The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (10 page)

A shadow fell across Adam’s shoulder. He glanced aside to find Peregrine Lovat crouching down beside him. The young artist pulled a wry face and balanced himself with one hand against the back of Adam’s chair.

“Lord, Adam, I haven’t played in public since I was at school,” he groaned, easing the silk bow-tie above his elegant wing-collar. “I don’t know why I let Julia talk me into this!”

Adam smiled at Peregrine’s discomfiture, his gaze sweeping the room to light on a slender girlish figure in a white satin evening gown, with tartan’ bows at the shoulders and tartan ribbons wound through her piled tresses of rose-gold hair. Peregrine had met Julia Barrett little more than a month ago, and since then, their relationship had blossomed—yet another change from the stiff, repressed young man Adam remembered from their first encounter.

“Just keep reminding yourself that this is a music appreciation society, not a convocation of critics,” he said bracingly. “Now, relax and remember you’re among friends.”

Peregrine rolled his eyes, but he went up onto the stage and sat down at the harpsichord, settling the pleats of his kilt with an unconscious nonchalance that would not have been possible two months before. A moment later Julia joined him, accompanied by her uncle, Sir Alfred Barrett, a sturdy, distinguished figure in dinner clothes rather than a kilt, with twinkling blue eyes above a flourishing silver moustache.

“Friends and colleagues,” Sir Alfred began, with mock formality, “as the senior member of our trio, I have been elected to inform you all that for our part of the program we will be performing selections from the musical notebooks of Anna Magdalena Bach. Before we begin, I would like to assure you that we will make every effort to conform to the notes on the pages before us.”

This droll assurance elicited a chuckle from the room at large. With a humorous salute to his friends in the audience, Sir Alfred took his seat in a chair opposite the harpsichord and gathered up his own chosen instrument: an Italian-made cello from the studio of a pupil of Stradivarius. Julia, with an oblique smile at Peregrine, remained standing at the front of the improvised stage, with only a music stand before her on which she unfolded a black-bound book of sheet music. An expectant hush settled over the company as the members of the trio poised themselves to begin.

The three songs they had chosen were among some of Adam’s favorites. The precise music-box chime of the harpsichord and the mellow notes of the cello supplied a delicate counterpoint to Julia’s lilting soprano, a voice as light and pure as a young boy’s. There was no faltering on the part of any member of the trio. When they had finished, their performance drew an enthusiastic round of applause.

“Right, Janet,” said Sir Matthew Fraser, as the acclaim died down and the performers began to shift properties on stage. “Looks like it’s you and Caroline now.”

He and Adam stood up as the ladies rose, music in hands, and prepared to make their way forward. Caroline cast a pretty frown toward the stage, where Peregrine was helping Julia shift the harp into position.

“I do hope that child has some experience as an accompanist,” she remarked—as much out of envy as concern, the psychiatrist in Adam suspected. “If she fails to follow the voice lead properly, it will quite spoil the effect.”

“Have no fear!” Janet laughed. “I’ve heard Julia play, and I assure you, I have every confidence in her ability.”

From glancing at the music in Janet’s and Caroline’s laps, Adam knew that the two women had decided on a series of duets based on the poems of Robert Burns. But though he had a great personal fondness for the works of the great Scottish bard, he found the first song something of a disappointment. Janet, who had few illusions about the modest extent of her talents, performed quite creditably, her genuine enjoyment of the music itself lending a sparkle to her delivery.

Caroline, on the other hand, seemed determined to attack the notes, pursuing the soprano line with more aggression than style. Recalling the lyrical sweetness of Julia Barrett’s clear voice, Adam grimaced at the comparison. He was just girding himself mentally to sit through the rest of the selections when he felt a light, respectful touch on his sleeve.

“Pardon the intrusion, sir,” murmured Humphrey, “but you have a telephone call. It’s Inspector McLeod.”

Adam slipped out of the drawing room as unobtrusively as he could, wondering what could have prompted McLeod to call so late. It was well past two. Once outside, he made his way along the hall toward the library and sat down at the desk to wait for Humphrey to transfer the call. At the signal, he picked up the receiver.

“Hullo, Noel., I’m here. What’s going on?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” said McLeod’s gravelly bass. “Sorry to drag you away from your guests, but I’ve just had a damned peculiar call from a police sergeant up in Blairgowrie, name of Kirkpatrick. One of the local gamekeepers turned up at the station a few hours ago, claiming to have witnessed some kind of ritual killing, somewhere up in the woods north of the Baltierny estate.”

