--But still miracles. Like Connor inviting me to take my spring week exactly when I wanted it. If it had happened in the normal way, if I'd gone to him and asked for it, he'd have made it as awkward as he could. So you still have your special talents, even in someone else's mind?
---Obviously, or there would have been no repeat performance. If all this came about because there was something special in Fletcher's brain and nothing more than that, I might have made the jump into Judy's mind, but never into Ross's.
--That's so. I never thought of that.
Unexpectedly, Baudaker was less concerned about leaving Gerry alone in the house than Fletcher was. Perhaps it was because Baudaker was more optimistic about his son. Given the slightest cause for hope, he immediately believed, because he wanted to believe, that Gerry was once more the lovable kid he had been.
--If it were up to me, I wouldn't leave him just now, said Fletcher.
--What can he do, anyway? He's still seeing Sheila. Perhaps he'll have her here every night, but he sees her nearly every night anyway.
--There's some sort of crisis coming up in Gerry. At the moment he's sullenly passive. But something's going to happen soon.
--You sense it?
--I know it.
--Do you know it will happen next week?
--No, it doesn't seem as close as that. But I'm not a fortune-teller. Sometimes I know what is now, but I never seem to know what will be.
--All right, we needn't worry about it yet.
Baudaker had to work on Saturday morning. Anyone else would have finished on Friday afternoon or even on Friday at lunch time, but Connor elected to take Saturday morning off so that Baudaker wouldn't get away. Baudaker didn't particularly mind; it would be Monday before a proper investigation could begin in Edinburgh.
However, Doris Barry from the office called at the department to see Connor and was surprised to see Baudaker there.
Doris was near retiring age and was one of those women who quietly and efficiently take over and run a firm or a depot or a library or a university, in an entirely unofficial way and with no official recognition. Those who thought they administered the university, with the possible exception of the Principal, would have been astonished to learn how many important decisions which they thought they had made had actually been made by Doris Barry.
"I thought you were going on holiday next week, Mr. Baudaker?" she said.
"That's right, Miss Barrye"
"Didn't you ask for this morning off?"
"I couldn't. Mr. Connor isn't here, and since the recent reshuffle one of us has to be."
"Mr. Connor hadn't decided not to be here two days ago. He told me he'd definitely be here."
Baudaker said nothing. The arrival of Fletcher had stiffened him, but had not made him touchy or vindictive. Although Baudaker was aware that Connor was being deliberately awkward about this particular Saturday morning, he was also aware that no one going on holiday had any right whatever to a free Saturday as well; it was merely a convention that he got it.
Catching an early-afternoon train, Baudaker reached Edinburgh that evening. He had not smoked again and Fletcher had slowly accustomed him to taking long walks. He was eating like a horse and enjoying his food, but was actually losing weight because of the exercise he was taking for the first time in many years.
After an excellent dinner at a modest hotel, Baudaker went out without even consulting Fletcher, taking it for granted that Fletcher would want to walk round old haunts.
--I'm not insisting on going for a walk tonight, said Fletcher. --Stay in if you like and watch television.
--You were a student here. Don't you want to look around?
--Not particularly.
--Then let's start right away by going to the police.
The duty sergeant, as it happened, knew the name John Fletcher at once, having been involved in a recent inquiry (another small coincidence). But instead of becoming more cooperative, he went quite dry and reticent.
"A report has gone to your local police," he said. "You might have tried inquiring there."
"To get more detailed information, I'd have had to come here anyway," said Baudaker.
"Maybe so. Maybe so. You say you're not a relative?"
"No, just a friend. But I could say a very close friend."
"I see. I'm afraid, Mr. Baudaker, I can't help you. Of course, there's nothing to stop you making your own inquiries. If you knew Fletcher well, you'll know where to start."
It was clear he knew something that he wasn't going to tell. His manner made it obvious that he was not merely being negatively obstructive, but that there was something quite significant which he was not going to reveal to Baudaker.
However, he unbent enough to say: "It isn't difficult to find the facts, Mr. Baudaker, and I believe you fully intend to try. I can save you some trouble. Don't bother with the university or Fletcher's lodgings, or any of the schools he attended. Try the Homes where he spent his early life."
"Thank you," said Baudaker.
