The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (13 page)

“In which case, it’s even more unlikely that they would have murdered him by way of retribution,” Adam said sharply. “Think, Noel. If our opposite numbers now know enough about us to guess how and why we came to interfere in their affairs, why should they bother with Randall at all, when
we
are more obvious targets? Besides, if they were merely interested in taking a life for a life, there are far easier and more mundane ways of killing off an adversary than going to the trouble of setting up a ritual murder.

“But they
did
set up a ritual murder—which means that the ritual itself was the important thing. Had they guessed for an instant that Randall was one of us,” he concluded, “they never would have touched him, for fear of alerting the rest of us. That makes me believe that they didn’t know.”

“And Randall—God rest his soul—wasn’t about to do anything that would give himself away—or us,” McLeod said somberly, “even if it cost him his life.”

“Even if he had any choice in the matter,” Adam amended. “I’ll bet you money, marbles, or chalk that the post-mortem will show a high concentration of mind-altering drugs in his system. If the gods were kind, he was never really aware of what was happening to him.”

His shudder, as he covered the last sketch with the previous one, suggested that he did not believe that. Peregrine certainly did not. As he, too, shivered, hugging his arms across his chest against a chill that had nothing to do with the cold, Peregrine thought he had all too clear an idea of what had happened to Randall Stewart.

“As for who, specifically, was responsible,” Adam went on more strongly, gesturing toward the sketch that now lay on the top, “the fact that Peregrine wasn’t able to see anything but blurs for the faces in the circle strongly suggests that there was at least one adept present with powers that might well rival the best we ourselves could muster. Whoever that individual may be, he’s sufficiently master of his craft to cloak his work even from the eyes of those who know what to look for.”

Assailed by sudden doubt, Peregrine blinked and glanced at the two older men.

“Maybe it was
me,”
he whispered bleakly. “Maybe I
didn’t
know what to look for.”

“Oh, you knew what to look for,” Adam said, collecting the rest of the drawings and returning them all to the box. “You couldn’t have drawn these last two, if you hadn’t known
exactly
what you were about.” He tapped the lid of the box for emphasis. “No, we’re dealing with professionals here. And I
do not like
their profession!”

This bald statement produced the stunned silence that Adam had intended. Only after several taut seconds did McLeod clear his throat.

“All right. We’re somewhat agreed on the generalities of the
who—and
the
how
is all too clear. What I still want to know is
why?
Why Randall?”

Adam sighed and shook his head, gazing out sightlessly at the virgin snow beyond his window, trying not to see Randall’s face.

“I wish I could answer that,” he said quietly. “If we discount the revenge motive, it follows that he must have been chosen because there was something else about him that made him a suitable victim for whatever his murderers intended to do. If we only knew more about that intent—beyond the mere performance of a ritual murder or sacrifice—we might be in a position to guess why Randall should have been targeted. As it is—”

When he did not finish his sentence, Peregrine glanced from Adam to McLeod and back again in some uneasiness.

“So, where do we go from here?”

“Dear God, I wish I knew,” Adam said, visibly pulling himself back to practicalities. “The fact that the murder weapon was a scalpel might suggest the involvement of someone in the medical profession. But that’s all it is—a suggestion. Literally anyone can buy a scalpel. Without any more information to go on, we might as well be looking for the proverbial needle in a field full of haystacks.”

Never before had Peregrine heard him so impatient with himself. After another uncomfortable silence, McLeod sighed heavily and folded his arms across his chest.

“Well, I suppose it could be worse,” he muttered. “There’s still the post-mortem to come, and the forensic reports. Anyone of those could turn us up a lead.”

Adam lifted his head. His dark eyes held a sharp glint that Peregrine was at a loss to interpret. But before the older man could speak, there was a tap at McLeod’s window. As he thumbed the electric window control to lower it a crack, PC Jamison bent to speak to him.

“Beg pardon, Inspector, but the SCI team are on their way in,” he said. “They’ve just passed the gate, and advise that they’ve been picked up and tailed by some media people. Sergeant Kirkpatrick thought you ought tae know, sir.”

McLeod drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders with the belligerent air of a wrestler about to grapple with an opponent known to be particularly difficult and prone to dirty tricks.

“Thanks for the warning, Mr. Jamison,” he said with a nod. “Tell the sergeant not to worry himself. If he’ll deal with the SCI team, I’ll see what can be done to hold the press at bay.”

