The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (17 page)

As Adam himself had observed at the crime scene, the victim’s right jugular vein had been opened with almost surgical precision, swiftly emptying the body of blood.

However, it was DiCapua’s considered professional opinion that neither the head blows nor the wound had been the direct cause of death. To Adam’s surprise, Randall Stewart had also been garroted.

Frowning, he read on with even keener interest. The ligature had not been apparent at the scene of the crime because it had been drawn so tightly into the wrinkles of the victim’s neck. It had been inflicted by means of two strands of catgut—possibly a violin or guitar string-knotted three times. The garrote had snapped the victim’s cervical vertebrae and severed the spinal cord at the same time that it closed off his airway. DiCapua postulated that the jugular incision had been made while the victim was dying from the twin effects of strangulation and a broken neck, leaving time for the laboring action of the dying heart to pump a massive quantity of blood from the failing body.

The three blows to the head, the garroting, the letting of blood—added to what their eyewitness had reported, it all confirmed the probability of a grisly ritual pattern. Queasy and heartsick, Adam forced himself to keep reading, searching for some fragment of information that might provide the clue to help him identify the specific origin of the ritual—for only when he knew that could he hope to guess its underlying purpose, and perhaps determine why Randall, in particular, had been chosen to die.

Additional details came to his attention without yielding the vital clue he was hoping for. DiCapua had noted the presence of incidental bruises here and there, along with evidence of preliminary frostbite affecting the hands and feet. A series of needle marks on the victim’s arms, along with a high concentration of barbiturates in the blood, indicated that he had been kept heavily drugged throughout his captivity. There were also traces of drugs to be found in the contents of the stomach, to indicate that Randall had been given yet another dose of sedatives along with his last meal.

His last meal . . .

Here Adam sat up with a slight start, his dark eyes narrowed in sudden, intense interest. Randall’s last meal had consisted of red wine and some kind of scone or bannock made from oatmeal. The bannock had been scorched, and the wine had’ been laced with—mistletoe?

Burnt oat bannock, and wine laced with mistletoe . . . the combination, coupled with the injuries inflicted, rang a note of familiarity just at the edge of conscious memory. He sought it, but the effort pushed it back beyond immediate recall. He would have to go after it more rigorously, later on. He had seen this pattern before!

Filing the information for later consideration, Adam returned the pathologist’s notes to the manila folder and mutely tendered it back across the tabletop to its owner. DiCapua accepted it and arched an inquiring eyebrow.

“Well?” he said, when Adam volunteered no comment. “Does any of this make sense to you?”

“Nothing coherent, at the moment,” Adam said truthfully. “Given time, I may be able to come up with a theory or two-but right now I’m as lost for an explanation as you are.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.” DiCapua pulled a wry face, then eyed Adam speculatively and said, “Forgive me if I seem to be prying, but what exactly
is
your interest in this case? For the life of me, I can’t help wondering how you, of all people, happened to be the first qualified physician to arrive at the scene of a murder that took place in Blairgowrie.”

Adam smiled briefly. “No mystery there. Noel McLeod had gotten called in for police expertise, and he called
me.
He wanted professional backup from someone experienced in dealing with the psychology of the bizarre. As you know, I do consultation for the police from time to time.”

“Well, bizarre is certainly the word for it!” DiCapua agreed with a snort. “In all the fifteen years I’ve been involved in forensic medicine, I’ve never encountered anything quite like this. Whoever did it must have been real loonies—but I guess that’s why you’re involved, isn’t it?”

As Adam shrugged, DiCapua sighed and went on. “Well, I’m glad it’s you and not me who has to take it on from here. CID in Perth will be getting their official copies of the autopsy report tomorrow, and I’m sending a courtesy copy to your Inspector McLeod. I wish I felt confident that it would be very helpful. Where do you begin looking for someone who would do something like this?”

“Under rocks, perhaps; I don’t know,” Adam replied, though he had some better ideas than that, at least. He shook his head and sighed. “Just as an aside, when do you think the body will be released? As if this weren’t a small enough world, I knew the victim. His daughter will want to see her father buried as quickly as possible.”

