The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (19 page)

“And how do I do that?”

“As I told you once before,” Adam replied, “it isn’t a matter of
doing,
so much as a matter of
becoming
—and
you’re doing that very well already. But if you’re asking me for some kind of direction—Julian?”

Lady Julian nodded sagely. “I suspected he might want something more specific,” she said. “If Peregrine is willing, I’m quite prepared to do a reading.”

Peregrine looked from Julian to Adam and back again. “What kind of reading are you talking about?” he asked. “Some kind of fortune-telling?’ ‘

Lady Julian laughed indulgently, and for just an instant Peregrine could see in her the girl who once had been.

“I suppose the uninitiated would call it that,” she said. “I propose we should consult the
I Ching.”

“The
I Ching?”

“The name translates roughly as the ‘Book of Changes,’’’ Adam said. “The legendary Chinese Emperor Fu-hsi is said to have invented it around the third millennium B.C. It serves as a book of sacred scripture for some people, but philosophical niceties aside, it’s one of the most ancient and useful methods available for divination—or sortilege, as it’s sometimes called. The questioner consults the oracle by tossing coins or yarrow sticks. The patterns made when they fall yield hexagrams, so-called because the coins or sticks are cast six times. Interpretations of the hexagrams are set out in the Book of Changes.”

Lady Julian corroborated this explanation with a nod and picked up where Adam had left off.

“The
I Ching
is unique as an oracle, because it does not advise us that something in particular is going to happen. Rather, it directs the questioner’s attention to alternatives that are conditional upon the choices that he has at his disposal.” She smiled at Peregrine and added, “I learned the art of interpreting the
I Ching
while my husband and I were resident in Hong Kong. Will you trust me to guide you through a reading?”

Her eyes met Peregrine’s. In that brief moment of contact, he sensed that she had no secrets that she would not be prepared to share with him, should the need arise. That confidence was contagious.

“Of course,” he said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

Lady Julian smiled. “First, let me introduce you to the coins.” She slipped a hand beneath the paisley shawl covering her lap and took out a small drawstring bag made of heavy, undyed silk. “In theory any coins will do, but I prefer these.”

Unloosing the strings, she tipped the bag and shook out three circular gold disks the size of ten-pence pieces, each with a square aperture cut through the center. Looking more closely as Julian turned them in her hand, Peregrine saw that each disk had one side plain and the other side patterned. The characters on the patterned side were Chinese.

“These coins were struck during the reign of the last Manchu emperor,” Lady Julian said, caressing one between thumb and forefinger. “For many years now, I have treasured them for this purpose. They have been faithful friends.”

The coins chimed softly as she handed them to Peregrine.

“Cup the coins between your hands while you formulate the question you wish to ask,” she said. “The more specific the question, the better. The other thing you must do is address yourself to the divining spirit of the
I Ching,
bearing in mind that the same spirit simultaneously resides within you. When you feel yourself sufficiently at one with the oracle-’centered,’ Adam would term it—cast the coins six times on the table before you. I shall note the patterns and give you the message at the end.”

Peregrine nodded his understanding. Setting aside his ring, he pressed the bright gold coins between his palms as he had been instructed, then leaned back and closed his eyes, schooling himself to discipline his breathing as Adam had taught him to do. A sense of composure stole over him, quieting his conscious awareness so that his inner faculties could come to the fore. As he continued to breathe deeply, centered and serene, a question took shape,
How may I serve my friends?

He gave himself time to consider other possible questions, but every variation continued to reiterate the same basic concern. Obviously this was the question he was intended to ask.

The matter of invocation was more delicate, for he was uncertain whether to conceive of the “spirit” Lady Julian had spoken’ of as personal or animistic. He tried looking at the notion from several different perspectives, but eventually he cast all debate aside and merely offered up his willingness to be guided.

Here I am,
he told the oracle.
Show me what I am meant to do.

He opened his eyes and nodded his readiness to cast the coins. Adam moved a tiny sidetable closer, and he and Julian leaned forward to watch as Peregrine made six successive casts, Julian taking note of each combination of patterned and smooth sides on a scrip of rice paper. When he had finished, she held out the paper so that he could see what she had drawn—a hexagram of lines, some solid, others broken.