When Jamison had sketched him a salute and withdrawn, McLeod grimaced and zipped up his jacket before starting to pull on his gloves.

“Well, time for all of us to start acting like professionals again. This is the sort of case the press love. Kirkpatrick’s men will know to keep their mouths shut, but I think I’ll have a word with that gamekeeper. The news hounds could have a field day, if they get him talking.”

As he got out of the car, slamming the door purposefully, Peregrine took off his glasses and gave the lenses a rub with his handkerchief. He glanced at Adam thoughtfully before putting them on again, trying to assume the professionalism McLeod had called for.

“How long does it usually take to get back the reports Inspector McLeod mentioned?”

Adam shrugged, glancing distractedly in the rearview mirror for sign of the expected police and press.

“Three or four days to a week, depending on how many other cases are awaiting the attention of the police pathologist. We’ll do all we can to speed the process, of course, but—ah, here’s our reinforcements. “

As the first of the police vehicles pulled in close behind them, Peregrine turned to gaze out the back window at them, then returned his attention thoughtfully to Adam, who was pulling on his gloves and preparing to get out of the car.

“Adam, I know this is maybe a bit off the track,” he ventured, “but you did mention it last night. We’re not that far from Balmoral. Do you think we still ought to go take a look at that tower that got damaged by lightening—once we’re finished here?”

Adam sighed and nodded. “Probably we should. But frankly, I don’t think any of us is in any fit state to make the extra trip. That errand can be deferred for another few days. Right now, it’s more important that I get home. There’s Miranda to comfort—possibly in the professional capacity Noel so rightly reminded us of—and there are other people I need to get in touch with-mutual associates who have to be told what’s happened.”

“Like the Houstons?” Peregrine asked.

“Among others,” Adam said grimly. “Even if Randall hadn’t been the victim, all of this confirms that the Lodge of the Lynx is definitely on the move again. And if they
have
tumbled to the fact that we’re onto them, and knew that Randall was one of us, then it’s important for everyone to be on their guard. In either case, I have no doubt we’re seeing only the beginning of what may turn out to be a very dangerous affair.”

Chapter Ten

IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON
before McLeod judged that they were at last free to leave Baltierny. He and Adam trekked back up to the murder site with Kirkpatrick when the ambulance finally arrived at mid-afternoon to take the body away, but Peregrine elected to remain in the car, having seen as much of mayhem as he thought he could stomach for one day. Up at the site, Adam and McLeod took over from the attendants to bring down the stretcher bearing all that mortally remained of Randall Stewart, zipped in a black plastic body bag.

Back at the ambulance, they gave him into the attendants’ keeping. Following standard procedures, the body would be transported to the morgue at the Perth Royal Infirmary, where the post-mortem and other forensic examinations would be carried out. Adam judged that it was likely to be at least a week before the body could be released to the family for burial. As the attendants slid the stretcher through the open back doors of the ambulance, he searched his memory for a few private words of farewell, drawing on the imagery of the Gael, so beloved of the man so cruelly slain:

The compassion of the great God be upon you, Randall, my friend—

the peace of God,

the peace of Christ,

the peace of Spirit.

May Michael shield you in the shade of his wing,

to bring you swiftly home to the court of the Chief of Chiefs,

to shield you home unto the Three of surpassing love . . .

No one spoke much on the way back to Strathmourne. Adam and McLeod seemed to have withdrawn into private worlds of their own grief, and Peregrine sat huddled in a weary heap in the back seat, conscious of a dispiriting sense of isolation. Not having known Randall Stewart well himself, he could only speculate about what Adam and McLeod might be thinking as they headed home through the gloom of a dreary November twilight. After a while his own exhaustion got the better of him, and he drifted into uneasy sleep.

He roused some time later, jarred awake as the Range Rover pulled up at what he soon realized was the rear gate to Strathmourne. Adam let him out at the gate lodge with an abruptness that would have seemed almost like a dismissal, had not Peregrine recognized the grieving preoccupation that lay behind the brevity. Painfully conscious of his own inability to help, he watched despondently until the car’s taillights had disappeared into the darkness.

His forlorn demeanor was not lost on McLeod, who glanced across appraisingly at Adam as they pulled away.

“I’m not sure he understands as much as you think he does about all of this, Adam,” he said quietly. “And if you really do have it in mind to bring him into the Hunt, it isn’t going to help to leave him guessing.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Adam’s normally mellow voice held a harsh note of fatigue. “With Randall gone, we need Peregrine more than ever—and I know this was tough on him today. But explanations are going to have to wait for a better time. Right now, I have more pressing responsibilities to attend to.”

