The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (14 page)

“Right you are. Thanks, Noel.”

As the connection went dead, Adam replaced the telephone receiver distractedly and turned back to Peregrine, who had listened wide-eyed to Adam’s half of the conversation.

“Well, duty is calling from Edinburgh, I’m afraid,” he said with a grimace. “I’m going to have to leave you to your own devices just now, while I get ready to leave.”

Hastily Peregrine swallowed his mouthful of toast and washed it down with a swig of tea.

“Would you like me to come with you?” he inquired huskily.

“Not today,” Adam said, with the ghostly flicker of a smile. “I seem to recall you’re supposed to be working on a portrait of Edinburgh’s former provost.”

“It could wait—”

“No, it can’t,” Adam said firmly. “Whatever else happens, I’m still a psychiatrist with patients to attend to, and you’re still an artist with commissions to fulfill. Don’t worry,” he added dryly. “When I need you—and I assure you, I shall again, as soon as some of the immediate dust has settled—you’ll hear about it soon enough.”

This reassurance left Peregrine sufficiently relieved that he was able to settle down and do proper justice, to Humphrey’s tea and toast, readily accepting the offer of a proper cooked breakfast when the butler came in to inquire, after Adam had headed upstairs to change. As he tucked into a bowl of steaming porridge, rich with honey and cream, the aroma of bacon sizzling in the kitchen reminded him just how long it had been since the stale sandwiches of the afternoon before.

He had wolfed down the porridge and was halfway through a plateful of bacon and scrambled eggs when Adam poked his head in to say good-bye before heading out to his car. The sight of Peregrine devouring his meal with such obvious relish elicited a smile and a “thumbs-up” sign from the Master of Strathmourne, and a further sense of well-being on the part of Peregrine.

As Adam’s footsteps receded, Peregrine decided that when he had finished—perhaps another egg and a couple more rashers—he probably
would
be ready to tackle the former Provost of Edinburgh again. Actually, the portrait was going rather well.

* * *

Outside, since the Range Rover was still covered in mud from its run to Baltierny, Adam slid behind the wheel of a more dashing member of his stable of motorcars—a sleek, dark blue Jaguar XJS. The roads were slick with rain, but inbound traffic was relatively light. He arrived at the hospital in good time to carry out his routine rounds, covering up his own preoccupation with a proficiency born of long practice. Fortunately, all his regular patients were in stable condition, there were few new admissions, and his covey of student doctors managed to restrain their curiosity about the day before. One of the tabloid correspondents had recognized Adam at the crime scene, and mentioned him by name in the accompanying story.

By a little past noon Adam was finished, free to pass on to the matters that had been standing paramount in his mind all morning. He caught a quick lunch, because he knew he had to eat, put in the promised call to Jane McLeod, then delayed only long enough to sign out before hailing a taxi to drive him out to the McLeod’s comfortable house in Ormidale Terrace.

Jane opened the door before he had the chance to knock. With a swift glance after the departing cab, she drew Adam inside and closed the door firmly behind him. The click of the automatic snib-lock sounded loud in the vestibule as Adam bent to give his red-headed hostess a fond kiss on the cheek.

“So, have you been repelling journalists again?” he asked. “Thank God, no,” Jane said, with a militant sparkle in her eyes.

“Fortunately they don’t seem to have rumbled us so far. But I must confess you gave me a bit of a turn just now, when you arrived in a Black Maria. I was expecting you to be driving one of your own cars.”

Adam paused in the act of shrugging off his topcoat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought it might be as well to keep things inconspicuous. Did you take me for an agent of the press?”

“Something like that,” said Jane. “But never mind. Here, let me take that for you and I’ll hang it up.”

Together they moved through from the vestibule into the front hall.

“How’s Miranda?” Adam asked.

Jane made a waggling motion with one hand. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. I got her to eat some soup a little while ago, but she’s still awfully shaky. It didn’t help,” she added with a grimace, “that she got up and wandered downstairs around mid-morning. I didn’t hear her until she’d already gone through into the sitting room, and by then it was too late. Noel had thrown away today’s newspaper before he left for work, but I hadn’t had a chance to empty the bin.”