Then she sat back in her chair, her black eyes abstracted as she considered the results. At last she spoke with slow deliberation, pointing out individual aspects of the hexagram as she did so.

“Your answer lies in the sky above-Chi’
en-and
in the marsh
below-Tui.
These signs, taken together, signify
Lu,
which denotes ‘treading carefully.’ This greater sign points to danger on the road to achieving some desired end. The Book of Changes says,
The subject treads upon the tail of a tiger. The superior man discriminates between high and low, and gives settlement to the aims of the people.”

She paused. Her attention narrowed and sharpened. After a moment she resumed.

“You have a task to perform, at risk to yourself. Discrimination and settlement—these are the key to a successful outcome; to discriminate is to perceive distinctions in the midst of confusion. To give settlement is to act in the capacity of a judge, awarding redress where there has been wrongdoing.”

She paused again, as if casting about her for further inspiration. As Peregrine watched expectantly, her face stiffened into an ivory mask.

“I can see no more,” she muttered. “The rest will become clear when the moment of judgment is upon you. But be warned. There is more to be feared here than the tiger.”

“The Lodge of the Lynx?” Peregrine blurted, before he could stop it. Lady Julian flinched at the name.

“They are the companions of Shadow, and respect no law, either of man or of Nature,” she whispered. “There is nothing they will not dare for the sake of power—”

She shuddered and fell silent with her eyes clenched shut. Looking closer, Peregrine was shocked to see a sudden, telltale silvering of tears on her cheeks. His gaze flew to Adam.

Without speaking, the older man leaned over and gently clasped Lady Julian’s nearer arm. She covered his hand with hers and drew a deep breath. A moment later she opened her eyes and, seeing the look on Peregrine’s face, managed a strained smile.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” she said softly. “Some wounds never quite heal.”

“Julian lost her husband in our last campaign against the Lodge of the Lynx,” Adam said, by way of explanation.

“And part of me died too,” she added, glancing past Peregrine to something only she could see. “That was nearly fifteen years ago. I always told myself it was the price that Michael paid to seal our victory. But now they’ve killed Randall, and the fighting is set to begin again—”

She turned her gaze back on Peregrine. “When Adam asked me to make you a ring, we both thought you would be a valuable addition to the Lodge, if still untrained. Now it seems you find us already embattled, with a breach in our ranks. For your own safety, perhaps it would be better for you to withdraw now, while you can.”

Peregrine’s jaw tightened, and very deliberately he picked up the ring again and closed it in his fist.

“I won’t withdraw, Lady Julian. Six weeks ago, I was almost ripe for suicide, because I couldn’t control the gifts I’d been given. But for Adam’s help and counseling, I would probably now be either dead or locked up in a mental institution. If I said I wasn’t frightened, I’d be lying through my teeth. But the fear counts for less than the chance to do something really worthwhile with my life. I’d like to think I’ve already made at least some minor contributions.”

Lady, Julian’s lips quivered, as if she would have liked to remonstrate further, but Adam intervened.

“Peregrine knows his own mind, Julian,” he told her firmly. “He’s aware of the dangers—and he
has
made some contributions that are far from minor. Time and the Powers that Be will decide the rest.”

A subdued silence followed, broken by the soft chime of a clock tolling the hour. Adam glanced reflexively down at his watch and sighed, and Peregrine took advantage of the distraction to slip the dragon ring into his pocket.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to be off, my dear,” Adam said, as if nothing untoward had happened. “I’ve a man corning up to Strathmourne this afternoon to discuss the cost of reroofing Templemor Tower. One thing more before we go, however—have you made arrangements to attend Randall’s funeral?”

Lady Julian shook her head. “No. I know it’s Tuesday, but I’m afraid I’ve been too grieved to give the matter any practical thought.”

“Then don’t worry yourself about it now,” Adam said. “I’ll send Humphrey round to collect you at about half past ten. Maybe afterwards, we can talk again.”