“I could stay and lend a hand—if you’d allow yourself the indulgence,” McLeod said.

Adam shook his head. “Thank you, but no. You have your work to do as well, and you’re going to need your rest if you’re to do it effectively. As Master of the Hunt, it’s up to me to contact the other members of the Hunting Lodge and acquaint them with the tragedy that has occurred. If I can’t offer them answers, at least I must offer them whatever comfort I can . . .”

Back at the gate lodge, Peregrine paused in its tiny vestibule to shrug himself out of his outer clothes before trudging through to the kitchen. He went through the motions of putting the kettle on to boil, then collapsed in the nearest available chair trying not to think, finally bending to unlace his boots with fingers that trembled with fatigue.

Earlier that day, he had come close to cursing the faculty of vision that had made him the involuntary witness to a brutal murder. A part of him still cringed at the
memory
of what lay in his sketchbox—left in Adam’s car, he suddenly realized, though the morning would be soon enough to retrieve it.

But as disturbing and even sickening as the experience had been, his revulsion had since been tempered by the reflection that his skills still had given them information they might not otherwise have obtained concerning the circumstances of Randall Stewart’s death. Looking back over his actions and behavior, he scolded himself mentally for nearly letting his squeamishness get the better of him. He only hoped he hadn’t done anything to shake Adam’s faith in his commitment—for he realized that, for good or ill, he
was
committed. He just wished that he could think of something constructive to do.

Eventually, too tired to continue trying to puzzle it out, he turned off the kettle without bothering to make tea and collapsed into bed. Most blessedly, he did not dream.

He awoke an hour later than usual the next morning, feeling reasonably well rested and a little distanced from it all. Shaking off the lingering stiffness of fatigue, he managed to shower, shave, and dress without quite engaging his brain, only really starting to wake up as he ducked out onto the front porch to collect his morning edition of
The Independent.
When he flicked it open, the main headline brought back all the horror of the previous day in a rush, and proclaimed an angle on Randall Stewart’s death that had never even occurred to him.

Satanic Slaying on Scottish Hunting Estate
the front page, screamed, in bold black letters a full inch high. And in smaller type, but no less black:
A Masonic Murder?

Taken completely aback, Peregrine blinked at the lurid headlines, then dropped his eyes to skim hastily over the article below. The accompanying photograph showed only a long shot of the circle of trees, with police lines stretched across the snow and anoraked police officers moving behind it, but the author of the piece had taken ghoulish relish in painting a more lurid verbal picture of the murder scene. The article was rendered even more sensationalist by its dark suggestions that Randall Stewart’s death demonstrated a clear connection between Freemasonry and the practice of black magic.

What he read was enough to send Peregrine darting back indoors for his coat and his car keys. His Morris Minor was parked in the garage at the rear of the gate lodge, where he had left it Sunday night, and he backed out swiftly and sent the little car shooting up the drive in a spray of water and gravel. A few minutes later he screeched to a halt at the door to the west wing and bailed out, tucking the offending newspaper under his arm. His agitated tug at the bellpull produced a grave and somewhat surprised looking Humphrey.

“I don’t suppose he’s expecting me,” Peregrine said rather breathlessly, “but do you think I might have a word with Sir Adam?”

Adam was standing at the bay window of the breakfast room when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching along the corridor outside. The quick, impetuous tread proclaimed his caller’s identity at once. Before Peregrine could even knock, Adam turned away from the window and called softly, “Come in, Peregrine.”

The doorknob turned with a rattle, and the young artist all but tumbled into the room, brandishing a furled newspaper in one hand.

“Good morning,” Adam said dryly, a mirthless smile plucking at the corners of his long mouth. “I gather that
The Independent
shares the same, rather fanciful Masonic slant on the Baltierny murder as both
The Times
and
The Scotsman.”

This arid observation brought Peregrine up short. He took a deep breath and nodded mutely, his gaze flickering sideways to the two other newspapers spread out on the dining table amid the Spartan remains of a largely uneaten breakfast.

“I was just about to send Humphrey down to the village to see what the other dailies had to offer,” Adam continued, “but it looks as if we can safely concur that all the major journals are in agreement over the motives underlying Randall Stewart’s death.”

Peregrine found his tongue, his tone indignant.

