Anastasia Syndrome

by Mary Higgins Clark

Genres: Short Stories; Mystery; Suspense

Synopsis

In the short novel The Anastasia Syndrome, prominent historical writer Judith Chase is living in London and preparing for her marriage to Sir Stephen Hallett, expected to become England's next Prime Minister. Orphaned during World War II, Judith wants to trace her origins. In this quest, she goes to a renowned psychiatrist and becomes the victim of his experiments in regression. When a woman in a dark green cape sets off bombs in London, Sir Stephen and Judith are faced with an intangible, mysterious force threatening their very existence. Obsessive love is the subject of Terror Stalks the Class Reunion; psychic contact with a dead twin sister is the only defense against a murder in Double Vision; Lucky Day, compared to O. Henry's The Gift of the Magi, begins premonition of imminent danger; in The Lost Angel, mother follows her intuition in a harrowing search for her missing child.

Release date: March 1, 1991

Publisher: Simon & Schuster

Print pages: 320

Sample

The Anastasia Syndrome
They were so good to me, Judith thought with renewed hope as she began another long and tedious search through the birth records. I was so happy with them.

Edward Chase, a graduate of Annapolis, had elected to make the Navy his career. After the war, he’d become Naval Military Attaché to the White House. Judith had vague memories of Easter Egg hunts on the White House lawn, of President Truman asking her what she was going to be when she grew up. Later, Edward Chase became military attaché in Japan, then ambassador to Greece and to Sweden.

Who could have asked for more loving parents? Judith wondered as she turned the book to the section with names that began with M. They had been in their thirties when they adopted her, died within a year of each other eight years ago, left their considerable assets to their “beloved daughter, Judith.”

And now she was realizing their passing had freed her from a feeling of guilt or disloyalty as she tried to find the people who had begotten her. Hours passed. Marsh. March. Mars. Merrit. There was absolutely no derivation of Marrish, of any name beginning with M, in the records of May 1942 that had “Sarah” as a first or middle name. It was time to look under P in hope that maybe, just maybe she had tried to say “Parrish.”

Her fingers ran down the pages of the names beginning with P until she found the name Parrish. Parrish, Ann, District Knightsbridge; Parrish, Arnold, District Piccadilly. And then she saw it.

Mother’s Name

District

Vol.

Page

Parrish

Mary Elizabeth

Travers

Kensington

6B

32

Parrish! Kensington! Oh God, she thought. Holding her index finger on that line, she raced through the rest of the page. Parrish, Norman, District Liverpool; Parrish, Peter, District Brighton; Parrish, Richard, District Chelsea; Parrish, Sarah Courtney, Mother’s Name Travers, District, Kensington, Vol. 6B, Page 32.

Not daring to believe that she understood what she was reading, Judith rushed up to the clerk at the desk. “What does this mean?” she asked.

The clerk had a small transistor radio on her desk, the volume turned so low it was almost inaudible. Reluctantly she tore herself away from the BBC news. “Terrible, the bombing,” she announced. She paused. “I’m sorry. What is your question?”

Judith pointed to the names Mary Elizabeth and Sarah Courtney Parrish. “They were born the same day. Their mother’s maiden name was the same. Does that suggest they might have been twins?”

“It would certainly look so. And great care is taken about who was the older twin. Often it means who inherits the title, you see. Do you want to purchase the full birth certificates?”

“Yes, of course. And another question. Isn’t Polly a nickname for Mary in England?”

“Very often. My own cousin, for example. Now to obtain the birth certificates, you’ll have to fill out the proper forms and pay five pounds each. They can be mailed to you.”

“How much information do they give?”

“Oh, quite a bit,” the clerk replied. “Date and place of birth. Mother’s maiden name. Father’s name and occupation. Home address.”