As Baudaker emerged into the street, Fletcher said --Midlothian Home for Boys. That's the one.
--You don't mind my going there?
--We either do this thing or we don't, I suppose, and we've decided to do it.
--But you're not very interested?
--I'd like to know what that sergeant wouldn't tell you, Fletcher admitted.
--Shall I go now?
--No, tomorrow is visiting day and the superintendent sees anyone who calls on him. Go about three o'clock.
So the following afternoon Baudaker was shown into the presence of the superintendent of the Midlothian Home for Boys. A glance showed that he could not have known Fletcher personally. He was a young man, not more than thirty.
The moment Fletcher's name was mentioned, the same wary look that they had seen in the police sergeant's face showed in Mr. Curran's, and he asked questions which showed he was not keen to divulge anything.
Baudaker therefore put some of his cards on the table. "This isn't an idle inquiry, Mr. Curran. At the university I'm on the psychology staff, and in the course of certain tests I discovered John Fletcher possessed unusual talents."
"What kind of talents?"
Baudaker told him -- omitting any mention of the most remarkable talent Fletcher had shown he possessed.
Curran was interested. "The police were here," he said.
"I know. They directed me to you." This was true, though deliberately misleading.
Curran became more cordial. "But they didn't say anything about this."
"They didn't know. They were only making routine inquiries following a fatal accident."
"Since Fletcher is dead, Mr. Baudaker, what can you gain from knowledge of his background?"
"I'm an experimenter. Fletcher was a remarkable man. I want to find if there is any clue in his history to his strange ability, his extraordinary ability, I might say."
"There might be," said Curran quietly. "There very well might be."
Baudaker remained silent, his silence a whole dossier of questions.
"Very well," said Curran. "I never saw Fletcher, of course. He left this particular Home before I was born. But I knew the old superintendent, Mr. Compton. He gave John Fletcher his name. Fletcher had no name until he was about four. He couldn't speak properly either."
Fletcher had known that: he could remember being taught to speak, a thing few people remembered. But he was not very interested in this. As Baudaker leaned forward eagerly, Fletcher mentally sat back. They seemed to be talking of someone other than himself, someone he knew of but did not personally know.
"What do you mean by saying he couldn't speak properly?" Baudaker asked. "Was there some physical or mental disability?"
"None," said Curran positively. "He knew certain words, all highly charged."
"What sort of words?"
"Really, Mr. Baudaker, you must remember this is all third or fourth hand, and it was a very long time go."
"Nevertheless, I should be most grateful for anything you can tell me. And it may be very important."
"It's difficult to see how it can be important now. Oh, very well . . . The boy had strong emotional reactions to words like woman, girl, sex, lust -- reactions of unrest, fear, and shock. He had strong positive reactions to words like church, rightness, justice, goodness and so on. When he came here, his early history was deliberately concealed from him, which was not difficult, in the absence of language, and by the time the boy could speak be was quite accustomed to his new circumstances and incurious about the past."
"Why . . . "
"Please, Mr. Baudaker, don't try to make me guess about this curious case. I've told you all I know, except that Fletcher was the boy in the Searle case."
"The Searle case?"
"It was famous, or infamous, in its day. You'll find the details in newspaper files of . . . let's see . . . it must have been 1929 or 1930. I suggest you get further information in this way."
"Thank you, Mr. Curran. But please tell me just one more thing. You never knew the boy, you have clearly heard a lot about him, and you are obviously reluctant to talk about him. Why?"
"I'm equally reluctant to talk about what happened at Belsen and Dachau, and equally incompetent, since I wasn't there. But I believe that what happened to the inmates of Belsen and Dachau was kindness itself compared with what happened to this unfortunate child before he came to us."
A member of the Home staff came in then to summon the superintendent to some crisis, and since Curran seemed to think he had said more than enough, Baudaker took his leave.
--Does the "Searle case" mean anything to you? he asked, walking back to the hotel.
--Not a thing.
--I think I've heard of it, but I can't remember what it was. A criminal case? A trial here in Edinburgh?
--I know nothing of any trial.
--You wouldn't, if it was held when you were four and couldn't even speak then. That's incredible . . . you couldn't have gained a first class honor degree if you were in any way backward.