“Adam, how can they get away with this kind of cheap sensationalism? I mean, just because the Masons choose to practice their rites in private, that’s no reason to assume they’re dabbling in Satanism. There’s no proof whatsoever to support these allegations. It’s all a bag of moonshine!”

“You know that, and so do I,” Adam said with a shrug. “But restraint doesn’t sell newspapers.”

Peregrine scowled and tossed his paper on top of one of Adam’s. “Isn’t there anything you can do to set the record straight?”

“Not in the short term,” Adam replied. “In the long run, I hope we’ll be fortunate enough to catch up with the real conspirators behind this.”

He kept his tone cool and level, but inside his mind and soul were still in turmoil after the shared pain of the previous long night. Wrenching his thoughts away from the remembrance of it, he took a closer look at Peregrine’s pale, intense face and asked, “Have you had anything to eat yet this morning?”

The young artist shook his head.

“In that case,” Adam said, sitting down and reaching for the phone, “allow me to have Humphrey bring you up some more toast and a fresh pot of tea. You can be eating while I telephone Noel to see if there’ve been any further developments since we parted company last night.”

For an instant Peregrine was tempted to protest, but Adam was already issuing the necessary instructions to Humphrey. As he shifted to an outside line and set about tracking down McLeod, Peregrine slid into his customary seat opposite Adam and settled back to wait, as an afterthought snagging a slice of toast from the silver rack in the center of the table.

As Adam had hoped, McLeod was in his office at police headquarters. The inspector picked up almost immediately, after leaving Adam on hold for only a few seconds.

“Oh, aye, I’ve seen the bloody papers,” he growled, in response to Adam’s inquiry. “If you haven’t caught any of the television coverage this morning, it’s well nigh as bad—except they’re talking about governmental corruption and conspiracy instead of black magic. Which is to say that none of ‘em knows anything at all. Not that I’m sure we’re that much the wiser, as matters stand at the moment.”

“Then there’s been no progress?”

“None whatsoever—unless you count going round in circles. To make matters worse, I’ve been ordered up to Perth for the day to liaise with their investigators. They’ve set up a press interview for five o’clock this afternoon. I just hope to God we’ve turned up something useful by then. Otherwise, the media are going to go on feeding the rumor-mill.”

He sighed gustily. “In the meantime, I’m sending a couple of men over to Randall’s bookshop to see if they can turn up anything useful there. I wish I thought they’d be likely to find Randall’s appointment diary lying around on a countertop somewhere, but I’d be willing to bet Randall had it with him in his car—wherever
that
is just now. We’re looking for it, but we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Have you had any chance to talk with Miranda yet?” Adam asked.

“No, she’s still more or less in shock. Jane brought her home to our house last night, after a couple of jackals from one of the tabloids showed up on the doorstep at Mayfield Terrace. She knew by then that there’d been no accident, that her father had been murdered—the police came by to make official notification, late in the afternoon—but neither she nor Jane had any of the details. The poor lass was
really
distraught after that, so Jane called in our family physician to give her a sedative. She was still sleeping when I left this morning. I didn’t have the heart to wake her.”

“So Miranda is still at your house?” Adam asked, mentally applauding McLeod’s redoubtable wife.

“Aye. Her aunt’s coming down from Aberdeen on the train this afternoon to fetch Miranda away with her till the funeral—whenever that is. In the meantime, it seemed a good idea to keep her safely out of harm’s way. And at least if she’s asleep, she can’t grieve.”

Adam glanced at his wristwatch. The dial read twenty past eight, a tacit reminder that he himself had fewer than five hours’ sleep since arriving back at Strathmourne the previous evening. As Humphrey entered with fresh tea and toast for Peregrine, Adam flexed his aching shoulders and tried to put his weariness out of mind, for there remained much to be done.

“Very well. I’ve got rounds at the hospital starting at ten—and I missed them yesterday, so I can’t skip today—but once I’ve finished there, perhaps it would be a good idea for me to drive round to your house and see Miranda myself.”

“I know that’s going to involve spreading yourself pretty thin,” McLeod said frankly, “but I think a visit from you would help more than just about anything, right now.”

“Let’s consider it settled then,” Adam said. “If you speak to Jane before I do, tell her I’ll phone before I leave Jordanburn, to let her know I’m on my way.”

“Right you are,” said McLeod. “Good God, would you believe I’ve got in-coming calls waiting on two different lines? They’re probably all press hounds, too. I’d better ring off, but I’ll try to get back to you later this afternoon.”