Dust to Dust (11 page)

‘He’s not blind,’ said Miles. ‘His eyes follow the nurse when she goes in to see to his needs. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge her as a person but he can see her, we’re sure of that.’

He turned up the sound on the monitor. Motram was saying something but, as Steven had been forewarned, it sounded like random words. ‘Red, seventeen, blue, twist, curl, burst, diamonds, diamonds, grass, yellow, sky.’

Steven nodded his thanks to Miles and got up to leave.

* * *

In the orthopaedic unit, he found Tony Fielding doing the
Times
crossword. He was alone in a room that was designed for two patients and had a pleasant view out to the hills. His left leg was in plaster and several visitors had added their signature. Steven smiled when he inclined his head to read the message in red crayon and found that it said
Love you Dad, Lewis
.

‘He’s seven,’ said Fielding.

Steven smiled. He told Fielding who he was and about Sci-Med’s interest.

‘Good luck,’ said Fielding. ‘No one else can work out what came over him. He came out of that chamber like a man possessed by the devil. God, I’m even starting to sound like the tabloids.’

Steven smiled again, taking a liking to the man. ‘It’s an easy habit to develop,’ he sympathised. ‘Makes life so simple.’

‘I promise not to use that particular expression if the press come back again,’ said Fielding.

‘I take it you’ve no idea what happened to Dr Motram?’ asked Steven.

‘Haven’t a clue. Before he went into that chamber he was the nicest sort of bloke you’d ever want to meet, but when he came out …’ Fielding made a face. ‘He’d only one thing on his mind and that was murder. God, I’m doing it again! I wonder if the
Sun
does a decent crossword … I might think of changing. Anyway, I consider myself lucky to have got away with only this,’ he said, tapping his plastered leg. ‘If he’d actually managed to get that digger down the ramp, well, none of us would be here to tell the tale.’

‘It sounds horrendous,’ said Steven. ‘I take it you personally didn’t go in the chamber?’

‘None of us did apart from John,’ said Fielding. ‘Do you really think it was something in there? Something from the past?’

‘Common sense says not,’ said Steven. ‘On the other hand I haven’t the slightest idea why John Motram is the way he is right now. But, just for the record,’ he added, bringing out a small notebook, ‘do you think you can talk me through everything that happened that day up until the time Dr Motram entered the tomb?’

Fielding puffed his cheeks and exhaled slowly. ‘Not much to say really. The four of us – John, Alan Blackstone, Les and myself – met in the car park at the abbey and allowed the Health and Safety people to inspect the equipment we’d be using on site. When they’d finished ticking their clipboards and giving us the OK, we crossed over to the hotel to meet the doctor from Public Health, who interviewed each of us briefly about the state of our health, gave us a tetanus shot and basically said everything was fine by him. Then the four of us walked round to the site and Les and I set about loosening the stones in the wall of the tomb. When we’d finished we let John take over and watched him remove enough of them to gain an entrance. He disappeared inside and we waited – he was actually in there for more than twenty minutes, but we supposed that was because it was his big moment, if you like, and he was sort of savouring the experience.’

‘What happened when he did come out?’

‘I have to say he seemed a bit odd … he was having trouble with the plastic sheeting across the entrance so I gave him a hand, then Alan tried to talk to him, then … well, all hell broke lose. John really lost the plot. He smashed Alan in the face with the torch he was carrying, and then hit Les when he tried to help Alan. The three of us ended up in a ball in the trench with John doing his best to murder us with the digger. Luckily, he wasn’t too familiar with the controls and that’s really what saved us in the end. He ended up tipping it over on to its side and being thrown out.’

‘Was he knocked unconscious?’

‘No,’ said Fielding thoughtfully. ‘I mean he didn’t hit his head on anything. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing. He lay on the grass for a while, gulping for air, and then seemed to pass out, thank God.’

Steven thanked Fielding for his help and made his way to the exit. He checked his watch and saw that there would still be time to talk to Kenneth Glass at Public Health if he got a move on. He decided to do this rather than visit the site at Dryburgh because, at four o’clock on an early March day in Scotland, the light was already failing. He would visit the abbey first thing in the morning.