Judith walked back to the apartment in a daze. As she passed a newsstand she saw the glaring headlines that told of the bombing in Trafalgar Square. Pictures of bleeding children covered the front page. Sickened at the sight, Judith bought the paper and read it as soon as she was home. At least, she thought, none of the injuries were lifethreatening. The paper was filled with news of the stormy session in Parliament. The Home Secretary, Sir Stephen Hallett, had made a dramatic speech: “I have long argued the need for the death penalty for terrorists. These despicable people have today planted a bomb at a place they knew would be visited by schoolchildren. If one of those children had been killed, shouldn’t the terrorists be worrying now about their own necks? Does the Labour party agree or shall we continue to coddle these would-be murderers?”

Another news item said that the explosive had been gel-ignite, and a massive search had been started to trace purchases and check reports of theft of the deadly component.

Judith put down the newspaper and glanced at her watch. It was nearly six. She knew that Stephen would be calling, and that she’d better be able to say she had been in touch with Fiona.

Fiona was far too interested in the events of the day to be cross about Judith’s neglect of her. “My dear, most frightful, wasn’t it? Parliament in an absolute uproar. When the election is called, the death penalty will certainly be an issue. Can’t help but benefit dear Stephen. People are simply outraged. Poor old King Charles. I gather they wanted to blow his statue to smithereens. Such a shame it would have been. Absolutely the most ravishing equestrian statue in the kingdom. Now there are a few statues I wouldn’t mind seeing off to the scrapyard. Some of them look as though the horses should be pulling wagons, not seating kings. Oh well.”

Stephen phoned fifteen minutes later. “Darling, I’ll be very late tonight. I’m meeting with the Commissioner from Scotland Yard and some of his people.”

“Fiona told me about the uproar in Parliament over the bombing. Have any terrorists claimed responsibility?”

“Not so far. That’s why I’m meeting with Scotland Yard. As Home Secretary, acts of terrorism come under my jurisdiction. I’d hoped as a civilized nation that when we outlawed execution, it would be for all time but today certainly proves the need for the death penalty. I believe it would be a deterrent.”

“I gather that many people agree with you, but I’m afraid I can’t. The thought of execution makes my blood run cold.”

“Ten years ago I felt exactly the same way,” Stephen said quietly. “Not anymore. Not when so many innocent lives are in constant danger. Darling, I must run. I’ll try not to be too late.”

“Whatever time you get here, I’ll be waiting.”

• • •

Reza Patel and Rebecca Wadley were about to leave for dinner when the phone rang in his office. Rebecca picked it up. “Miss Chase, how good to hear your voice. How are you? The doctor’s right here.”

In the movement that had become automatic, Patel pressed the conference and record buttons. He and Rebecca listened as Judith told them about her discovery. “I’ve been longing to talk about it,” she said happily, “and realized you and Rebecca are the only two people alive who know about me and can understand what’s happening. Doctor, you’re miraculous. Sarah Courtney Parrish. Quite a nice name, don’t you think? When I receive the birth certificates, I’ll have a street address. Isn’t it incredible that Polly was my twin?”

“You’re turning into a very good detective,” Patel observed, trying to sound buoyant.

“Research,” Judith laughed. “After a while you learn how to follow threads. But I have to put it off for a few days. Tomorrow I must stay at the typewriter, and there’s an exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery I want to see. It has a lot of court scenes from Charles I. Should be interesting.”

“What time will you be there?” Patel asked quickly. “I’m planning to visit it myself. Maybe we can have a cup of tea.”

“Lovely. Would three o’clock do?”

When he replaced the receiver on the cradle, Rebecca asked Patel, “What point is there in meeting her at the gallery?”

“I have no reason to ask her to come in here again, and I’d like to see if I detect any indication of personality modification in her.”

• • •

Judith changed to peach silk lounging pajamas and matching slippers, undid her hair from the chignon, brushed it loose around her shoulders, put on fresh makeup, and sprayed Joy eau de cologne on her wrists. She prepared a salad and scrambled eggs for dinner. With a pot of tea, she put the dishes on the inevitable tray and absentmindedly ate as she outlined her next chapter. At nine, she laid out a plate of cheese and crackers and the brandy snifters, then went back to her desk.

It was eleven-fifteen when Stephen arrived. His face was gray with fatigue. Silently he put his arms around her. “My God, it’s good to be here.”

