Transmigration (18 page)

 

 

"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.

 

 

Fletcher, reading between the lines (memory told him nothing directly)
had no difficulty in seeing two things behind the verbiage.

 

 

The first was that Searle had been kicked out of the university mainly
because he refused, after repeated warnings, to confine himself to his
subject and insisted on instructing his students in the mysteries of
the occult, psychology, hypnotism, and his personal religious beliefs.

 

 

The second -- and it shone through what the prosecution said, what the
defense said, what the newspaper reported of this part of the legal
argument and what the Senatus had said -- was that even in 1923, Sir
Charles Searle was as mad as a hatter.

 

 

Baudaker, for some reason, not knowing what else the clippings might
reveal, chose to defend Searle.

 

 

--All pioneers and freethinkers are regarded as mad.

 

 

Fletcher did not answer. He picked out another yellowed clipping, which
turned out to be Searle's statement to the police at the very beginning
of the Searle case.

 

 

To say it was of great interest to both Baudaker and Fletcher was an
understatement.

 

 

On May 17, 1926, I was driving my car from
Penicuik back to Edinburgh. I was alone. The car
was functioning perfectly and I was hungry and
looking forward to a late dinner. Yet for no reason
at all I stopped and got out of the car.

 

 

Annoyed with myself, I tried to get back into the
car and drive on. Instead I crossed a field. Behind a
large tree I found a small hut. The hut was not
visible from the road. In the hut I found a baby.
I then knew nothing of babies, but it was clear to me
that this male child was only a matter of hours
old -- hours rather than days. He had been abandoned
and left to die soon after birth and was near to death
when I found him, too weak to cry.

 

 

I took the baby to the car and drove on. It was
only as I arrived at my house that I realized what
a remarkable opportunity this was. Tests had shown
that my own telepathic and clairvoyant talent was
small. Yet this child, dying of starvation, had been
able to reach me and make me save its life. This was
an exceptional child, delivered apparently by chance,
but not by chance, into the hands of one of the few
men in the world capable of understanding and developing
such ability.

 

 

In the instant before taking the child inside, I made
up my mind. This child was mine. Its parents had left
it to die. I had saved it. But if I failed to be
circumspect, the infant might not be left in the hands
of the man chosen by God to help it fulfill its destiny.
This remarkable child would be treated like any other
foundling. And the wonderful ability which had summoned
me, like the Three Wise Men, would be overborne, smothered,
and perhaps entirely defeated by the crass ignorance and
stupidity of the modern world; which throws stones at what
it does not understand.

 

 

I got the child into the house without being seen,
cleaned it, fed it with milk, and hid it in an inner
room with both doors locked. That night I found fault
with the cook and butler and dismissed them. Later I
flew into an assumed temper and discharged all the
servants, accusing them of stealing.

 

 

The new servants were all subnormal in one way
or another. The two housemaids were both deaf
mutes; I did not want them to hear the child's cries.
The cook was immensely fat owing to a gland disease
and could not climb stairs. The others were mental
defectives.

 

 

I knew I could not conceal the very existence of
the child . . .

 

 

There, infuriatingly, a piece of the cutting was missing. There had
been a fold, and the poor quality paper had fallen off, perhaps many
years ago. However, the part which was missing seemed to be short and
not very important. At the top of the next column the statement went on:

 

 

. . . four years I have trained this boy to use
his mind. As far as possible, human speech has
been denied him, because language is an inferior
tool of communication employed in default of a
purely mental link. He has tried to invent a
language of his own, but I have always refused
to recognize it.

 

 

Early training was simple. The child had already
proved he could summon aid when he was starving.
This ability was strengthened by constant repetition.
He soon found it much easier to summon the mentally-
defective nurse than to contact me. Although at first
he had to be literally starving before he was able to
break through, by the time he was two years old he
could rouse the nurse to bring him a drink of water.

 

 

For further details on the training of the child I
refer you to my book "What the Mind Might Do."

 

 

There the statement ended, apparently owing to certain arguments with the
police officers who originally took it down. It was a statement unlike
any in their experience, and they wanted clarification on many points,
and to introduce matters which Searle considered irrelevant. His attitude
seemed to be that he would make a statement as full as anyone could wish,
but he had to be allowed to do it in his own way or not at all.

 

 

In particular, he wanted to give details of his experiment, and the police
wanted a confession of what he had done to a nameless boy who had been a
prisoner for four years entirely in the power of a man with an idée fixe.

 

 

--That's why you hate all tests! Baudaker burst out excitedly.

 

 

--It could'well be, replied Fletcher drily.

 

 

--But how can it be that you don't remember? A boy of four isn't a baby.

 

 

--Well, Fletcher is dead. I took forward only limited memories. What
Fletcher remembered or might have remembered is of no more than academic
interest now. Then, doesn't memory depend a lot on language? Searle's
statement begins: On May 17, 1926, I was driving my car from Penicuik back
to Edinburgh. Without language, what substance would be in that memory?

 

 

--I see what you mean.