Precious Bones Page 12

  I’d been writing since I was a child, but it was a process perpetuated by no one other than myself. I imagined my characters, breathed life into them and decided their fate. It was a creative process that left me feeling fulfilled, and sometimes even a little sad, once I had to say goodbye to my creations and move on to the next project. This time was different.

  I thought I had created the characters of Constance and Richard, but now I wasn’t so sure. I think they’d been there all along. They came to me every night, as soon as I lit the candles and gave the house the flickering shadows it had been used to in its heyday. These characters had a life and destiny of their own, and I was merely documenting their existence rather than creating it from scratch. I was afraid to acknowledge that I was no longer in control, probably had never been, since the day I saw that story on the news. What did it all mean? What was happening to me? Who were these people and what was their connection to me? Why did they choose me to tell their story?

  Maybe these were symptoms of some mental illness, and I was fooling myself into thinking that I was just doing my job and writing a novel. The two people closest to me had just left me to figure this out on my own, and I felt scared and lonely. Camille’s unwavering support made me feel better for a short while, but now I was back in London and my doubts were back in full force.

  I thought of calling Adrian, but his name brought another image into my mind. I remembered him standing across the street, watching the house as I came by. He said he’d been waiting for me. I never got the chance to ask him about that, but what was his connection to this story? Did he even have one or had I imagined the whole thing? I thought of calling my Mum in Oxford, but I decided against it. Springing this on her would probably cause her terrible anxiety and would only complicate things further. I needed to figure this out by myself.

  I forced myself to get up off the sofa, stopped by the kitchen to get a glass of water and made my way upstairs to my office. I spent several hours scouring the internet looking for something that would explain my symptoms. I came up with a few options, none of which made me feel any better. I could be suffering from mental illness, having an adverse reaction to medication, or dealing with unbearable stress. I desperately hoped it wasn’t mental illness, I hadn’t taken any medication, and hadn’t been experiencing any unusual stress until a few days ago. None of the explanations fit.

  I continued to look, using different search phrases. I came across some articles on reincarnation and paranormal activity, and one name in particular, popped up several times. I clicked on the link to find out more. Dr. Platt had been a Professor of Eastern Studies at the University of Edinburgh, but was now retired and writing articles for various publications, while running his own practice out of his house here in London. He had spent years traveling in India, Tibet, and the Far East studying the religions and mythology of the region, where he came across cases that were too odd to explain by anything other than reincarnation or the presence of spirits who hadn’t been able to pass on to the next world. As I dialed his office number, I fervently hoped he wasn’t some quack, but I needed someone to help me sort this out and this was as good a place to start as any.

  Chapter 37

  August 1586

  Constance looked wistfully out of the carriage window as it rolled through Hyde Park on a lovely August afternoon. She had asked John to take her for a drive simply out of desperation. The first week of her married life had been a challenge, but now that everything had been squared away, Connie had nothing to do. She started by unpacking her belongings and finding a place for them in her new home. That didn’t take very long, so she went down to the kitchen to seek out Agnes. Connie’s parents had a servant years ago when their finances permitted it, but the last few years had been lean and Connie was not accustomed to having help. She had spent her days cooking, baking, doing the marketing, cleaning, and mending clothes. Here, it was Agnes’ domain, and Connie quickly learned not to trespass on her territory. Agnes ran a tight ship, and there was nothing for Connie to do other than approve the menu for supper, and look pretty in her new gowns.

  Constance paid a visit to her old friend, Lady Mary Devon, but she found the reception a trifle frosty. Now that she was married to a Protestant, and especially one who worked for the Crown, she was in a no man’s land between Catholics and Protestants, and Lady Devon was guarded and distant. Connie could understand her position. She knew enough to have all of them convicted ten times over, and the fate of Father Francis and Mr. Horton still hung like a spectre over them all.

  Father Francis died a few days ago of wounds inflicted by torture, but he would have been executed had he lived. He had been thrown into an unmarked pauper’s grave, and all who knew him were in mourning. Mr. Horton was still in the Tower, not likely to come out whole, or even alive. Connie wondered if there was a new Jesuit holding Mass for Lady Devon and the rest of their community, but she didn’t bother to ask. She wouldn’t be told the truth anyway, and now Tom and Jane would likely be affected as well through their association with her and Richard.

  Constance sighed and leaned back against the plush cushion of the seat. The carriage continued to roll through the park, but she was no longer looking out. She had not seen Tom or Jane since the wedding, and was planning to pay them a visit on Sunday after church. She had deliberated whether to tell Tom about her suspicions regarding Pippa, but had decided against it after a conversation with Richard. They had been lying in bed wrapped in each other’s arms when Connie decided to seek his counsel. Richard looked thoughtful as he curled a lock of her hair around his finger.