Glass turned out to be a pleasant, helpful man in his late thirties with his feet firmly planted on the ground, who seemed keen to put any notion of curses or plagues from the past to rest. ‘It’s early days for some of the tests,’ he said, ‘but I think I can tell you what happened to John Motram.’

‘You can?’ exclaimed Steven. ‘That’s wonderful … or maybe not if we’re on the brink of an epidemic.’

‘Nothing like that,’ said Glass. ‘We’ve been working closely with the hospital lab and we’ve discovered that Motram was poisoned with a mycotoxin from the genus
Amanita
– a large dose.’

‘I’m all ears,’ said Steven.

‘Although we don’t think there were any living organisms inside the tomb we think that there was a large accumulation of fungal spores present in the dust that Motram stirred up when he went inside. We think that inhaling them when he took off his mask was the cause of the problem. It would also account for his apparent breathing difficulties and the liver failure that’s beginning to show up.’

‘And the mental derangement?’

‘There’s no telling what a massive dose of this toxin can do. It’s a very powerful poison.’

‘Well, I think we’re all in your debt, doctor. John Motram did not have any kind of mental breakdown and he wasn’t infected by some super-bug from the past. He was poisoned.’

‘That’s certainly the way it looks,’ agreed Glass. ‘There is one embarrassing thing, though …’

‘What?’

‘We haven’t been able to find any more of the spores in the air samples we took from the chamber. Everything so far seems to suggest there’s nothing but harmless dust in that tomb.’

‘I take it you and your people were wearing full bio-hazard gear when you went in?’

‘Absolutely. But we carried out extensive tests. The air inside the tomb is not the sort of stuff you’d want in your air freshener, but as far as we can see there’s damn all wrong with it in a biological sense. John Motram must have been really unlucky: the spores must have been present in the residue of the one cadaver he chose to disturb.’

‘Poor guy,’ said Steven. ‘But thank God you’ve found the answer. The sooner the tabloids return to exposing thieving bankers the happier I’ll be.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Glass. ‘Incidentally, our mobile lab is still on site up there. You’re welcome to use it for anything you need. We’re going to disinfect the site when everyone’s finished taking samples.’

Steven got back in the car feeling very relieved. There was no danger of an epidemic arising from the opening of the tomb. Motram had been poisoned by inhaling fungal spores, something which had absolutely nothing to do with Black Death. The only problem Steven had now was that he didn’t have anywhere to stay for the night if he still intended taking a look at the excavation site in the morning. Then he remembered reading in the file that Jean Roberts had given him that the Dryburgh Abbey Hotel was situated right next to the ruins. He called and booked himself in.

EIGHTEEN

It was dark when Steven drew up at the Dryburgh Abbey Hotel. He was glad his working day had come to an end, pleased at his progress but tired after the long drive up from London and the interview of two key players in the drama – although interview was probably the wrong word to use in John Motram’s case. All he was looking forward to now was a long, hot shower, a couple of gin and tonics and a decent meal.

It was dark, but he could see how close the hotel was to the ruins of the abbey, and the fact that he could hear running water when he paused to look up at the night sky told him how close he was to the River Tweed. An idyllic setting, he thought.

In the exchange of small talk at the desk, Steven asked if the hotel was full.

‘It was last week, after what happened to Dr Motram, but now it’s back to normal – about a third full,’ came the reply. ‘It’ll start to pick up again around Easter.’

‘You knew Dr Motram?’ Steven asked, surprised at hearing the name mentioned.

‘He and his colleagues used to come in for coffee and sometimes lunch when they were on site. As you can see, we’re right next door. A nice man, much nicer than the press who turned up in their droves afterwards.’

Steven smiled.

‘Oh, God. You’re not a journalist are you?’

He laughed. ‘No. I’m sort of looking into what happened.’

‘Whew.’

‘Any chance of a room overlooking the abbey?’

‘No problem. I’ll give you the one all the journalists were after last week. It was like having a plague of locusts on the premises,’ said the girl. ‘But like all plagues, it moved on to pastures new.’

‘How about scientists?’ asked Steven, wondering about Porton Down’s reported interest. ‘Any of them around?’

‘If they were, they didn’t say.’

