The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (20 page)

Raeburn chuckled genially as he reached for the bellpull to summon Rajan.

“Don’t worry, Inspector. I haven’t made any plans to leave the country. Good luck with your investigation. My houseboy will see you out.”

Once the two policemen had departed, Raeburn sat silent for several minutes, pondering the import of his discoveries. The arrival of a Huntsman on his doorstep raised a host of difficult questions—if, indeed, that was what McLeod was. To begin with, there was the matter of McLeod’s actual status within his Lodge—for that would partially determine how he must be dealt with. Upon consideration, Raeburn doubted that McLeod was actually a Master of the Hunt—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a potentially formidable opponent. The residual from the ring was proof enough of that.

A more pertinent question concerned McLeod’s particular abilities. Of all the things he might have been—empath or telepath, clairvoyant or psychometrist, medium or diviner—the first three seemed unlikely in view of the fact that he had not appeared to notice that he was being’ assessed psychically. At the same time, however, Raeburn could not be absolutely sure that he had not betrayed himself by some sign that McLeod, upon further reflection, might recognize.

In any event, the presence of someone like McLeod on the police force was like a time bomb waiting to go off. If the bomb went off too soon, it could seriously imperil a host of carefully laid plans. Removing McLeod would be risky, admittedly—but not nearly so risky as leaving him at liberty.

The desktop telephone stood within easy reach of his hand. Raeburn toyed with several of the items on his desk while he took account of all the foreseeable variables, then came to a decision. Picking up the receiver, he dialed the Edinburgh branch of the Lothian and Borders Police. Three rings later he had an answer.

“Good afternoon,” Raeburn said. “I should like to leave a message for Inspector Napier. When he comes in, please ask him to call his uncle . . .”

* * *

The call was returned within an hour. Raeburn took it in the library, where he had gone back to the perusal of his new treasure.

“This is Napier,” said a hard tenor voice on the other end of the line. “What’s going on?”

“Quite a bit, as it happens,” Raeburn said blandly. “Where are you calling from?”

“A public phone box, of course. Where did you think I’d be calling from?”

Raeburn disregarded the question. “We have a problem,” he stated.

“So I gathered. What’s wrong?”

“McLeod’s been here. Have you any idea why?”

Silence. Then: “I should think it was routine.”

“I do hope so,” Raeburn replied. “He
said
he was interviewing people associated with the rare book trade, trying to sniff out anyone who might have seen Randall Stewart in Stirling on the fatal ‘Sunday. I’m inclined to believe that’s all it was, but something else leads me to believe that he is, indeed, a member of the opposition. In fact,” he amended, “I’m virtually certain of it.”

Napier swore briefly but fluently, then said, “Do you think he suspects anything about you?”

“I can’t say for certain,” Raeburn said with brutal candor. “But he must not be allowed to become a problem. Not at this stage of the game. Do you understand?”

There was a pause from the other end of the line. Then: “I understand. What do you want me to do? Arrange a hit?”

“Too gaudy,” Raeburn said shortly. “It needs to be something less overt.”

Another pause. “What do you suggest then?”

“I want you to obtain a few necessary items,” Raeburn said, making penciled notations on a scratch pad. “Something with his signature on it—an original, not a copy—and ah, yes. How about a Styrofoam cup that McLeod has used? Those should be reasonably available and sufficient. Bring them to me here tomorrow night, and we’ll discuss the plan in greater detail.”

Chapter Sixteen

RANDALL STEWART’S FUNERAL
took place the following morning within the Gothic grandeur of St. Mary’s Episcopal Cathedral, in the heart of Edinburgh. For Peregrine, this funeral was not nearly as difficult as another he had attended with Adam barely a month before, but it carried its own stark tragedy, for both of them were all too aware of the brutality of Randall’s passing, having seen its aftermath firsthand.

Unlike Lady Laura Kintoul, whose long and happy life had wound gently to a close, with ample time for preparation and good-byes, Randall had been thrust untimely into death, his last conscious awareness that of terror and of pain. Peregrine had only met Randall the one time, that Saturday morning in the bookshop, but he knew what the old man had meant to Adam—and that healing would be long in coming for all those who had known and loved Randall. Finding his killers and bringing them to justice would help—and thwarting whatever black purpose they had hoped to accomplish by their unholy sacrifice—but it would not bring Randall back, or fill the empty places in the lives of those left behind.

Saddened by the utter waste of it all, Peregrine let his gaze wander unobtrusively around the church as he waited for the service to begin. He made a point not to dwell on the flowerbanked catafalque awaiting the arrival of Randall’s coffin. The organist was playing a Pachelbel fantasia in G minor as a prelude, and Peregrine let a part of his mind follow and enjoy the music while another part noted faces he knew.

The cathedral was crowded. Humphrey had returned a short time earlier with Lady Julian, parking her wheelchair at the end of the row where Adam and Peregrine himself sat, afterwards withdrawing quietly to the side aisle to pay his own private respects. Lady Julian wore a shawl of dark paisley over her silvery hair, and buried her face in her gnarled old hands as she made her silent devotions.