When they had taken their good-byes of her and were heading down the front steps to the car, Peregrine pressed his hand over the slight bulge of the ring in his pocket, not speaking until they were outside the front gate.

“I’m not going to wear the ring until you think I’m ready, Adam,” he said, as they crossed the street toward the parked Range Rover, “but—I want to know more about it. She made a point of saying only the stone was new. Who owned the ring itself, before me?”

Adam cast him a wry smile across the roof of the Range Rover as he unlocked the doors. “You don’t miss much, do you?” he said. “I should think you would have guessed. The ring belonged to Sir Michael Brodie, her husband.”

Chapter Fifteen

THE HOUSE
called “Nether Leckie” was situated on a gentle ridge of high ground, tucked away behind a partial screen of trees that yielded in turn to a well-tended lawn. It was a substantial residence of cut stone, built as a country retreat by a successful Victorian industrialist from Stirling, who had made his fortune supplying steel for Scottish bridgeworks. Kippen, the nearest village, lay some twelve miles to the west of Stirling, which made Nether Leckie secluded enough to be private, but near enough to the city to guarantee ready access to the amenities. It was a home that its present owner, Francis Raeburn, had for some years found admirably suited to his needs.

On the Monday afternoon following Peregrine’s introduction to Lady Julian Brodie, Raeburn had retreated to the privacy of his library at Nether Leckie to examine his latest acquisition, just arrived by post: an anonymous thirteenth-century manuscript entitled
De lapidibus.
Prior to the German Occupation of Paris in 1940, the manuscript had been included among the holdings of the
Bibliotheque Nationale de Paris,
and still bore its penciled cataloging notations. Raeburn’s source had not volunteered how the manuscript came into his hands, and Raeburn had not asked. He had good reason to believe that it had been written by a scholar-scribe in the employ of the Knights Templar.

Unwrapping the manuscript in the seclusion of his library, Raeburn reflected that he was probably one of only a few people living who could appreciate it as much for its content as for its value as a medieval artifact. It was an exceptionally valuable find, the fruit of a long search, and he savored the possession of it now like a man tasting a fine wine.

He stroked the pages lovingly, fingertips sensitive to the accumulated patina of centuries. Behind him, the afternoon sun was slanting brightly through the windows, glancing off the panes of the breakfront bookcases to turn all the glass to mirrors, reflecting back a stunning view of the Gargunnock Hills. Oblivious to the wintry glare, Raeburn feasted his eyes on the manuscript’s illuminated borders, noting the elegance of the scribal hand, the neatness of the Latin abbreviations and the marginalia, some of which was itself worthy of much note.

He was still gloating dreamily over the satisfactions of ownership, occasionally examining some fine point of artistry with a magnifying glass, when he was disturbed by a knock at the door. The entrance of Rajan, his Indian houseboy, produced a look of displeasure on Raeburn’s blond face.

“I seem to recall giving instructions that I was not to be disturbed,” he said coldly.

The turbaned head bobbed in almost cringing apology.

“I am very sorry. Mr. Raeburn, but two policemen are waiting in the hall. They say they desire to have a word with you. I have already verified their credentials. The senior of the two gives his name as Detective Chief Inspector McLeod—”

“McLeod?” Raeburn’s annoyance yielded abruptly to interest tempered—though he did not show it—with a measure of suspicion. Casually he closed the volume in front of him, saying as he did so, “One could wish that these gentlemen of the law would have seen fit to arrange an appointment. Still, whatever the reason for this unannounced visit, we may as well get it over as quickly as possible. I’ll see them in here. Go ahead and show them up.”

Rajan bowed himself out. In the ensuing brief interim, Raeburn returned the manuscript to its protective wrapping and secreted it away in the upper right-hand compartment of the desk. As he closed the drawer, the muffled sound of footsteps approached along the corridor. A deferential knock at the door heralded the return of Rajan, followed by two men in overcoats and suits.