“Ouch! That’s a tough one!” DiCapua said, shaking his head. “The Procurator Fiscal may well want to retain the body for as long as it takes to track down the perpetrators and make an arrest.”

“Which means it could be weeks, even months.”

“Well, the courts have to protect the bad guys, too, Adam,” DiCapua said airily. “As you know, anyone formally charged with murder has the right to commission his own forensics examination of the victim’s remains—one of those delightful oddities of Scottish law.”

“Yes,” Adam murmured darkly. “And sometimes the law, to quote Dickens, is an ass!” He gave DiCapua a bleak smile. “But griping about the problems of the law isn’t going to get Randall Stewart buried any faster, is it? Besides that,” he added, eyeing the clock beside the coffee machine, “I’d better be on my way, or I’ll make you late for whatever plans you may have for the rest of the day. Give my love to Catriona—and thanks very much for your help. If I have any thoughts between now and tomorrow that might prove useful to you, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

Chapter Thirteen

ADAM HAD NOT
managed to solidify anything by the time he arrived back at Strathmourne; nor did enlightenment come over the simple supper Mrs. Gilchrist urged upon him. He took it on a tray in the library, visually scanning the bookshelves from a distance while he ate, racking his brain for some clue as to where he had seen the reference that had sparked a glimmer of familiarity as he read diCapua’s report. When he had finished eating, he asked Humphrey to bring him coffee and set about a more active evening of research.

Adam’s library was a working scholar’s haven as well as a repository for rare and valuable bibliotheca. His father and grandfather both had been notable collectors, and had accumulated a quite respectable selection of titles. Adam was a collector too, but the library under his custody had assumed more eclectic proportions, reflecting the encyclopaedic scope of his personal interests. It still housed its share of rare folios and first editions and even unbound manuscripts hand-lettered on vellum-for Adam rarely sold off anything-but now modern texts sheathed in glossy dust jackets and even paperbacks nestled companionably beside antique volumes in tooled leather bindings.

Adam had a vague idea what he was looking for, but it took him the better part of an hour to locate it. After pausing repeatedly to pull out likely volumes and then replace them, he came upon a recent title in archaeology that suddenly arrested his interest.

He had never quiet gotten around to reading it, but he vaguely recalled skimming through an excerpt in the
Sunday Times
a few years back—something about a body being found by a peat cutter in Lindow Moss, near Manchester, at first thought to be a recent murder victim—except that “Lindow Man” had turned out to be the victim of a sacrificial slaying more than 2000 years before. Already dipping into the prologue, he carried the book back to his favorite armchair by the fireside, switched on the lamp, and settled down for an in-depth read.

He spent the next hour immersed in the book, pausing excitedly now and again to scribble a note or insert a place marker. When he at last looked up, the last page read, the clock was striking ten o’ clock.

Breathing a heavy sigh, he closed the book and set it aside, absently flexing his shoulders as he mentally summed up the import of all he had just read. Then, after a moment’s further reflection, he got up and went over to the desk to telephone McLeod at home. It was McLeod himself who answered.

“I’ve been doing some research,” Adam said, when greetings had been exchanged. “I think I’ve hit on something that may have some bearing on Randall’s death—nothing about the perpetrators, but perhaps a framework for the killing itself. Do you think you could find time to drop by my office at the hospital tomorrow afternoon—sometime after lunch, perhaps?”

* * *

Jordanburn Psychiatric Hospital, now a part of the Royal Edinburgh Hospital complex, lies in the midst of Edinburgh’s fashionable Morningside district, within sight of Blackford Hill. The following day, Adam returned from lunching with two of his students in the hospital canteen to find McLeod solidly ensconced in the spare chair in his office. On the desktop blotter was an origami swan made from hospital notepaper.

“Hello! I didn’t expect you quite so early,” Adam said, smiling at the swan as he moved around behind his desk and sat. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“Well, I had to do
something
to pass the time,” McLeod said of the swan, a shade defensively, “but no, I haven’t been here long.” He rocked back in his chair and cocked his head in Adam’s direction. “It’s a good thing, too, because my curiosity might have killed me, just sitting here. What have you found out?”

Adam gave the swan a gentle prod with one forefinger before leaning back in his chair. “First let me ask you this: Have you seen the autopsy report on Randall Stewart?”