Adam listened with growing interest as McLeod went on to supply what further details were available.

“Anyway, I told Sergeant Kirkpatrick that I’d drive up to Blairgowrie and lend a hand if I could,” McLeod concluded. “I was going to ask you to come along, but I didn’t realize you had guests. It’s odd enough that I thought you should know, but it may turn out to be nothing but a wild goose chase.”

“Oh, don’t worry about the interruption,” Adam said. “In fact, on several counts, I’m very glad you called. The way things have been going recently, we can’t afford to dismiss anything at face value. I haven’t had a chance yet to tell you about the odd thing Christopher and I uncovered yesterday in Edinburgh. It looks like a pretty cold clue right now, but it would appear that our Lynx chappies were busy around this time last year.”

“Indeed?” McLeod said. “Maybe you
should
come up to Blairgowrie with me, then. You could tell me about yesterday on the way.”

An outbreak of polite applause from the direction of the drawing room reminded Adam of Lady Caroline and her predatory affectations. Whatever might turn out to lie behind the gamekeeper’s story, all at once the prospect of a night drive to Blairgowrie seemed like the promise of a breath of fresh air.

“As a matter of fact, that sounds like a splendid idea,” he said firmly. “My guests should be going home soon anyway. How soon can you get here?”

“Thirty to forty minutes—assuming that the roads aren’t too bad north of the bridge.”

“Fine,” said Adam. “That gives me ample time to get changed. We can take the Range Rover. Come round by the garage, and Humphrey will let you in.”

With this assurance, he rang off. He relayed the necessary instructions to Humphrey over the house phone, then returned to the drawing room. Julia, Janet, and Lady Caroline were just taking their bows when he stepped through the door. Adam moved forward smoothly to meet them as they left the improvised stage.

“My abject apologies for being obliged to miss the end of your performance, ladies,” he told them. Then, turning toward the rest of the company, he cleared his throat and called out, “Might I have your attention, please?”

Pitched clear and low, his voice penetrated the furthest corners of the room. As heads swung in his direction, he spread his hands before him in a graceful gesture of regret.

“I’m sorry to interrupt this lovely recital, ladies and gentlemen, but I’m afraid something has come up that requires my professional attention. You’re all welcome to stay as long as you like. Indeed, I hope you’ll feel free to continue in my absence. At the same time, however, I must ask you to excuse me.”

A murmur of disappointment greeted this announcement. As he made them a sketchy bow and retired toward the doorway, he succeeded in catching Peregrine’s eye from across the crowded room. The artist acknowledged the summons with a small nod and bent his head to speak a word of explanation in Julia’s ear. A moment later, he joined Adam outside in the hall, his hazel eyes wide with unspoken curiosity.

“I’ve just had a call from Noel McLeod,” Adam said, coming right to the point. “The Blairgowrie police have had a report from a gamekeeper who says he saw a human sacrifice out in the woods. Noel and I are driving up to Blairgowrie to check the story. It occurred to me that perhaps you might like to come along.”

“A human sacrifice!” Peregrine murmured. “Good Lord, of course I’ll come, if you think I might be of some use.”

“At this point, it’s too soon to tell,” Adam replied. “Noel himself allowed that this could be a wild goose chase. But if it isn’t—if the gamekeeper’s story checks out—your particular talents could come in very handy. I ought to warn you now, though, that the evidence will be anything but pretty.”

He paused expectantly, and Peregrine squared his shoulders determinedly.

“If you’re trying to leave me a graceful way out, I appreciate it,” the artist said quietly. “’However, you’ve given me the impression that I’m capable of some rather unique contributions to what you and Inspector McLeod do—and squeamishness is hardly a good excuse for trying to evade responsibility. That doesn’t mean I may not faint or throw up, if there’s a lot of blood—you’ll have to bear with me, on that—but any physical failing on my part won’t be for want of giving things my best effort.”

It was a statement he never would have made six weeks earlier.

“Good man,” Adam said warmly. “I hope we won’t have to put your intestinal fortitude to the test. In any case, I’ll be glad to have your company. Now.” He drew himself up to his full height, his mind moving on to the practicalities of what lay ahead. “Noel’s driving up from Edinburgh, and expects to be here within the next forty minutes. That gives us both time to change into more suitable clothes—and make peace with our respective companions of the evening.”

