Transmigration (19 page)

 

It was Fletcher rather than Baudaker who turned back to the review of the
book "What the Mind Might Do." The review was long and unsympathetic. The
reviewer could not know what he was reviewing, because the book had
come out before the Searle case. He could not know, especially, that
Searle took telepathy for granted because he knew it existed, and that
his experiments in telepathic development were not theoretical, but a
statement of what he was actually trying out.

 

 

The review contained little information about the contents of the book,
and Fletcher soon pushed it aside.

 

 

The next Searle case clipping was baffling: it concerned long, legal
argument on the charges against Searle. It, too, was put to one side
for the moment.

 

 

Big headlines leaped from the next sheet: SCOTT MONUMENT HORROR. A man,
not named, had been arrested after holding a screaming boy out in space
over the top gallery of the 200 foot monument. Charges would be preferred
. . .

 

 

That, apparently, was the start of the Searle case.

 

 

It was also, Fletcher realized, beginning to hate Searle with a cold,
sick loathing, the start of his terror of heights.

 

 

Looking back, Fletcher saw that the story of Sir Charles Searle's arrest
and the report of the "Scott Monument horror" were from the same issue.
Either the police or the newspaper editor had decided not to reveal the
link at once.

 

 

The argument over the charges made more sense now. Although Searle
himself was the main authority for what had been done to the nameless
child in the case between May 17, 1926, and May 22, 1930, on Friday, May
23, 1930, Searle was seen by several witnesses holding the boy over the
fearful gulf between the top gallery of the Scott Monument, Edinburgh,
and the ground far below, and had to be dragged back with his burden.

 

 

This constituted assault at least. It might be attempted murder. It
might be many things, but even if nothing else could be proved, Searle
had terrified a four-year-old boy in a melodramatic way which partly
explained the strong public feeling which the trial aroused.

 

 

Searle, throughout, never believed he had done anything wrong. He
said of the Scott Monument incident: "The boy could command me. He
had proved it. You simply don't understand. I never had the very
slightest intention of harming him, obviously. As he grew older, it
became increasingly difficult to find stimuli strong enough to make him
apply himself fully. This experiment was designed to force him to take
complete control of me, for his own safety. . . . "

 

 

At another point he said: "I don't understand. The child had already
proved that when he was hungry he had the capacity to communicate
mentally. I merely reinforced this caparty, hoping to train him to
communicate with his mind instead of his voice. He was fed regularly as
a rule. It was only occasionally, at irregular intervals, that he was
given no food until he sent a mental summons. . . . I repeat, a gifted
child of this type could come to no harm in these conditions. I don't
understand these accusations of cruelty and neglect. The boy has always
had the very best of attention. . . . "

 

 

Later: "Of course he was denied the normal upbringing of a normal
child. He is not a normal child. My purpose? I should have thought that
would have been obvious. Children of exceptional musical talent have
often been denied normal upbringing. Child actors are denied normal
upbringing. This child is a telepath. Was such supernormal ability
to be suppressed? Are we still living in the Dark Ages amid fear of
the unknown?"

 

 

Only once, hesitantly, did Searle admit a certain doubt. "Yes, I used
hypnosis. I think that may have been a mistake. The boy had no words,
and in employing hypnosis I had to permit him some. That in itself was
a mistake. However, I felt it was necessary to condition him to certain
godly attitudes toward lust, toward pride, and toward good and evil
generally. I did not want the boy to fear me, but to fear God. Such
talent had to be used for good. It was unthinkable that the boy's
immense potential should be allowed to turn toward evil, or be allowed
to dissipate itself, in future years, in womanizing . . . "

 

 

It was at about this point that the atmosphere changed. Throughout, Sir
Charles Searle had been regarded as an inhuman monster, yet he acted and
spoke so calmly and lucidly that doubts of his sanity never came into the
foreground. It could be held that no sane man could do what he had done,
but it could likewise be held that no sane man could commit motiveless
murder, and in 1930 all murderers who were not foaming at the mouth were
automatically executed.

 

 

Looking at the forty-year-old cuttings with a certain detachment,
Fletcher and Baudaker could both sense the change that came over the
trial of Sir Charles Searle. If he had gone on acting sanely, the case
would have been a hopeless snarl of what might or might not be crimes
against a nameless foundling of four. Searle might have been sentenced
to three years in jail, perhaps more, probably less, because not much
was certain except that he had held a child over a terrifying drop, with
no apparent intention of actually letting him fall. And the 52-year-old
ex-lecturer in Greek might be a fanatic, but he was not and had never
been what was commonly considered a criminal.

 

 

When he stopped being lucid, however, when his calm certainty that he
had done no wrong cracked, his whole story from the very first statement
began to show itself as the ravings of a madman.

 

 

And suddenly the trial was over. The court heard from a doctor that
the accused had gone completely out of his mind. No psychiatrists gave
evidence in that May 1930 court. Insanity was simpler then.

 

 

Sir Charles Searle was committed without limit of time to an asylum. And
it was cailcd, bluntly, an asylum then, not a sanatorium or a nursing
home. Sir Charles Searle was a lunatic, and that explained everything. End
of case.

 

 

 

 

The cuttings had nothing more to tell of the madman who had been Sir
Charles Searle or the boy who was to become John Fletcher.

 

 

--There's a lot more to be found out, Baudaker observed thoughtfully as
he emerged into the sunlight.

 

 

--There's nothing more to be found out.

 

 

Astonished, Baudaker replied
--But we've scarcely begun to . . .

 

 

--We've finished.

 

 

Sitting in Princes Street gardens, Fletcher looked up at the 200 foot
spire of the Scott Monument and shuddered. He did not want even to think
about what he had learned, but something had to be done about Baudaker's
frantic urge to go on probing into the events of forty years ago.