“These are the gentlemen, Mr. Raeburn,” the houseboy announced, hurriedly retreating to the hallway then, to leave Raeburn alone with his two unwanted visitors.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Raeburn,” said the older of the two, stepping forward to display his ID. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector McLeod, Lothian and Borders Police, and this is my associate, PC Cochrane. With your permission, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Raeburn took advantage of the other man’s short introductory speech to let his first impressions sink in. The sturdy young constable was of negligible consequence—a fresh-faced youngster in his mid- to late-twenties, hardly more than a boy. Inspector McLeod, on the other hand, was not unknown to Raeburn, at least by repute, and definitely warranted further consideration. Broad shouldered and burly, he looked to be exceptionally fit for his age, which Raeburn guessed to be somewhere around fifty. The blue eyes that glinted from behind the gold-rimmed aviator spectacles were uncommonly shrewd.

But that was not all. Without being able to put a name to it, Raeburn sensed the faint, indefinable presence of something more. His curiosity growing, he rose from his chair and offered the older policeman his hand, in what his own associates would have regarded as an almost-unheard-of gesture of familiarity.

“Francis Raeburn,” he said with a cool smile. “I haven’t the faintest notion why you should want to question me about anything, but if you consider it necessary, I certainly have no objections about cooperating.”

The inspector’s hand was hard and capable, the fingers knotty and strong. Raeburn briefly tightened his grip, simultaneously seizing the chance to extend his deeper faculties of perception. To his surprise and consternation, he detected the faint but distinct impression of an invisible ring on the third finger on McLeod’s right hand, though a swift visual survey, as their hands parted, revealed that the inspector was wearing no physical ring. A gold wedding band glinted on the other hand, below an unremarkable wristwatch, but his only other visible jewelry was a gold tie pin.

Now even more curious, Raeburn sat down again, gesturing toward two chairs on the opposite side of the desk. “Please sit down,” he said casually, “and tell me how I may be of service.”

The two policemen took the chairs indicated. Without further preamble, McLeod reached into the breast of his overcoat and brought out a photograph, tendering it across the desktop to Raeburn.

“For starters, I’d like you to take a Iook at the individual in this photo, and tell me if you recognize him.”

Raeburn accepted the photo. The image was that of a slight, elderly man with silvery hair and the faintly abstracted air of a scholar, recognizably the same individual whose photograph and dossier Raeburn had presented to the Head-Master hardly a fortnight ago. He made a show of peering at the present image with some uncertainty, gradually allowing a slight frown to furrow his brow.

“The face does look familiar,” he told McLeod. “I can’t recall a name offhand, but, I’ve certainly seen him somewhere before . . .”

He paused elaborately, as if searching his memory, then gave an exclamation of minor triumph. “I’ve got it now! It was in Edinburgh—some kind of shop. Antiques?” He looked hopefully at McLeod.

“Try books,” the inspector said grimly.

“A bookshop?” Raeburn considered further, then feigned an air of enlightenment. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “Now I understand what this is all about. This is the bookstore owner—that Freemason fellow who was murdered so spectacularly—what was it, last week? What
was
his name now? Stanley? No, Stewart! Randall Stewart! That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” McLeod said dourly. “That’s right.” He drew a deep breath. “We’re trying to account for Mr. Stewart’s movements on the Sunday prior to his death, Mr. Raeburn. According to his daughter, he left Edinburgh around nine o’clock that morning, supposedly bound for Stirling where, by arrangement, he was to have carried out an appraisal on a consignment of rare books. No one seems to know what happened to him after that, but since Stirling was his intended destination, we’re interviewing anyone in the Stirling area who might possibly have seen him.

“Your name figures prominently in the sale’s records of several local book dealers,” he continued. “Judging from your expenditures, you’re a fairly keen collector of fare books—which were Randall Stewart’s stock in trade. We thought it might be worth asking to see if he might have made contact with you during the week prior to his death.”

He flashed Raeburn a swift look over the rims of his glasses, and Raeburn countered the look calmly.