Peregrine pulled a rueful grimace. “I wasn’t thinking of Julia just now,” he admitted. “I’ll go have a word with her at once, and arrange with Sir Alfred to see her home . . . ”

A harried half hour later, Peregrine was in the hallway of the gate lodge, tugging on heavy boots, when he heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Shrugging on his navy duffel coat over a heavy sweater, he snatched up his sketchbox and darted outside to find Adam’s blue Range Rover idling at the gateposts. The blunt profile of the man in the passenger seat belonged unmistakably to Noel McLeod, wire-rimmed aviator glasses reflecting in the outside light, moustache bristling.

Peregrine slammed the gate lodge door behind him and bounded down off the steps to scramble into the back seat on the passenger side. Adam’s medical bag was on the floor behind the driver’s seat, along with a nylon zip-bag that had POLICE stenciled on both sides. McLeod turned to greet him with a shrewd glint in his eye.

“Welcome to the party, Mr. Lovat. Did you and your wee lassie part friends?”

“More or less,” Peregrine said, stashing his sketchbox on the seat above the other bags. “She was disappointed, of course, but I explained that I’d been doing some forensic drawing for Adam, and that he’d asked me to come along tonight. She seemed not to mind too much.”

“That’s more than can be said for some women,” said McLeod, as they pulled away from the gate lodge. “If you ever get the chance to marry your Miss Barrett, I’d advise you to take it.”

Chapter Seven

THOUGH TRAFFIC
had melted the snow on the road, the pavement still was slick as Adam piloted the Range Rover northward along the M90 toward Perth. The occasional lorry rumbled past in the southbound lanes, glaring headlamps thrusting cones of light into the darkness, but few vehicles were headed north.

Snow began to fall again in light, wet flurries about the time they reached the junction with the A93 to Blairgowrie, rapidly degenerating into sleet. Through the steady swish and clap of the laboring windscreen-wipers, McLeod scowled ahead into the darkness.

“God, what a foul night,” he muttered. “If this keeps up, we’re going to find ourselves wading in slush, when we head out to the scene.”

“You’d better hope your witness is a good enough woodsman to be able to
find
the scene again,” Adam said. “Otherwise, this could turn into a game of blind man’s bluff.”

“Aye, not to mention what it will do to any evidence,” McLeod agreed.

After that no one said anything for a while. At Adam’s suggestion, Peregrine settled back to try to catch some sleep, McLeod also dozing in the passenger seat. Adam’s head was clear, largely unaffected by the modest amount of wine he had taken in the course of the evening’s festivities. But at the same time, he reflected ruefully that, had he known he was to be called out on an errand such as this, he would have chosen to fast rather than partake of a five-course meal. His deeper senses felt sluggish in contrast to his body’s feeling of comfortable well-being, though he reckoned he would be largely restored by the time it became really important, out at the crime scene.

The dashboard chronometer read 4:53 when he slowed coming into the outskirts of Blairgowrie. The change of speed roused McLeod from his cat-nap, and he pulled himself upright in his seat and stifled a yawn as he began looking for landmarks.

“The turn is just before we get to the town square,” he told Adam, pointing. “It’s called Leslie Street, and it’ll be a sharp right. There it is.” They made the turn. “Now, watch for another very narrow turning to the right—that’s it, right into Ericht Lane. The station’s just ahead and to the left.”

Peregrine, too, stirred as they made the final turn, knuckling sleep from his eyes and settling his glasses back on his nose as he peered out to the left. Blairgowrie Police Station was a two-story Edwardian building of red brick, the front steps lit by two round lamps that imitated old gaslights. The car park, largely empty, lay on the opposite side of the lane, to their right.

Adam pulled into a gap between a white police vehicle and a mud-spattered yellow jeep, its undercarriage mired with sticks and sodden leaves. All of them gave the jeep a long look as he cut the ignition.

“Do you suppose that could be the gamekeeper’s car?” Peregrine wondered aloud.

“If so, it looks like it’s had a rough ride,” McLeod said. “Let’s go meet the man, and see what he has to say for himself.”

The three got out of the Range Rover and trudged across the snow-encrusted lane and up the icy steps. The station door was locked. Stamping his feet to shake loose the snow, McLeod reached over and thumbed the bell.

“These smaller, outlying stations aren’t usually manned between pub closing and about six,” he explained over his shoulder. “There are patrol cars out on the streets, of course, but—ah!”