Judith massaged his shoulders as she kissed him. Then, arms around each other, they went to sit on the overstuffed maroon damask couch that was obviously a treasured possession of Lady Beatrice Ardsley. An old comforter which covered the back and arms was tucked behind the frame and cushions, then fell protectively over the cushions to the floor. Judith poured the brandy and handed a glass to Stephen. “I really do think that in honor of the future Prime Minister I should take this exhausted comforter off and trust that you won’t put your feet on Lady Ardsley’s precious settee.”

She was rewarded by a hint of a smile. “Be careful. If I close my eyes, I’m sure I’ll end up curled on it for the night. What a hell of a day, Judith.”

“How did the Scotland Yard meeting go?”

“Well enough. Fortunately, a Japanese tourist was grinding away with his videocamera and we’ll have the film. There were also many people in the area snapping pictures. The media is requesting that all those pictures be turned in. There’ll be a substantial reward if any of them lead to the arrest and conviction of the perpetrator. You see, one bit of luck is that the bomb must have started smoking within a minute or two after it was placed. Just possibly we’ll get a picture of someone laying it at the base of the statue.”

“I hope so. The pictures of those bleeding children were heartbreaking.” Judith was about to say they reminded her of the hallucinations she had been having about the child caught in air raids, then closed her lips. It was hard, she thought, not to tell the man she loved so dearly that she believed she had learned her true identity.

There was a safe way to keep from revealing her secret. Slipping over on the couch, she put her arms around Stephen’s neck.

• • •

Deputy Assistant Commissioner Philip Barnes was head of the Anti-Terrorist Branch at Scotland Yard. A slight, soft-spoken man in his late forties with thinning brown hair and hazel eyes, he looked more like a country preacher than a senior police official. His men had quickly learned that the soft voice could become a scathing weapon when they were on the carpet for anything from a minor offense to an incredible blunder. Still they respected Barnes to the point of awe, and some even had the courage to genuinely like him.

This morning Commissioner Barnes was both angry and pleased. Angry that the terrorists would select so meaningless a target as the equestrian statue and that they chose a day when the statue would be surrounded by children and tourists; pleased that no one had been killed or maimed. He was also frustrated. “It doesn’t make sense for the Libyans or Iranians to go for the statue,” he said. “If the IRA wanted to bomb a monument, they’d have gone after Cromwell. He was the one who decimated their country, not poor old Charles.”

His men waited, knowing he did not expect an answer.

“How many pictures have come in?” he asked.

“Dozens,” his senior aide, Commander Jack Sloane, answered. Sloane was long and lean with neutral coloring, sandy hair, light blue eyes, the rugged complexion of the year-round athlete. The brother of a baronet, he was a close friend of Stephen’s. His family’s country home, Bindon Manor, was six miles from Edge Barton. “Some of them still needing development, sir. It’s being done now. We also have that videotape when you’re ready to see it.”

“How about the investigation of the explosive?”

“We may have a lead already. The foreman of a quarry in Wales has been searching the site for a quantity of missing gelignite.”

“When did he realize it was missing?”

“Four days ago.”

The phone rang. Commissioner Barnes’s secretary had been told to hold calls except for one person’s. “Sir Stephen,” Barnes said even before he picked up the phone.

Swiftly he told Stephen about the missing gelignite, the tourists’ pictures, the videotape. “We’re just about to see it, sir. I’ll report if it’s promising.”

Five minutes later in the darkened room, they watched as the tape was played. They had expected the usual uneven results of an amateur photographer and were pleasantly surprised to see a crisp, well-focused segment. The panorama of the area at Trafalgar Square. The close-up of the statue and its base. The floral wreaths already placed there.

“Stop,” Sloane ordered.

The operator of the videocamera, familiar with this kind of order, instantly froze the film.

“Back up a frame or two.”

“What do you see?” Commissioner Barnes demanded.

“That wisp of smoke. When this picture was taken, the bomb was already there.”

“Damn shame the camera didn’t catch the person placing it!” Barnes exploded. “All right. Keep running.”