“Aye,” McLeod said grimly. “A courier brought it in a little after eleven this morning.”

“Did you read it?”

“Aye.”

“And what did you make of it?”

McLeod’s jaw tightened. “Bloody awful way for anybody to die. Especially a friend.”

“I agree,” Adam said quietly, “but that wasn’t what I meant.” This statement earned him a sharp look from McLeod. “All right. What
did
you mean?”

“I drove up to the Royal Infirmary in Perth yesterday afternoon,” Adam said. “The chief pathologist is an acquaintance of mine, and let me have an advance look at his findings. As the clinical facts began to emerge—as distinct from the emotional atmosphere of what we saw at the murder site-’ it struck me at once that certain features of the killing ritual sounded vaguely familiar: the presence of mistletoe in the wine and the murderers’ use of the garrote. Since then, I’ve been able to match things up.”

As he spoke, he slid open the left-hand drawer of his desk and took out a hardback book with a mostly red dust-jacket.

“Have a look at this,” he said, passing the book across the desk.

Wordlessly McLeod took the book, pausing to adjust the set of his gold-framed aviator glasses so that he could read the title on the cover:
The Life and Death of a Druid Prince: the Story of an Archaeological Sensation.
Adam was leaning forward, the glint in his dark eyes like storm-light on a winter loch.

“Either they know this book or they’re working from the same tradition, Noel,” he said softly. “They did him just like Lindow Man. Look through it. I’ve marked the pertinent passages and made marginal notes.”

As McLeod flipped agitatedly through the book, skimming swiftly over the passages that Adam had flagged and highlighted, Adam reiterated what the inspector was reading.

“I doubt it would have been possible to duplicate Lindow Man’s sacrifice much more closely,” he said. “Lindow Man’s last meal was a burnt oak bannock and wine laced with mistletoe; so was Randall’s. Lindow Man was struck three times in the head to stun him, he was garroted, and he was bled via a jugular incision on the right side; so was Randall. Lindow Man was then deposited face-down in a pool of water; Randall wasn’t, but he was left face-down in the snow—only a minor variation.

“Both deaths fit the classic profile for a triple-sacrifice to the three principal Celtic gods,” Adam went on. “These authors claim a Druidic framework. Taranis was the Celtic Thor or Thunderer; Esus, the lord and master, was roughly equivalent to Odin, the All-Father; and Teutates was the overall god of the people or tribe—and each had a specific manner in which sacrifices were to be rendered.

“The three blows to the head made it a sacrifice to Taranis, recalling the might of his thunderbolts and magic hammer—and you’ll recall that the report postulates that a hammer might have dealt the head injuries. The burnt bannock also connects with Taranis’ fire aspect. Esus preferred victims who were hanged from a tree—shades of Odin, there—or stabbed to death, or both; and garroting equates with hanging. Teutates was associated with sacrifices in water. That’s the one that’s most tenuous, but Lindow Man’s water connection was hardly any better; both men were already dead by the time they went into the water—or snow.”

McLeod had stopped even trying to read as Adam spoke, only listening with increasing horror. When Adam finally wound down, the inspector was slowly shaking his head, his expression slightly stunned.

“My God, those bastards really did their homework, didn’t they?” he murmured. “But why?” He scowled. “This book puts Lindow Man’s sacrifice in a specific historical context—and there’s certainly no historical parallel to call for such a sacrifice in this day and age. I mean, why should the Lodge of the Lynx go to such lengths to execute a modern-day Freemason according to an ancient Druidic ritual?”

“That worried me, too,” Adam admitted, “but I think I’ve come up with what is at least a plausible theory.”

“Which is?”

“Well, some historians postulate a historical connection between the Druids and Freemasonry, claiming a degree of continuity between the two traditions. If we assume that those historians have the right of it—that the Masons are latter-day heirs to the mysteries of the Druids—that would help explain why a Master Mason might have been chosen as an appropriate sacrificial victim.”

“I’ve
never run into that theory, and I’m a Master Mason,” McLeod said, and tapped the book before him. “Besides, these folks claim the victim was a prince.”