A clank and a thud preceded the heavy door swinging inward. The man on the other side was tall and thin, with a spiky head of reddish hair above a prominent Highland nose. The epaulets on his uniform coat bore the three chevrons of a police sergeant. When he saw McLeod, his big-boned face brightened in obvious relief.

“Inspector McLeod,” he said. “Welcome to Blairgowrie. Glad to see you could make it in spite of the weather.”

“We’ve been out in worse,” said McLeod, with a significance that was not lost on Peregrine, as Kirkpatrick stood aside to admit them. “Adam, Peregrine, this is Sergeant Callum Kirkpatrick. Sergeant, this is Dr. Sinclair, the consultant I told you about over the phone, and this is his associate, Mr. Lovat. He’s something of a forensic artist.”

Kirkpatrick shook hands all around with the newcomers.

“I have to say, I’m hoping I’ve called you out for nothing, gentlemen,” he said, with a dubious shake of his head. “If what my man says is true, I dinnae look forward to the next few hours.”

“Where
is
your man?” McLeod asked. “McArdle? Was that his name?”

“Aye, he’s down in the lock-up,” Kirkpatrick said. “We weren’t holding anybody, and he was looking pretty knackered, so I told him he could bed down on a bunk in one of the cells till you got here. Want to look over his statement before I take you down?”

McLeod glanced aside at Adam, who shook his head minutely.

“Let’s talk to Mr. McArdle first,” the inspector said. “We’ll see if he tells us anything different from what he told you.”

Kirkpatrick gave a quick nod of agreement. “You’re the expert here, Inspector. Whatever you think best. Just follow me.”

Without further preamble, he ushered them out of the lobby and along an adjoining corridor to a flight of stairs leading down to the basement level. At the bottom of the stairs, a security door gave access to the station’s modest holding facility, but the door was standing open. A sturdy young constable in uniform was sitting at a desk to the right of the door, idly thumbing through a computer magazine. At the sight of Kirkpatrick, he shunted the magazine aside and stood up, his blue eyes frankly curious as, he glanced beyond his superior at McLeod and his companions.

“This is PC Forsythe, who’s kindly agreed to do a spot of extra’ duty in order to help out,” Kirkpatrick explained. Shifting his gaze to his young subordinate, he inquired, “How’s McArdle?”

“Havin’ a bit of a kip, last I looked, Sergeant.”

“Well, go give him a shake, and tell him the authorities from Edinburgh have arrived,” said Kirkpatrick. “We’ll be along in a minute, once these gentlemen have had a chance to shed their coats. And Davie—”

“Aye, sir?”

“See if you can get that poxy vending machine in the dispensary to kick out enough cups of coffee to go around.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll do my best.”

The basement level was well-heated. Adam was not sorry to shed the weight of his sheepskin coat. He and his companions left their outdoor garments hanging in the adjacent property closet before following Kirkpatrick through another doorway into a short cell corridor. PC Forsythe met them coming in, and jerked a thumb toward the door of the first cell.

“He’s awake now, sir, and just as stroppy as before,” he told his superior. “I’ll see about that coffee now.”

McArdle was sitting on the edge of the bunk in his stocking feet. He was a sturdy, balding man in his early fifties, with a snub nose and fierce brown eyes above a bushy brown beard. His manner, as Kirkpatrick performed the necessary introductions, was not exactly cordial. Upon learning that Adam was a physician, he pulled a glowering look and said flatly, “I dinnae have any need of a doctor. Nor does that puir man lyin’ out there in the snow!—not that anyone believes me.”

“No one
wants
to believe you,” McLeod said sternly, “because it’s horrible, if it’s true. But if the good sergeant didn’t have cause to believe you, he wouldn’t have called
me.
And if I didn’t believe the both of you—even though I’ve never even seen
you
before!—don’t think for a minute that wild horses could have dragged me up here on a night like this. Dr. Sinclair even left his dinner guests so he could come along.”

Somewhat subdued by McLeod’s gruff declaration, McArdle glanced sullenly at his feet.

“I suppose he’s a psychiatrist or something,” he muttered.

Adam chuckled and took the straight-backed chair that Kirkpatrick handed in to him from the corridor outside, setting it deliberately in front of McArdle. Peregrine had stationed himself unobtrusively just outside the door but in full view, and McLeod was glowering near the door, playing the heavy to Adam’s more open and friendly manner.