  “Sweetheart, your suspicions are likely correct, but think of what revealing them will accomplish. If you tell Tom, he will feel compelled to take immediate action, arousing the suspicions of everyone involved. If he suddenly pulls Pippa out of the Milton household, tongues will wag and conclusions will be drawn, likely against Mr. Milton himself. Tom might also be foolish enough to want to call out Babington in an attempt to defend his sister’s honor, ensuring scandal and most likely an early grave for himself. Babington is a fine swordsman and will run Tom through before he even has a chance to draw his sword -- if he has one. ‘Tis best to do nothing. Babington will tire of her soon and as long as no one knows, no one will be the wiser.”

  “He has promised her marriage. His wife has been ill and he says she won’t last out the summer,” Connie said feeling guilty about speculating about this poor woman’s death. Richard let go of her curl and looked surprised.

  “Last I heard, Lady Babington was in robust health and living in the country with her small daughter. Pippa is not the first dalliance Babington has been rumored to have. His wife looks the other way, but his marriage to Pippa is quite impossible, unless he plans to dispose of his wife by other means. Let me have a quiet word with him. I will “persuade” him of the error of his ways and with any luck Pippa can walk away from this with her reputation intact.”

  Connie knew Richard was right, but it didn’t make her feel any better. She decided that telling Tom would be a terrible mistake, but the knowledge weighed heavily on her. Pippa was going down a path of self-destruction, and after Babington was through with her, no honest man would care to make her his wife. She was too young to understand the implications of her situation, but Connie knew well enough. She had heard of girls who fell from grace and wound up on the streets earning a living by selling themselves to anyone with sufficient coin to buy their wares. Most of them died before they reached thirty, either from disease, hunger, or childbirth. She was desperately afraid for her sister, and not for the first time, wished her parents were alive to guide them through these difficult times.

  Chapter 38

  August 2010

  If Dr. Platt was a quack, at least he was one with money and good taste. As he ushered me into his office, sounds of Mozart floating through the open door, I felt as if I walked into a womb. The room was as comforting and pleasant as any room I had ever seen. I sank into a chenille
sofa feeling ensconced by the soft fabric and surrounded by colorful cushions. The room itself was square with windows facing out over the canal which gave the impression of being somewhere in the country rather than in the center of London.

  There were bookshelves along two of the walls, filled with books that looked expensive and well-read, not the usual bookstore fare. Some of them were probably first editions, bound in soft leather with gold embossed lettering on the spines. Many of the tomes weren’t in English, and I marveled at their exotic titles, trying to guess their origins. The marble fireplace was not lit on this warm afternoon, but it added to the overall coziness, completed by a thick Turkish rug, Tiffany lamps casting pools of soft light on the deep armchairs facing the sofa, and lovely landscapes -- that even to my untrained eye -- looked to be originals.

  Dr. Platt himself looked remarkably like Father Christmas without the red suit. He was wearing a button-down shirt and slacks, with a pair of expensive loafers, and half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. He gave me a warm smile and offered me a cup of herbal tea from an oriental-looking teapot, then took one himself and settled into an armchair facing me. He pressed a button on a remote control, silencing the Mozart, and invited me to speak. I felt strangely comfortable with this man, and I told him my story starting with the day of the news story on television. He listened carefully, never interrupting or asking any questions, and was silent for a few moments after I finished.

  “Cassandra, are you C.O.E.?” he asked suddenly.

  “Yes, I was brought up Church of England, but I don’t go much. Why?” What did my religious upbringing have to do with anything?

  “Just trying to get the full picture,” he answered pleasantly. “You see my dear; you wouldn’t be here if you could find answers to your questions in any other conventional way. The fact that you have found your way to me, suggests that you’re a little desperate and scared, and you’re now open to things you might not have been open to even a few months ago.”

  I nodded miserably. He had the right of it. I was desperate and scared, and he had the power to reassure me or terrify me further with his analysis. For a moment I regretted my decision to come, but it was too late now. I would hear him out regardless of the consequences.

  “You know, of course, that reincarnation is not part of the accepted Judeo-Christian doctrine, but there are many other world religions which believe it to be true. We aren’t meant to remember our past lives, but sometimes there is a glitch in the system, so to speak, and a person finds him or herself remembering things they shouldn’t. It’s scary and confusing, but it does happen. I, myself, have seen many cases, especially in young children, where they can describe in intimate detail lives of people they’ve never met, or were told about, by anyone they know. These details have been verified and confirmed by relatives, written accounts and photographs. What other explanation could there be?”

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled. I’d heard of some of those cases myself, and thought them to be a bunch of hogwash. Maybe they weren’t.

  “Some of my patients choose regression as a method of finding out the truth, but I think that’s not necessary in your case. You’re already experiencing the past, so there would be no point.” He took a sip of his tea, eyeing me over his glasses, and waiting for my response.

  “So, you feel certain that what I am experiencing are memories of a past life?”

  “So the evidence suggests.”