McLeod had arrived at about the same time, escorting a quietly attractive redhead in dark blue who Peregrine decided must be the ever-patient and long-suffering Jane. Heads bowed, they were sitting toward the back just ahead of the formal ranks of Randall’s brother Freemasons, though McLeod was not wearing Lodge regalia.

The organ prelude ended, and the Stewart family came in through a side door and sat in the front row. Victoria Houston was among them, sitting close beside Miranda and holding her hand. Peregrine had seen Christopher back at the main doors when he and Adam came in, awaiting the arrival of the body with two more clergymen, a cross-bearer, and two small boys holding processional torches. Miranda seemed to be holding up bravely, displaying at least the semblance of a measure of composure, but Peregrine was sorry to see her so subdued, and had to wonder whether she would ever again be quite the merry gypsy dancer he remembered from their first meeting.

“Let not your heart be troubled,” Father Christopher Houston said from the back of the church, reading from the Gospel of St. John as the crucifer and torch-bearers began processing in for the service to begin. They were followed by the Masonic pall bearers in aprons and gauntlets and blue collars, carrying a coffin draped with the blue-and-white flag of Saint Andrew and crowned with a single wreath of red roses, The three clergymen came behind.

“Ye believe in God, believe also in me,” Christopher continued. “In my Father’s house are many mansions. If it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.”

Many mansions . . .
as Peregrine glanced aside at Adam’s austere profile, rising with the rest of the congregation as the procession came near, he wondered if there really was a place for him among those who made up Adam’s working fellowship. And how could he even presume to be able to fill the void left by Randall’s death? He lost himself for the rest of the service beseeching God for guidance, praying His blessing on Randall and those who had loved him, and asking that he himself might prove worthy to take up a part of that Work Randall had left unfinished, and which Adam continued to serve.

Adam himself played no active role in this funeral service, and used the time to pay his own, personal tribute. Though Randall Stewart had been a close and deeply valued friend, it was a friendship that neither Adam nor Randall had ever widely advertised in the eyes of the world, for the Hunting Lodge, like the Freemasons, had good reason to regard secrecy as a condition of safety. As the dean of the cathedral read the closing prayer, Adam found himself praying that he and the remaining members of the Hunt would be able to preserve that safety throughout the trials that lay ahead.

“O Father of all, we pray to Thee for those we love but see no longer,” the dean prayed. “Grant them Thy peace; let light perpetual shine upon them; and in Thy loving wisdom and almighty power work in them the good purpose of Thy perfect will; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

A benediction followed. The cathedral bells began to toll as the procession formed up to leave. At the wishes of the family, the body was to be privately cremated later that evening, but for now, Randall’s six Masonic brethren shouldered his coffin once again to carry it out between two lines of their brethren standing at attention.

Adam let himself be drawn along with the slow exodus of mourners following behind the family and the coffin, Peregrine right behind him—in no hurry, for he suspected that the cause of the growing congestion in the cathedral porch was a deterioration of the weather. Craning to see over the heads of those in front of him, he could see umbrellas going up on the steps beyond, and sheets of rain gusting along Palmerston Place.

With a surreptitious glance at his pocket watch, Adam turned to gaze back along the nave, hoping that Humphrey had not left yet—for the plan had been for him to take Lady Julian home and then meet them at the wake to follow at Randall’s bookshop. But Humphrey must have already whisked Lady Julian through a convenient rear exit, for he was nowhere to be seen.

“Do you want me to see if I can catch him before he leaves?”

Peregrine asked.

“It’s worth a try,” Adam replied. “I’ll go on and wait in the porch—and snag a taxi, if I see one.”

As Peregrine retreated down the aisle, Adam returned his attention to the crowd ahead—and immediately noticed a tall, fit-looking man in a military greatcoat, slightly older than himself, working his way along the side aisle, another man in uniform preceding him. The older man noticed Adam at about the same time, and sent his companion on ahead as he raised a hand to Adam in greeting.

Smiling, Adam changed course, easing between two rows of chairs toward the shelter of a side chapel. The red tabs of a general officer showed at the throat of the uniform glimpsed above the collar of the older man’s greatcoat, and heavy bullion traced the bill of the cap tucked under the man’s arm.

“Hello, Gordon,” Adam said cordially, offering his hand. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you here.”

The older man smiled beneath a steel-grey military moustache as they exchanged handshakes, steel-grey hair framing steel-grey eyes. “I could say the same of you, Adam. But you knew Randall from the book world as well, didn’t you?”

“Aye, a legacy from my father,” Adam said. “He was one of Randall’s regular patrons, and passed the association on to me when I was old enough to appreciate it.”