The schoolchildren. The tourists. The students holding the wreath. The self-conscious beginning of the poem. The constable rushing toward the statue, forcing the children away from it.

“That man should be put up for the George Cross,” Barnes muttered.

The people scattering. The explosion. The camera panning about.

“Hold it.”

Again the operator stopped the camera and retraced the previous frames.

“That woman in the cape and dark glasses. She realized she was being filmed. Look at the way she’s pulling the hood around her face. Every other adult in the crowd is rushing to help the children. She’s turning away.” Sloane turned to one of the assistants. “I want her picture plucked out of every frame in this film. Blow it up. Let’s see if we can identify her. We might be onto something.”

Someone snapped on the lights. “And by the way,” Sloane added. “Pay special attention to see if any of the tourists caught the woman in the cape in their snapshots.”

• • •

That afternoon as Judith was dressing to go to the National Portrait Gallery, she reluctantly decided to wear a pale gray suit, heels, and her sable coat. In the few days since Stephen had been elected party leader, there had been a number of profiles of him in various newspapers, and they had all referred to him as the most eligible and attractive older single man in England. Not since Heath had there been an unmarried Prime Minister, one paper noted, and there were unconfirmed rumors that Sir Stephen had a romantic interest that would please the English people.

That quote had come from the gossip columnist, Harley Hutchinson. So I’d better not go out looking like a Greenwich Village hippie, Judith thought, sighing as she carefully brushed her hair and applied eye shadow and mascara. She then fastened a rose-shaped silver pin on the lapel of her suit and studied her reflection.

Twenty years ago, she had married Kenneth in the traditional white gown and veil. What would she wear when she married Stephen? A simple late afternoon dress, she decided. With a very small group of friends present. There had been nearly three hundred at the reception at the Chevy Chase Country Club all those years ago. To have it happen twice in a lifetime, she mused. No one deserves that much happiness.

She transferred her wallet and makeup kit to the gray suede purse that matched her pumps, and dug out a smaller version of her oversized shoulder bag. All gussied up or not, I need my notebooks, she thought ruefully.

The National Portrait Gallery was on St. Martin’s Place and Orange Street. The special exhibition was of court scenes from the Tudors through the Stuarts. The paintings had been borrowed from private collections all over Britain and the Commonwealth, and the lesser figures in the paintings who could be identified were listed in framed plaques. When Judith arrived, the gallery was still quite crowded, and with some amusement she watched as people peered down the printed lists within the plaques, obviously hoping to locate some long-forgotten ancestor.

She was particularly interested in seeing the court scenes in which Charles I, Oliver Cromwell, and Charles II were depicted. Working her way backward, she compared the festive dress of the returned “Merry Monarch,” Charles II, to the sternly plain Puritan-type garb of Cromwell’s intimates. The court scenes of Charles I and his consort, Henrietta Maria, were especially intriguing. She knew that, ignoring the stony disapproval of the Puritans, Queen Henrietta had delighted in pageants. One painting in particular caught her eye: The setting was Whitehall Palace. The King and Queen were the central figures. The members of the court were obviously dressed for a pageant. Shepherds’ crooks, angel wings, halos, and gladiators’ swords abounded.

“Miss Chase, how are you?”

Judith had been drinking in the painting.

Startled, she turned around and saw Dr. Patel. His evenfeatured face was smiling but she noticed that the expression in his eyes was serious. Lightly she touched his arm. “Doctor, you seem very somber.”

He bowed slightly. “And I was thinking that you look very beautiful.” He lowered his voice. “I will say it again. Sir Stephen is indeed a fortunate man.”

Judith shook her head. “Not here, please. From what I can see, this place is alive with press.” She turned to the painting. “Isn’t this fascinating?” she asked. “When you think this was painted in 1640, just before His Majesty dissolved the Short Parliament.”

Reza Patel stared at the picture. Beneath it the plaque read: “Unknown Artist. Believed to have been painted between 1635 and 1640.”