“Why, Mr. McArdle, you’ve guessed my deep, dark secret,” Adam said lightly. “Actually, Inspector McLeod calls me in as a technical consultant in cases involving the occult, and the psychology of people who commit crimes involving the occult. Actually, I deal with suspects and victims far more than witnesses—though I
have
had some success helping witnesses recall more precisely what they’ve seen. I think that’s more along the lines of what he had in mind for you and me.”

McArdle unbent slightly. “Then ye dinnae think I’m out o’ my heid?”

“Far from it,” Adam said. He sat easily in the chair, noting with approval that Kirkpatrick had quietly slipped from the room’ to leave them alone with the witness. “On the contrary, it sounds like you’ve had the misfortune to stumble upon something very dangerous—and you can probably remember even more than what you’ve already told the sergeant. I’d like to help you do that.”

As he spoke, he casually slipped a silver pocket watch out of the pocket of his trousers and gave it a cursory glance, releasing it then, so that it swung gently back and forth, seemingly idly, at the length of its chain. As intended, the gamekeeper’s gaze was drawn to it. Continuing to let the watch swing, pendulum-fashion, from his fingertips, Adam, carried on in a conversational tone, gradually letting his volume drop as his unwitting subject slipped gradually under his influence.

”Now, your experience earlier this evening must have given you quite a shock, Mr. McArdle. It would have shocked anyone. I know you’ve been up most of the night. Tired as you must be, though, the important thing right now is for you to try to relax.”

McArdle’s gaze had been tracking the rhythmical swing of the watch at the end of its chain, but now he blinked and drew breath to speak, probably suspicious that he knew why Adam was doing it. Smiling slightly, Adam merely slipped the watch casually back into his pocket, never breaking the flow of the patter that was really accomplishing what was needed.

“So I want you just to take a few deep breaths and lean back against the wall, if you will,” Adam went on. “When you breathe out, try to let the breath all the way out.” He drew out the word
all,
so that the very cadence of the word helped to underline the instruction.

“That’s right. You’ll find that the deep breathing will help you to relax. And God knows, you need that, after what you’ve been through tonight, don’t you?”

“Aye,” the man whispered.

“Take another deep breath, if you will—that’s right—and let it out slowly . . . Now another . . . And another . . . Are you feeling more comfortable now?” McArdle nodded. “Good.

“Now, I want you to cast your mind back to what you saw in the forest. You’ll find you can remember everything clearly—but nothing that you remember will cause you distress. It will be like looking at pictures in a book. Tell me about it whenever you feel ready.”

The gamekeeper nodded his balding head, his gnarled hands resting loosely in his lap, his breathing easy.

“I suppose Callum told ye that I’m head gamekeeper fer Lord Baltierny,” he said quietly.

“He did,” Adam replied. “And that you’re one of the best around.”

“Well, I like to think so.” McArdle paused to draw another deep breath. “Anyway, tonight I was walking the north woods on the Baltierny estate, just as I’ve done for nigh on forty years, when I heard some scuffling off in the distance, an’ a hoarse sort o’ cry—something between a cough and a croak.”

“A deer, perhaps?”

McArdle shook his head. “Never heard a deer sound like that,” he said flatly. “Poachers, now—that was my first thought. There’s a logging road up behind where the sound came from, but no one’s meant to be up there without permission, an’ certainly not at that hour.”

“About what time do you think that was?” Adam asked.

“Long about eleven, I reckon. I had my rifle with me, so I headed up the hill in the direction of the noise, to see what I could see. It was pretty dark up there, with nae moon an’ all, but I’m used to workin’ by starlight on nights like that. An’ somehow I had the feeling I oughtn’t to use my torch. A man as spends as much time in the woods as I do develops pretty good instincts, after so many years—an’ I was glad I paid attention tonight.”

“Why was that?”

“They would’ve seen me!” McArdle replied. “Lucky fer me, they had fires goin’, so they couldnae see very well in th’ dark. But I’m gettin’ ahead o’ myself. I hadn’t yet gotten to the top o’ the hill when the chanting started up.”

“Chanting?” Adam’s tone was merely conversational.

“I dinnae know what else to call it,” said the gamekeeper. “It was eerie—sort o’ whispery-like. I couldnae make out what they was saying, but the sound of it made the hair stand up on my heid—”

He broke off abruptly, his respiration quickening, his eyes now focused on something only he could see.

“Don’t let the memory disturb you,” Adam murmured softly, with a glance across at McLeod, who was leaning against the wall and listening avidly. “I think I know the kind of thing you’re trying to describe. You’re not in any danger now. Just take a deep breath and let out the tension along with the breath.”