“Your father did you a great service,” Gordon said. “Randall Stewart—God rest his soul—was a man of rare principle. Did you know he’d served with my regiment in the Second War?” Adam shook his head. “That was before my time, of course, but I’m told he was a good soldier; I
know
he was a good human being.” He sighed. “There are all too few like him these days, of
any
generation. His loss would have been grievous under any circumstances—though we all have to go sometime—but losing a brother like this—”

He shook his head and sighed reminiscently, fingering the signet ring on his right hand. Light glinted off a Masonic symbol etched in the face of the dark stone, drawing the flicker of Adam’s glance, and the general’s expression was somewhat wistful as he raised the hand slightly to also look at it.

“One of these days, I really do hope you’ll ask me the right questions about this, Adam,” he said. “You’re surrounded by Freemasons, in almost everything you do—McLeod and his crew, me—and there’s the tradition of your father and grandfather, both of them Masons of the highest degree.”

The look that accompanied this statement conveyed a friendly challenge, but also resignation, for he and Adam had had this conversation many times before.

“I’m flattered that you keep exploring the question, Gordon,” Adam said with a chuckle, “but you tell me where I’d find the time. Given all the responsibilities already incumbent upon me, I’ve always felt that I’d be doing your Order a grave injustice if I were to join with less than full commitment.”

Gordon gave him a rueful grin. “You demand more of yourself, I think, than we would ever expect of you. But if you should ever change your mind, don’t hesitate to let me know.” He glanced toward the doors. “Well, I expect my driver will have brought the car around by now—beastly weather, isn’t it? Can I give you a lift anywhere, or is Humphrey taking care of you?”

“Actually,” Adam said, “I’m afraid I foolishly arranged for Humphrey to take Lady Julian home before I realized it would be bucketing when we came out. Peregrine and I were going to take a taxi to the wake, and Humphrey’s to meet us there, but it
would
make life easier if you could drop us at the bookstore. You don’t mind meeting Peregrine under these circumstances, do you?”

Gordon smiled and shook his head. “I thought that might be who he was, sitting with you during the service. Here he comes now.”

“And he obviously didn’t manage to catch Humphrey,” Adam said, noting Peregrine’s expression of resignation. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased he doesn’t have to drown after all. Peregrine, come and let me introduce you to Sir Gordon,” he said, beckoning Peregrine to join them. “Gordon, this is one of my associates, Mr. Peregrine Lovat. Peregrine, General Sir Gordon Scott-Brown.

“How do you do, Mr. Lovat,” Sir Gordon said, shaking Peregrine’s hand.

“Honored to meet you, sir,” Peregrine murmured.

“Gordon’s going to give us a lift to the bookshop,” Adam said breezily, already urging the artist toward the doors.

They were clambering into the blue Ford Granada almost before Peregrine realized what had happened. As they sped along Princes Street and then south across the bridge that passed over Waverley Station, Peregrine sat back wide-eyed and silent while Adam and the general exchanged innocuous comments about the weather and Adam directed the driver toward Randall’s bookshop. They were there in ten minutes, and Peregrine paused to watch the car pull away as Adam stamped water from his shoes and prepared to go inside.

“Adam, was that
the
Gordon Scott-Brown?” he asked.

“So far as I know, there’s only one,” Adam said.

Peregrine’s eyes widened, and he whistled low under his breath. “But, he’s the top general in Scotland, the General Officer Commanding. I’ve seen his portrait in the regimental museum in the castle.”

“Well, he
is
governor of the castle, and that
is
his regiment,” Adam said, as if that explained it all. “That’s why he was able to give us a lift, on his way back to work.”

Peregrine had begun to grow accustomed to the fact that Adam knew a wide variety of very important people, who seemed to turn up when needed, but something about this particular coincidence struck him as a little unusual, even for Adam. The utterly offhand nature of Adam’s reply seemed to discourage any more serious inquiry just now, but Peregrine found himself wondering, after they went inside, whether Sir Gordon, too, was more than he seemed on the surface.

They met up with McLeod after they went inside, though Jane was no longer with him. After paying their respects to the family, Adam sought him out and drew him aside for a brief update on his ongoing investigation. The inspector was in a dour frame of mind.

“Donald and I must’ve interviewed more than a dozen people yesterday,” he muttered, “but for all the useful information we’ve gotten out of it, we might as well have saved ourselves the trouble. I wish to God somebody would get the media off our backs. It’s bad enough that we’re not getting anywhere on this case without my having to share that fact daily with a dozen gentlemen of the press.”

He paused to bite savagely into a sandwich. “If I were twenty years younger,” he declared with a glower, “I’d quit this job and become an accountant. As it is, I’m beginning to think I ought to retire and keep bees!”

Adam knew better than to take such a statement seriously, but he shared the underlying frustration in full measure.

They parted shortly, McLeod to return to his investigations, Peregrine to spend a few hours working on his portrait commission of the former Provost of Edinburgh, and Adam to finalize arrangements with the young locum who would be covering his patients for the two days he expected to be in London. On the way home, because it was growing late, Adam had Humphrey stop at a fish and chips shop, where Peregrine dashed in for paper-wrapped portions for the three of them. He and Adam spread this elegant fare on the burled walnut picnic trays that folded down from the backs of the seats; and Adam briefed both Peregrine and Humphrey on his expected timetable for the London trip.