimlessly around the table while I worked it all out in my head. He reached out and stilled my movements. I had forgotten how warm his hands were.
‘Say it out loud,’ he said.
‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you this, but the second half of the play, although contemporary with the first part, was written by someone else.’
‘A forgery?’
‘Or a fake. I never know the difference.’
It was his turn to stop and think.
‘Someone in the 17th century substituted a different ending? Why?’
I shook my head. ‘A message, maybe. I don’t know.’
‘From another historian? Trying to tell us something?’
I’d been thinking about that. One person above all others would have known of Dr Bairstow’s intention. One person was always around when something important happened …
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I thought, when I saw the OS map with the John Knox House that I was on to something, and now, the plot is not just thickening but solidifying. What’s going on?’