  “If that’s the case, why that life? If a soul reincarnates after death, wouldn’t I have lived other lives since the sixteenth century?” I was looking for logic where there was none, but I had to take this to the bitter end.

  “You probably have lived since then, but your lives might have been ordinary and easily forgotten. In my experience, a person experiences memories of a past life only under certain circumstances. Firstly, something triggers the process. In your case, it would have been the newscast. It jogged your memory, bringing something long forgotten to the surface. Secondly, the memories are of something traumatic, something that left a deep emotional scar that has not healed over the years. There are still unresolved feelings that haunt the soul. I know this can be frightening and difficult to explain, but you needn’t worry. The situation usually resolves itself.”

  “So, there’s nothing I can do?”

  “I think that you’re already doing it. Continue writing the story. Eventually, you’ll get to the part that left such a deep imprint on your soul, and then you can work through it in this lifetime where you can look at it in a more detached way. Hopefully, once you relive the tragedy you’ll be able to move on. You will not forget, but you will be able to put it behind you and resume your modern life.” He smiled and I felt strangely reassured.

  “Have you tried searching for them? It would help you, I think if you found some evidence that these people truly existed.”

  “I did search for them online, but I didn’t find anything of interest. There are plenty of Thornes and Carlisles, but they weren’t the right ones.”

  “I see. Well, don’t give up. Something might turn up when you least expect it. I hope I’ve been of help to you. I don’t expect you’ll come to see me again, but I would like to ask a favor of you.” He gave me an expectant look, and I nodded. “I don’t just do this for money. I am genuinely interested in the study of the human spirit and what happens to our souls after we pass on. Would you please let me know how this works out? I would be most appreciative.”

  “Yes, Dr. Platt. I will let you know. I have a feeling you will not have very long to wait.”

  I paid my fee and the doctor escorted me to the front door, wishing me lots of luck and a speedy resolution.

  Chapter 39

  I’d been planning to take a taxi back home, but it was a lovely evening, so I decided to walk. It would give me an opportunity to analyze what Dr. Platt had told me. I had never given much thought to reincarnation. My parents hadn’t been particularly religious, but we did go to Church on major holidays, and I was brought up with the usual notions of Heaven and Hell; which was not to say that I actually believed in either. Did I believe in reincarnation? Was it possible? I suppose that if it was possible for people to believe in the Pearly Gates, guarded by St. Peter or a horned creature wielding a pitchfork, and throwing sinners on the fires of Hell, that anything was possible. In truth, the idea that our souls were eternal and lived on in other people was sort of comforting, because then death wouldn’t seem so frightening and final. However, remembering a past life was quite a different matter. It could lead to confusion and even suffering.

  I remembered a program I’d seen a few months ago. It documented several cases of children who’d experienced memories of a past life. There was a small boy who could recollect the harrowing experience of being shot down by the Germans over the Channel, and his downward spiral into the icy waters as his airplane burned around him. Another girl talked of dying in a fire while trying to rescue her children from their burning house.

  One case in particular, stood out in my mind. It was that of a young girl in Sri Lanka, who was tormented by memories of a past life and was able to name places, names, and dates. She claimed that she had lived on the other side of the country, and died by drowning at the age of seven when she fell into the river while playing with her friends. She gave the names of her parents and siblings, and even drew a map of the place where she fell in. It was close to a temple, and she slipped off a rock that jutted out into the water.

  Eventually, the distraught parents placed an ad in the paper seeking the other family. They were shocked to receive an answer, and the two families actually met. The girl, who was now fifteen, was overcome at seeing what she thought was her real family, and she threw herself at the woman, crying and calling her “mother.” The other family felt no connection to the strange girl, but they were able to verify her story, including all the minute details. What I took away with me from the program, was that this poor girl was never able to reconcile hersel
f to her real life, and was heartbroken that the family didn’t recognize her. I had no idea what happened afterward, but it didn’t seem destined for a happy ending for anyone involved. However, it did seem to prove what Dr. Platt had said. It was possible.

  I wasn’t sure if it would actually make me feel better to confirm the existence of my characters, but I supposed I had to try. I really did look them up on the internet, but I didn’t find any matches. Where could I find a record of their lives? After all, this was the sixteenth century, not the 1960s. There were no archives, no birth certificates or marriage licenses. The only way someone would be remembered through history, was only if they were famous. They either had to be a politician, a traitor or a major talent. Ordinary people’s lives were not recorded. Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks. Of course their lives were recorded. They were recorded in church registers. Births, marriages and deaths were dutifully written down by the parish priests, since that was the only legitimate record of an event. I’d walked past the church in Carter Lane numerous times without ever thinking to stop in. It was probably too late in the evening now, but I would drop by tomorrow.

  I was still smiling at my powers of deduction when I turned the corner of my block to see Adrian leaning against the gate of my house.

  “Don’t you have a home?” I called out as I got closer to him. Adrian just gave me a sweet smile.

  “I do, but I like yours better. I’ve actually come with a proposition.”