“Ah, but in some ceremonial contexts, royalty is not so much a matter of bloodline as it is a matter of the individual’s having been ordained or consecrated according to the appropriate mysteries,” Adam said. “It could be argued that the various degrees of high-level Masonic initiation fulfill that function. As to the underlying purpose—”

He broke off briefly, choosing his words, then went on. “I haven’t mentioned this before now because I didn’t feel free to discuss it over the telephone, but the night before last I made a foray onto the Inner Planes. I had intended to consult the Akashic Records, hoping for some revelation concerning the identity of Randall’s killers. What I got instead was a vision involving some kind of artifact—which I think is what our eye-witness saw but couldn’t describe—and an unexpected interview with the Master about Peregrine. But more of that later.”

“Aye, what about this artifact?” McLeod said.

“Well, I couldn’t see it clearly,” Adam went on, “but it seemed to be a torc of some kind—which would support our theory of a Druidic link. I got an impression of Pictish design and workmanship, but we know that Pictish art forms filtered down to the Druids—and the Pictish religious framework was far more bloodthirsty than even that which the Druids practiced. If such an artifact has fallen into the hands of someone belonging to the Lodge of the Lynx, then Randall’s death may have been orchestrated as a means of reawakening that artifact’s potency—whatever that potency may be—by means of blood sacrifice.
That’s
what I think Randall’s killing was all about.”

“God, poor Randall!” McLeod whispered, shaking his head and pushing his glasses up onto his forehead to massage the bridge of his nose. “Do you think they succeeded?”

Adam shrugged, his face very grim. “If they did, I expect it won’t be long before they attempt to exercise their new-found power—knowing the Lodge of the Lynx. If they failed, undoubtedly they’ll attempt another sacrifice before long. Either way, someone is going to suffer—unless we stop them.”

McLeod grunted. “That’s a bit of a tall order, considering that we haven’t one shred of solid evidence that the Lodge of the Lynx is behind this. Oh, you and I know, in a general sort of way, but there’s nothing I can hang anything on in any legal sense. And we haven’t a clue as to the identity of any of their members.”

“I know.” Adam was unable to keep the edge of frustration out of his voice. “I wish there was some way we could lure our opposite numbers out into the open. Fighting an unknown enemy is always more difficult.”

After a long moment’s pause, McLeod cocked his head at Adam. “I’ve got a suggestion,” he said. “But I doubt you’re going to like it.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Maybe it’s time,” said McLeod, “that we offered our friends some bait.”

He accompanied this statement with an arch glance, which immediately produced a sour grimace from Adam.

“I hope you’re not seriously proposing that I should let you
deliberately
betray yourself to the Lynx, are you?”

McLeod shrugged heartily. “Have you got any better ideas?”

“The answer is no!”

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” McLeod went on. “Here’s what I have in mind. Donald has finished compiling that list of book dealers and antiquarians in the Stirling area. I’d say there’s a fair chance that one of them is a Lynx, or at least has a Lynx connection. Suppose that, when I go out to conduct my interviews, I do a little psychic sleuthing, deliberately let my defenses slip a bit? If there
is
anybody out there with ties to the Lodge of the Lynx, he won’t overlook an intrusion like that. If and when he makes a countermove, we’ll have found the lead we’ve been looking for.”

“Provided the whole thing doesn’t blow up in our faces,” Adam said thinly. “What you’re suggesting is far too risky. We’ve already lost Randall. We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

“We can’t afford to sit on our hands, either,” said McLeod. “You just said yourself that the Lynx will certainly strike again. At least if we draw their fire, we’ll stand a chance of diverting them from those less able to defend themselves.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Adam said. Seeing the stubborn jut to McLeod’s jaw, he added, “Believe me, Noel, I’m every bit as anxious for results as you are—but it’s too early in the game yet to play our hand openly. By all means, carry out your inquiries—but for God’s sake, don’t lower your defenses, even for an instant. That’s an order!”

McLeod sighed heavily, then gave a nod, conceding defeat. “All right. We’ll play it your way for now.” He picked up the little origami swan and turned it in his fingers. “Returning to the subject of those less able to defend themselves, you mentioned Mr. Lovat a little earlier. I hope the Master isn’t having second thoughts.”