Judith pointed to a handsome couple standing near the seated King. “Sir John and Lady Margaret Carew,” she told Patel. “They were both upset that day. They knew what would happen if the King dissolved Parliament. Lady Margaret’s ancestors had been M.P.s since the inception of Parliament. Her family was terribly split over allegiance at that time.”

Patel read the information on the plaque. Other than the King and Queen, their eldest son, Charles, Duke of York, and a half dozen royal relatives, the other figures in the painting were unidentified. “Your research must be superb,” he said. “You should have offered it to the historians here.”

Lady Margaret realized she should not have told Reza Patel about John and herself. Turning abruptly from him, she hurried from the gallery.

At the door he caught up with her and stopped her. “Miss Chase, Judith. What is wrong?”

She stared him down. Her tone haughty, she said, “Judith is not here now.”

“Who are you?” he asked urgently. Startled, he observed the angry red scar on her right hand.

She pointed to the painting. “I’ve already told you. I am Lady Margaret Carew.”

Breaking away from him, she hurried outside.

Stunned, Patel went back to the painting and studied the figure whom Judith had indicated was Lady Margaret Carew. He realized there was a striking resemblance between her and Judith.

Sick with apprehension, he left the gallery, unaware of the pleasant buzz of conversation of the people who tried to greet him. At least, he told himself, I know who is present in Judith’s body. Now he would have to learn what had happened to Margaret Carew and try to anticipate her next move.

The wind had become sharp. He turned to walk down St. Martin’s Place and felt his arm taken. “Dr. Patel,” Judith laughed. “I’m so terribly sorry. I was so engrossed in looking at the paintings that I started home before I remembered that we planned to have tea. Forgive me.”

Her right hand. As Reza Patel watched, the scar faded into a barely discernible outline.

• • •

The next day, February 1st, brought teeming, chilling rain. Judith decided to stay in the apartment and work at her desk. Stephen phoned to say he was going to Scotland Yard and then to the country. “Vote Conservative, Vote Hallett,” he joked. “A pity, you Yankee, I can’t count on your vote.”

“You’d have it,” Judith told him. “And maybe you can use this. My father used to tell me that in Chicago half the poor souls in the cemeteries were still on the voters’ list.”

“You must teach me how it’s done.” Stephen laughed. His tone changed. “Judith, I’ll be going to Edge Barton for a few days. The trouble is, I’ll hardly be home, but would you like to come down? Knowing you were there at the end of the day would mean so much to me.”

Judith hesitated. On the one hand, she wanted desperately to go back to Edge Barton. On the other, Stephen’s total preoccupation with the upcoming campaign freed her to quietly try to discover her past. Finally she said, “I want to be there. I want to be with you. But I don’t work as well away from my desk. We’ll scarcely see each other, so I think it’s better if I stay put here. By the time the election comes, I intend to be mailing a completed manuscript to my editor. If I can achieve that, I assure you, I’ll feel like a new woman.”

“Once the election is over, I won’t be patient, darling.”

“I hope not. God bless, Stephen. I love you.”

• • •

In Scotland Yard a room had been set aside to display the enlarged snapshots that had been turned in. Several of them included glimpses of the woman in the dark glasses and cape. None of the pictures offered much more than a profile. The hood of the cape almost covered the woman’s face, even before she pulled it closer when she noticed the videocamera. All the pictures that included her had been blown up and her image taken from them. “About five eight or so,” Commander Sloane observed. “Quite slender, don’t you think? Not more than eight or nine stone. Dark hair and an angry mouth. Doesn’t help much, does it?”

Inspector David Lynch came into the room, his footsteps brisk. “Think we have something, sir. Another set of pictures just arrived. Look at this, won’t you?”

The new pictures showed the woman in the cape placing a wreath at the base of the statue of Charles I. The camera had caught the corner of the brown paper parcel beneath the wreath.

“Well done,” Sloane said.