“I’m afraid he didn’t. Actually, I never even met the man.” He reached across the desk to return the photograph. “While it’s true that I occasionally make an independent purchase, I generally prefer to rely on the acquisition skills of my regular dealers—one or two of whom you have obviously already met. You must appreciate, gentlemen, that the rare book trade is rather territorial in that respect. If your Mr. Stewart contacted anyone, I suspect it would have been one of my suppliers—not me personally.”

“We’ll bear that in mind,” McLeod said dryly. He shifted his weight solidly in his chair and said, “Let’s move on to another point—the question of the collection Randall Stewart was coming to look at. Do you recall hearing anything about a collection of rare books to be sold off? Perhaps an estate sale?”

Raeburn shook his head blandly. “Again, Inspector, I’m afraid the answer is no. But then, as I’ve said, I’m a collector, not a dealer. The people you really should be talking to are those who make a living in the trade.”

“Oh, we’re doing that,” said McLeod, “never fear.”

The constable, Cochrane, had
been taking notes. He paused and glanced over at his superior. McLeod again leveled his blue gaze at Raeburn.

“Just one more thing for the record, Mr. Raeburn. Could you please tell me where you were and what you were doing on the night of Sunday, November eighteenth?”

Raeburn permitted himself a small grimace, as if he considered the question slightly impertinent. Then he leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“November eighteenth . . . let’s see, that’s the weekend before the one just past. That weekend I was in Glasgow, visiting a friend. And yes,” he added with an ironic smile, “I have several witnesses who can corroborate that.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Raeburn,” said McLeod. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to give us the name and address of the friend in question?”

“If you really think it’s important,” Raeburn said with a shrug, “though I hope you’ll be discreet, as it’s a lady involved.” He directed his attention to young Cochrane and said, “That’s Ms. Angela Fitzgerald, number twenty-three, Queen’s Terrace.”

As he spoke, he shot a covert glance at McLeod. The inspector appeared resigned enough, apparently satisfied with Raeburn’s answer, but there was a darkling flicker behind his blue eyes that betrayed more than a suggestion of personal frustration. For no reason that Raeburn could immediately fathom, it suddenly occurred to him that McLeod might well be one of Randall Stewart’s Masonic Lodge brothers. A closer look at the inspector’s tie pin confirmed what he must have noticed unconsciously before—a tiny square and compass discreetly embossed on the decorative lozenge.

So, the inspector is a Freemason,
Raeburn thought.
And is he anything else, I wonder?

His troublesome involvement in the Urquhart disaster would certainly suggest it—though even Masonic training could account for at least some of what had been reported of him. Perhaps the impression Raeburn had gotten of an invisible ring was from a Masonic ring that, for some reason, he did not wear on duty.

The young constable, Cochrane, had been dutifully writing down the name and address Raeburn had given, and now handed his notebook to McLeod for verification. So while McLeod’s attention was momentarily distracted, Raeburn bent his gaze once more on the inspector’s right hand and narrowed his eyes. In that brief psychic blurring of his outward senses, he got a faint visual impression of the ring McLeod wasn’t actually wearing at the moment—a gold band set with a deep blue sapphire—and this time as well, the throbbing pulse of tight-leashed power kept contained and channeled by control of which the ring was a symbol.

The discovery was enough to make Raeburn withdraw instantly behind the bulwarks of his own inner defenses, feigning to rub at something in his eye as cover for his consternation.

That
was no mere Masonic ring—though it had elements in common with Masonic resonances. It bespoke high-level initiation in some powerful esoteric tradition. It could even be the badge of membership in one of the detested Hunting Lodges—which would account for a lot of hitherto unexplained happenings, especially at Urquhart. Whatever it was, this McLeod was
not
the mere policeman he appeared to be.

Maintaining an urbanity that he was far from feeling, Raeburn turned his gaze back to McLeod. His investigation had occurred in a breath of an instant, and McLeod was just now looking up from the notebook he handed back to his associate, apparently satisfied for now.

“So, Inspector, is there anything else you’d like to ask me?” Raeburn said neutrally.

“Not at this time,” McLeod replied, standing. “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Raeburn; You’ll be right here, will you, in case we find we need any further information?”