‘Possibly. Possibly not. Believe me, when you’ve spent as many years in parapsychology as I have, you find yourself forced to consider some very strange concepts with respect to man’s personality. And one that has to be treated as a serious possibility is that of reincarnation. I would recommend you, all of you, to read Dr Ian Stevenson’s book Twenty Cases Suggestive of Reincarnation. And Jeffrey Iverson’s More Lives Than One. However, perhaps we should continue, Dr Bourne.’

The other man leant forward a little.

‘Mary, are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ The slightly pert voice was as firm as ever.

‘What date is it?’

‘August fifteenth, eighteen-eighty-eight.’

‘I want you to go forward to the evening of December eleventh, eighteen-ninety one.’

With a start Paul recalled that it was the date Howard was acquitted.

‘Where are you?’

‘Ardvreck House.’

‘Has anything special happened today?’

The even breathing quickened a little, a slight flush invaded the cheeks. The tip of her tongue ran round the red lips.

‘We’re back home.’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Edinburgh.’

‘What was happening there?’

‘The trial.’

‘What trial?’

‘His trial.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Him. The master. Mr Howard.’

‘What was he accused of?’

There was a definite hesitation now, a reluctance to answer.

‘Murder.’

‘Who was he accused of killing?’

‘Her. The mistress.’

‘Mrs Howard?’

‘ ’Course. Who else?’

‘What was the verdict?’

‘N-not proven.’ And with a note of triumph. ‘He got off!’

‘Are you glad?’

‘ ’Course I am.’

‘Now I want you to go on to the year eighteen-ninety-four. It is your birthday in the year eighteen-ninety-four. Where are you?’

There was silence. Bourne repeated the question but there was no reply. He changed the question.

‘Tell me what you see?’

The voice was a whisper, like that of a lost child talking to itself.

‘Nothing. It’s black. I see nothing. I am nothing.’

‘As far as we know,’ Meredith commented quietly, ‘Mary Rolfe died in eighteen-ninety-two.’

There was agitation visible now in the face of the young woman. She began to breathe jerkily. Bourne leant forward and laid his hand on her brow.

‘It’s all right, Mary. It’s all right. Now I want you to go a long way forward, past nineteen-hundred, past nineteen-forty, to the time when you are Ann Parish. You are Ann Parish, aged twenty-six. You are going to wake up feeling rested, refreshed and relaxed by the time I have counted up to ten. One, two, three – you are beginning to waken – four, five, six – you are becoming conscious again – seven, eight – you are almost alert – nine, ten! Wake up!’

She sighed, opened her eyes, smiled.

Bourne said: ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. I’ve had a lovely sleep.’ She looked at the dark man.

‘Was everything all right?’