--I can believe it, though. As Fletcher I was a poor speaker, remember? I never communicated easily except in French and German, languages a British pupil doesn't normally start until about eleven or twelve.
Baudaker became excited, and Fletcher did as he usually did when Baudaker became excited: drew his mental curtain. They could do nothing more, in any case, until the next day, when the newspaper offices would be open.
Fletcher's choice of newspaper office turned out to be a poor one, for the "Courier" had been in existence only since 1937.
"We took over the old 'Advertiser,'" said the librarian, a bright young girl, "but the complete files weren't moved here. We only kept clippings."
"Perhaps that might be better for my purpose," said Baudaker, looking at the long steel shelves full of classified envelopes. "All the clippings on one subject are together, I suppose? That would be easier than looking through bound volumes of complete newspapers."
The girl shrugged. "Well, you can look at the files if you like, but you mustn't take any away."
"Of course. I only want information."
"On what?"
"The Searle case."
"Oh, that." She knew her library and what was in it. "If you want the full story, you'll have to go to the 'Mail' or the 'News.' The 'Advertiser' was a very old-fashioned paper, you know, and their filing system was no system at all. I'd like to put it in order, but I haven't the time. Will you go to the 'Mail' or the 'News'?"
Baudaker smiled. "You've been most helpful. May I see what you've got?"
Within a minute she handed him a thick envelope, yellow with age, and a thinner one, marked biography, which was evidently part of the newer 'Courier' filing system.
Baudaker sat at a quiet table out of the way of the librarian and the sub-editors and reporters who came in occasionally to check on something or other.
The biography envelope read SIR CHARLES SEARLE, 1878- . SEE EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY; ANCIENT GREEK; OCCULT; MENTAL DISORDERS; SEARLE CASE.
The other read simply: SEARLE CASE.
Baudaker looked back at the date followed by a dash. --That should mean he's still alivel he thought excitedly,
--In his nineties? It's more likely the file hasn't been brought up to date.
Baudaker hurried back to the librarian with the biography envelope. "Excuse me, miss. Does this mean Sir Charles Searle is still alive?"
"Well, it means his death hasn't been reported in the paper."
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. If there was a report of his death, that envelope would automatically be transferred to the obituary section."
"Thank you again." He hurried back to the table and opened the envelope.
Sir Charles Searle, a leading scholar in Greek, had been on the staff of Edinburgh University but his appointment was terminated in 1923. There was a hint of something which might be scandal; at any rate, something the newspaper did not report, even if the facts were known, probably for fear of legal action.
--Certainly before I was born, so it can't concern me, Fletcher commented.
On the side Searle wrote books on spiritualism, hypnotism, the occult in general, and one called "The History of Presbyterianism in Scotland" (1920). The envelope contained a clipping of a review of a book called "What the Mind Might Do," published in the late twenties. The reviewer said:
Surprisingly, in a book by an eminent scholar (albeit in another field), reasoned argument begins only after the bland assumption that the human mind only has to be trained to be able to perform the most astonishing feats of telepathy, clairvoyance, telekinesis, etc. It is thus pure fantasy. Some of the suggestions for training are ingenious . . .
Now Fletcher was interested too. This book had been reviewed not long before the Searle case. He himself had been born some three years before.
He pushed aside the Searle biography and opened the Searle case envelope.
The cuttings were not even in order. Baudaker started methodically to put them in chronological order, but soon caught by the headlines, was reading as they came.
SIR CHARLES SEARLE ARRESTED was the first that caught his eye. Although the report was nearly a column long, the information in it was negligible. The charge was not given.
The next cutting reported an attempt by the prosecution, after the trial had started, to introduce evidence concerning the termination of Searle's employment at the university seven years earlier. It was partially successful: the jury was permitted to know that Searle had been "allowed to resign" following discussion of whether or not he was a fit person to be entrusted with the instruction of young people. The defense got into the record voluminous riders which stated that no reflection on Sir Charles Searle's moral character had ever been made or intended; that the dispute had been over a matter of principle; that Sir Charles had resigned, and had not been dismissed; that far from leaving the city after the incident, he had made it clear in the prefaces to several of his subsequent books that he had no intention of ever leaving Edinburgh; and that he continued to be a highly respected Free Church communicant.
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