“So she at least saw the headlines,” Adam said grimly.

“I know we couldn’t have kept it from her indefinitely,” Jane said with a sigh, “but I would have liked the chance to prepare her a little. Now that you’re here, perhaps you’ll be able to ease her mind.”

“I shall certainly try to do that,” Adam replied. “Where is she just now?”

“Upstairs in the spare bedroom.” Jane said. “Come along and I’ll show you in.”

Miranda Stewart was sitting up in a big, old-fashioned brass bed, the lacy coverlet pulled up under her chin. She started slightly at Adam’s entrance, then relaxed when she saw who it was. With her white face and big, dark-shadowed eyes, she looked more like a chilled linnet than Peregrine’s gypsy dancer. Adam sat down in the bedside chair and took her small nervous hands in his own strong, sure clasp.

“Hello, Miranda,” he said gently. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your father. He will be sorely missed. He was as good and upright a man as it has ever been my privilege to know.”

Miranda’s pale face twitched slightly. “That’s not what the papers are saying.”

“No,” Adam agreed steadily. “But what the papers say is an irrelevance to anyone who knew your father personally. Don’t do yourself any further injury by dwelling on slanders written in ignorance. Reflect instead on the assurance that, where your father’s life and reputation are concerned, there are at least as many other people out there committed to restoring the balance of truth.”

“But none of this makes any sense at all,” Miranda said in a small, tight voice. “Why would anyone go to such lengths to kill my father, when he never knowingly hurt anyone in his entire life?”

“At this point we can only guess,” Adam said, “but that situation is bound to change, as the evidence accumulates. At the moment, the police would like to find out as much as possible about the circumstances surrounding your father’s trip to Stirling. Can you remember if he mentioned the name of the person who contacted him about doing the appraisal in the first place?”

Miranda sighed and shook her head. “I don’t think he ever said. But—”

“But what?” Adam prompted.

“I—think,”
Miranda said uncertainly, “that it was someone he’d met before.”

“A friend, you mean?” Adam cocked his head to one side.

“No-o-o.” Miranda frowned as she thought. “Just an acquaintance,” she decided, though she still sounded somewhat unsure.

“What makes you say that?” Adam asked quietly.

“The way Papa spoke on the telephone.” Encouraged by Adam’s attentive silence, she went on. “We were together in the shop on Thursday afternoon. About an hour before closing time, the telephone rang. I was up on the ladder doing some stocktaking, so Papa answered it. After he’d identified himself, he said, ‘
Oh yes, of course I remember.’”

Her brow furrowed as she tried to recapture the exact words. “Then he said, ‘
Indeed, it was—a very good conference’—or
something very like that. I remember thinking that it had to be one of Papa’s business colleagues on the line. I just wish now that I’d bothered to ask him who it was—”

As her voice quavered and broke, and tears welled in the dark eyes, Adam pressed her hand in comfort and gave her an encouraging smile.

“You have no reason to blame yourself,” he said firmly. “On the contrary, this is a very valuable piece of information you’ve just given me.”

“It is?”

“Indeed,” Adam said. “Don’t you see how it gives the police a solid lead to investigate? Inspector McLeod is going to be very proud of you . . .”

Adam left Miranda in a considerably brighter frame of mind than he had found her. Downstairs in the sitting room, he found Jane serving tea to a slender, sweet-faced woman whose resemblance to Randall Stewart was so marked that Adam knew at once she must be Miranda’s aunt, even before Jane performed the necessary introductions.

Miriam MacLellan accepted his condolences with stoical composure and expressed a touching gratitude for his concern over her niece. After offering his professional recommendations over Miranda’s future peace of mind, Adam asked Jane to call him a taxi, satisfied that Randall’s daughter would be in good hands. Jane accompanied him to the door when the taxi arrived.

“Thank you again for coming,” she said in a low voice.

“It was my pleasure,” Adam said. “Incidentally, when do you next expect to hear from Noel?”

“I wish I knew,” she said bleakly. “I doubt he’ll be home much before midnight.” Then she took a second look at Adam’s face and her eyes widened. “Have you some news for him, then?”