Steven took his time signing the register, running his eye down the list of names to see if any were familiar. None was. When he’d finished, the girl handed him his key. ‘The abbey should look good tonight,’ she said. ‘The skies are clear and there’s a full moon.’

Steven spent some time in the lounge after dinner, drinking coffee and brandy and reading tourist pamphlets about the abbey and the surrounding area. This, when allied with the fact that the moonlit abbey did indeed look wonderful from his window, decided him on going outside and taking a walk around for himself. He took a small plan of the ruins – courtesy of one of the pamphlets – with him.

He had discovered in his reading that the abbey was the resting place of both Sir Walter Scott and Field Marshal Douglas Haig, two very different characters. The famous novelist had romanticised the Scottish Highlands and its clan culture beyond all recognition, while the soldier had sent men to their death in their thousands in the hell that was the First World War – the war to end all wars that didn’t. Steven reflected on the disparity as he stood before Scott’s tomb, only a stone’s throw from Haig’s grave.

A frost was beginning to settle on the grass, accentuating the moonlight which was already wonderfully bright in an atmosphere free from air and light pollution. He moved on to the east end of the abbey, where he knew the chapter house to be, wanting to experience the atmosphere of a place which had seen so much history. Frost was sparkling on the east cloister stairs as he descended carefully and made his way round to the chapter house, where he stood at the head of a flight of stone steps leading down into darkness. There was a strong smell of wet plaster coming from below, and something else … Almost at the same time as he realised it was – after-shave lotion, he heard the metallic click of an automatic weapon being primed and flung himself backwards to roll over on the frosty grass and out of sight of whoever was down there.

He was scrambling to his feet, preparing to sprint to the cloister stairs but fearing he wouldn’t make it, when he heard the sound of male laughter. A voice said, ‘You’re fast, Dunbar, I’ll grant you that, and it’s just as well for me you don’t carry.’

Steven recognised the voice but couldn’t put a name to it. Whoever it was knew his name and also knew he didn’t carry a weapon – something he didn’t do on principle unless he knew his life to be in danger. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he snapped.

A tall man climbed the stone steps and out into the moonlight. Steven took in the high forehead and slightly protruding chin. ‘Ricksen, MI5,’ he exclaimed, recognising an intelligence officer he’d come across before. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re playing at?’

‘Couldn’t resist, old boy. I’ve just arrived. When I saw your name in the register and the girl on the desk told me you’d just stepped out for some air … well, like I say, I couldn’t resist putting you to the test.’

Steven felt angry but relieved at the same time. He occupied himself with brushing frost and grass from his clothes until he’d calmed down sufficiently to ask, ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’

‘Babysitting,’ replied Ricksen. ‘Porton Down have a couple of their boffins coming in the morning. I’m here to look after them, make sure they get their samples or whatever it is that they want from down there.’ Ricksen inclined his head back towards the chapter house stairs. ‘What’s Sci-Med’s interest?’

‘We wanted to know what happened to John Motram.’

‘Scientists have nervous breakdowns all the time,’ said Ricksen. ‘What makes this one different is the fact that he had his in a seven-hundred-year-old Black Death tomb and the papers heard about it.’

‘I take it you haven’t heard yet,’ said Steven. ‘It wasn’t a breakdown. The lab boys have shown that Motram was poisoned with fungal spores.’

‘Well, that saves us all a lot of trouble,’ said Ricksen. ‘Also buggers up a good tabloid story, I’m delighted to say. Buy you a drink?’

‘After that performance, I think you owe me one.’

Steven took a last look out the window at the abbey ruins before drawing the curtains and getting into bed. He felt ill at ease about something but couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Maybe it was just the stupid joke that Ricksen had played on him, but somehow he felt it was more than that. He’d always had a slightly uneasy relationship with MI5. Ostensibly he and they were on the same side but there was an important difference: Sci-Med operated independently of government while MI5 were instructed by them. There had been occasions in the past where John Macmillan’s people had ruthlessly exposed what government and MI5 would have preferred be covered up. That made them a bit of a loose cannon in the eyes of the establishment, although successive governments had been quick to realise that any attempt to neutralise Sci-Med would be seized upon by Her Majesty’s opposition and used as a heaven-sent opportunity to make political capital.