“That isn’t the half of it,” Lynch told him. “We’ve been asking questions at all the local construction sites. A foreman tipped us off that a very attractive woman in a dark cape was flirting with one of his crew, Rob Watkins, and that Watkins bragged she was coming to his lodgings.” Lynch waited, obviously enjoying what he was about to say. “We just talked to Watkins’s landlady. Not ten days ago, he had a visitor. She came two evenings about six o’clock, stayed a couple of hours in his room. The lady had dark hair, dark glasses, looked to be in her late thirties or early forties, and she wore a dark green cape with a hood, a very expensive one, the landlady reports. Also wore very expensive leather boots, carried an oversized shoulder bag, and as the landlady reported, ‘thought she was the Queen herself, the manner of her. Very haughty.’ ”

“I think we’d better have a chat with Mr. Rob Watkins immediately,” Sloane said. He turned to an assistant. “Take down all the enlarged pictures of the lady in the cape. Let’s see if we can get this fellow to pick her out of the crowd without giving him any help.”

“Another interesting thing,” Lynch went on. “The landlady says the woman was undoubtedly English, but that she had a strange accent, or manner of speaking.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sloane snapped.

“From what I gather it was the cadence of her speech that seemed odd. The landlady says it was like listening to one of those old films in which people use words like ‘forsooth.’ ”

He shook his head at the expression on Commander Sloane’s face. “Sorry, sir. I don’t understand it either.”

• • •

On February 10 the Prime Minister made her longexpected announcement. She would go to the Queen and ask Her Majesty to dissolve Parliament. She would not be seeking reelection.

On February 12 Stephen was elected Conservative Party Leader. On February 16 the Queen dissolved Parliament and the campaign began.

Judith joked to Stephen that if she wanted to see him she turned on her television set. When they did manage to meet it was usually at his home. His car would pick her up and Rory would drive around the house to the back entrance. That way it was possible to avoid the attention of the ever-present media.

Nevertheless, Judith realized that it was a blessed coincidence that Stephen was away campaigning at the same time that she was completing her book. Eagerly she awaited the moment the birth certificates would arrive. Her moods ranged from anticipation to fear. Suppose Sarah Parrish was only someone she had known as a small child? What then?

She knew that when she was married to the Prime Minister of England, she would always be recognizable. There would be no private mission like this possible for her then.

Stephen called her early every morning and again late in the evening. His voice was often hoarse from the speechmaking. She could sense his fatigue as they talked. “It’s going to be much closer than we anticipated, darling,” he told her. “Labour is fighting hard, and after over a decade of a Conservative government, there are many who will vote for change for the sake of change.” The worry in his voice was enough for Judith to completely absolve him of selfishness in not helping her search for her identity. She could only compare his disappointment if he failed to become Prime Minister to what her own anguish would be if she suddenly sat in front of her typewriter and realized that she could no longer write, that the gift was gone . . .

To accommodate her need to finish the book and to continue her search, Judith set her alarm earlier and earlier. Now she arose at four in the morning, worked until noon, prepared a sandwich and a pot of tea, and worked until eleven.

Every few days she walked in the Kensington area, thinking that given enough concentration, one of the old apartment buildings that lined the lovely streets might suddenly look familiar. Now she wished she could see the phantom toddler running ahead of her, running into the entrance of the dwelling that might have been their home. In the hallucinations she had experienced, had she seen herself or Polly? she wondered, and was rewarded by the immediate thought, I always followed Polly. She could run faster . . . The window to the past was opening a little more . . . Why was it taking so long for the birth certificates to come?

It was not the social season in London. Fiona was in a hard fight for her own seat in Parliament. The parties and dinners to which Judith received invitations were easy to refuse. She kept track of time carefully and was certain she had no more memory lapses. Dr. Patel phoned her regularly, and it amused her that his tone at the beginning of the conversation was always apprehensive, as if he expected her to report some sinister aberration.

On February 28, she completed the first draft of her book, read it through, and realized there would be very little rewriting needed before sending it to her publisher. That night Stephen arrived from Scotland, where he’d been campaigning for the Conservative candidates.

They had not seen each other for nearly ten days. When she opened the door for him, they stood for a long moment looking at each other. Stephen sighed as he held her close before he ki