 

 

--I've got all the clues. I'm no longer interested.

 

 

--But you must . . .

 

 

--Baudaker, you know how I've grown to hate Searle for what he did to
me in the last hour or so. If you want me to hate you with something of
the same virulence, just go on the way you're doing.

 

 

Baudaker, shocked and hurt, made no reply.

 

 

More gently, having made the effect he had intended to make, Fletcher
went on.

 

 

--You may not have the answers to all your questions, but I have all
the answers to mine. I know why I became what I was, and whom to thank
for it. There's nothing more I want to know.

 

 

Because he was aware that Baudaker was incapable of leaving it at that,
he filled in a few details.
--I know why I fear heights. I know why women were banned to me, I know
why I didn't remember: Searle's hypnosis helped to block off the early
memories that were vague in the first place since I was denied language.
Searle's first and greatest crime against me was saving my life.

 

 

He went on for quite a while, sometimes chaotically, sometimes pensively,
setting things in place for himself and for Baudaker.

 

 

--I think we have to get it clear that Searle is partly right and partly
wrong. I did have certain talent, and he did help to develop it. But he
used his power in fanatic ways . . . tried to make me his idea of a
Christian . . .

 

 

When he thought he had said enough, he stopped.

 

 

Baudaker was far from satisfied.

 

 

--We must at least consult the fuller cuttings of the "Mail" and the
"News." And we could see Mr. Curran again and . . .

 

 

--Baudaker, for God's sake, leave me alone.

 

 

Fletcher's silence after that drove Baudaker frantic. It was Fletcher
who left the hotel and got back on the train. Occasionally he did answer
Baudaker, but whenever Baudaker tried to talk about the only thing that
interested him, Fletcher shut up like a clam.

 

 

It was late on Monday evening when Baudaker arrived at the maisonette. And
Fletcher at once snapped back into contact with him.

 

 

--Coincidence again, he observed drily.

 

 

--Eh? What?

 

 

--You didn't notice the car parked on the other side of
the street. Look at it.

 

 

It was Baudaker's old Morris. Baudaker stared at it blankly.

 

 

--What's it doing there? Gerry can't drive.

 

 

--I suspect it's the getaway car.

 

 

--What do you mean?

 

 

--It's only a guess. But I'm fairly sure Gerry is running away.
With Sheila, of course.

 

 

"Running away," Baudaker muttered. "Like Paula."

 

 

This was the one thing he had never told Fletcher, and Fletcher had
never probed.

 

 

--Paula ran away?

 

 

--For weeks she'd been jumpy . . . then she disappeared. She left a
note asking me not to report her missing, so I didn't. She was away six
months. Then she came back, looking ill. Three days later she put her
head in the gas oven.

 

 

Once again Fletcher wanted to tun away. Was there nothing in the world
but failure, inadequacy, insanity, suicide, and cruelty? Even Baudaker
and his Paula, whom he knew to have been in general an extremely happy
couple, had been parted by tragedy, and not tragedy from outside but
tragedy created by themselves.

 

 

Anyway, it was necessary to go into the house.

 

 

--There's a girl with Gerry. Sheila, of course.

 

 

--You know? You can sense . . . ?

 

 

Fletcher retorted irritably: I know. Never mind how. I'm telling you
this is a crisis. And I return opportunely. Of course.

 

 

--A crisis?

 

 

--Go in.

 

 

The front door was seldom used. Baudaker went round to the back, as usual.

 

 

Fletcher took over. He had never been a man of action, a man of decision,
yet he was far more able to handle any crisis than was Baudaker.

 

 

The house was a shambles. In the lounge, Gerry and Sheila were packing
large, new traveling cases. They were throwing in everything of
value. They looked up in consternation as Baudaker entered.

 

 

"Hello, Sheila," said Fletcher, ignoring Gerry. He had not seen her
since the day on the estuary. Now, close up, he saw she was a rather
pretty girl with wild eyes.

 

 

In his old manner, Gerry released a flood of profanity. The gist of his
remarks was that Baudaker was supposed to be away for a week, and what
was he doing back on Monday night?

 

 

Sheila backed away. Unlike Gerry in his present mood, she found something
in Baudaker to make her afraid.

 

 

"Gerry," said Fletcher softly, "you seem to be running away."

 

 

"You're damn right I'm going away. And you're not going to stop me."

 

 

"In the ordinary way I wouldn't try. You're perfectly free to go,
naturally. I don't even mind your taking the car, if you have a driving
license. Have you, by the way?"

 

 

"Sheila has."

 

 

"Oh well, that's all right. But there's something else, isn't there?"

 

 

"What the hell do you mean?"

 

 

"It's not just a simple matter of going away. What have you done?"

 

 

Recklessly Gerry said: "If you really want to know . . . "

 

 

"Gerry!" Sheila exclaimed warningly.

 

 

"If you really want to know, I've taken Ł300 from the shop."

 

 

Fletcher nodded, unsurprised. "Very clever. A master plan."

 

 

His sarcasm had always penetrated Gerry's otherwise thick hide very
easily.

 

 

Gerry flushed. "It was easy. I've never taken anything before.
They trust me."

 

 

"Cleverer still. Of course we all know it wasn't really your idea at
all. It was Sheila's."

 

 

Sheila took another step back. But curiously she said: "Go on, hit me.
That's what you want to do, isn't it?"

 

 

Fletcher ignored her. To Gerry he said quietly: "Can you get the money
back tomorrow without anyone knowing?"

 

 

Taken aback, Gerry said: "I could -- if I wanted to. But I'm not
going to."

 

 

"You are."

 

 

"You think you can make me, you little fat . . . "