Adam managed a thin smile. “Miranda believes that her father was called out to Stirling by someone connected professionally with the booksellers trade. If Noel should happen to call, tell him it might be worthwhile getting one of his men to go through the telephone directory and compile a list of antiquarian book dealers in the area . . . “

* * *

The taxi deposited Adam in the car park of Jordanburn Hospital, where he retrieved the Jaguar and-headed wearily for home. The frosty November twilight had closed in as he guided the powerful machine up the final approach to Strathmourne. He put the Jaguar safely into its garage, then walked briskly around to the front door and let himself in. His butler arrived to greet him just as he was divesting himself of topcoat and scarf.

“Hullo, Humphrey,” Adam said. “Have there been any messages?”

“Just one, sir,” Humphrey said, reaching out to relieve Adam of the coat. “Your mother telephoned around half past three to confirm that she’ll be arriving in London next Tuesday as planned, but on a different flight. The new flight number is British Airways 311, and the new ETA is 9:14 A.M.”

“Oh, right. Very good,” Adam said, automatically making a mental note of the changes. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” Humphrey went on. “Lady Sinclair instructed me to tell you that she fully expects this to be a
working visit.”

Humphrey’s careful emphasis on the last two words told Adam that his trusted butler was repeating the message, tone for tone, exactly as it had been imparted to him-which perhaps meant that Philippa Sinclair was already aware that there was trouble afoot.

That his mother should be forewarned came as no surprise to Adam. He had inherited far more from her than their shared blood kinship. For Philippa’s talents, like Adam’s own, were exceptional, both professionally and esoterically. Herself an initiate in the higher Mysteries, it was she who had guided her son toward the spiritual awakening that had roused the sleeping powers of his mind and soul. At seventy-five, she had largely retired from active esoteric work—though she still maintained a thriving psychiatric practice in her native New Hampshire—but should the Hunting Lodge now come under direct threat, Adam knew that his mother’s presence would add weight to their defenses. At the same time, however, he had no illusions concerning the possible risks.

And right now their worst liability was ignorance. Even as he responded to Humphrey’s inquiries concerning tea, his mind continued to be preoccupied with the many questions surrounding Randall Stewart’s death. His lack of knowledge made him feel like a falcon hooded and caged. Somewhere out of his sight, his lawful prey was running free—and he and his were thus far powerless to join in the hunt.

The mellow peal of a clock chime broke in upon his thoughts—the grandfather clock in the upstairs landing, striking the half hour. A glance at the pocket watch in his waistcoat confirmed the time as half past five.

“On second thought, Humphrey, I’ll have that tea in the front parlor,” he said, catching the butler just on the verge of returning to the kitchen. “I want to catch the Scottish news at 5:45.”

Randall’s murder was the lead item mentioned in the headline summary at the start of the program. Sitting forward, Adam forgot all about the cup of tea at his elbow.

“Investigation continues today into the death of Edinburgh Freemason Randall Stewart,” the on-screen presenter announced soberly. “Stewart, whose battered body was recovered yesterday from a forested hill on the Baltierny estate, north of Blairgowrie, is believed to have been the victim of a bizarre ritual slaying. The murder was discovered by a local gamekeeper while making his routine rounds on Sunday night. So far the incident has been accompanied by wide speculation, but the police have yet to come forward with any theories regarding the possible identity of the killers or their motive. We take you now to Perth, where our correspondent, George Gourlay, has been covering the first official press briefing on the murder.”

The scene switched from the BBC newsroom to the front entrance of the Perth shire police station: A grim looking McLeod, flanked by two uniformed officers, was standing on the rain-slick steps surrounded by journalists.

“No, I cannot comment further on the actual cause of death,” he told his questioners patiently. “We expect the usual forensic reports and results of the post-mortem in a few days. Until those reports come in, I will not be in a position to make an official statement.”

A sleek young man pressed forward with the officious air of one determined not to be put off, shoving a microphone in McLeod’s face.

“Inspector McLeod, I believe you’ve come up from Edinburgh, haven’t you?” the young man said. “Yet the murder took place in Perthshire’s jurisdiction—quite far north, in fact. How did you come to be involved in this case?”

McLeod’s air of weary patience became slightly wary, as if he sensed a hidden trap.