The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (27 page)

Seeing that Peregrine was now smiling weakly as well, he added, “Is there anything else you feel I ought to know?”

“I don’t think so—no, wait!” said Peregrine. “There is one other thing. After Cochrane left to fetch you, while I was waiting, I did a few sketches. They’re impressions of images, rather than proper pictures, but they stuck in my mind till I got them down. Maybe you can make something of them.”

He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and produced a folded sheaf of papers which, when opened, proved to be a series of drawings made on departmental letterhead stationery. An outsider would have dismissed the sketches as the fanciful work of a surrealist, but to Adam’s initiated eye, they represented a symbolic view of the danger hanging over McLeod.

The first drawing appeared to be a still life compounded of two Styrofoam cups, several sheets of paper, a scalpel, and a crow-quill pen. The second showed four bleeding thumbs extended over a bowl. The third showed the figure of a man hemmed in by a circle of burning briars. Taken together, like cards drawn from some strange Tarot deck, they pointed the way to an otherwise hidden truth.

“They don’t seem to make much sense, do they?” Peregrine remarked.

“On the contrary,” Adam said thoughtfully, handing the sketches back, “they tell me a great deal.”

He might have said more, but a knock at the door heralded Cochrane’s return with the envelope containing the origami lynx.

“Sorry it took me so long, sir,” he said, “but there were a couple of other people hanging about, and I didn’t want to appear too eager.”

“Very wise,” Adam said with a nod, as Cochrane handed him the envelope. He clasped it briefly between his hands, his eyes taking on that faraway look so familiar to Peregrine, then took one of the chopsticks and slid it under the flap to unseal it. While Peregrine and Cochrane looked on, he used both chopsticks to carefully pull the folded handkerchief out onto the desk blotter and lift away the top layers to expose what lay inside.

The paper lynx glinted gold as Adam prodded it with the chopsticks. He had never seen a lynx done in origami before. It was cunningly made, the work of someone with skills to match or even exceed McLeod’s own. The body had a thickness that suggested something enclosed within.

Dropping the lynx back into its nest of silk, Adam sketched a warding sign in the air above it with his ring hand, then reached again to the pencil jar and pulled out a plastic ruler. Using that to hold the lynx steady, and keeping his own defenses closely around it, he reached in delicately with the chopsticks and began carefully unpicking the ornate creases, wielding the chopsticks with the precision of a surgeon.

Slowly the paper unfolded. It was gilt on only one side, but the paper itself was also a gold color. Gradually Adam exposed four long, narrow strips of what looked like white Styrofoam and a scrap of white paper with curious russet markings. There were markings on the un-gilt side of the paper as well, but Adam used the chopsticks to pick up one of the Styrofoam strips first, lifting it carefully for closer inspection.

“These would appear to be pieces of the rim of a Styrofoam coffee cup,” he reported. “Used, no doubt, by Noel sometime in the last few days, and later salvaged from his office bin for the purpose we have already observed.”

“What about that bit of paper?” Peregrine asked in a hushed voice, as Adam put the strip back with the others. “Is that writing on it? Some sort of cuneiform or something? And what’s it written in? It almost looks like blood!”

Grimly Adam picked up the scrap of paper in his chopsticks.

“What’s written here and on the paper the lynx was actually made of would be the formal fixation of the charm itself,” he said thinly, “and blood is, indeed, the favored medium for activating a dark charm like this. As to the writing on the other side . . .”

He turned the scrap to disclose a black-inked signature within a typed signature block.

“That’s McLeod’s signature!” Peregrine gasped.

“It is, indeed,” said Adam. “The third link for tying the focus of this charm to him.”

Cochrane was peering intently over Adam’s shoulder, frowning at the scrap of paper.

“I don’t like this, sir,” he said with a troubled scowl. “That’s been torn from some piece of official correspondence—something that originated right here in the department.”

Adam nodded. Coupled with the rest of the evidence, Cochrane’s observation pointed to the likely presence of an agent of the Lynx operating within the police department itself.

“I was hoping not to have to consider that possibility,” he told Cochrane. “If you should come up, with any more specific connections, I’d be obliged if you could let me know.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

Adam allowed the charmed strip to curl back momentarily while he reached for two sheets of plain letter paper from the reserves in the middle drawer. Using the chopsticks and one end of the silk handkerchief to shield his fingers, he paper-clipped the origami paper foil-side down to one of the sheets, securing the scrap of paper across the corner with the cuneiform writing uppermost, then laid the other sheet atop it and stuck the “sandwich” thus formed into the first report folder he could pull from McLeod’s desk.

“I’m not sure how well that will copy, Mr. Cochrane, but I’d like to have a photocopy for closer study,” he said, handing the folder to the constable. “Would you mind taking care of that for me? Be sure you don’t touch it.”

“No problem, sir,” Cochrane said, “though it may take me a little while to find a copy machine that’s not in use. I gather you don’t want anyone else looking at this.”

“You gather correctly,” Adam replied. “Take as long as is necessary. It will be worth the wait.”

Once Cochrane had departed to dispatch this latest errand, Adam turned back to McLeod and set his hand lightly on the inspector’s wrist. McLeod appeared to be asleep, but the telltale flicker of movement beneath his closed eyelids signaled that he was, in fact, still in trance, a part of him fully conscious of his surroundings.

“Noel, I hope to get you out of here in a little while,” he said quietly. “Before we attempt to move you, though, I’m going to put a little more protection on you. Is that all right?”

Without opening his eyes, McLeod murmured, “Aye.”

“Good man. Deep asleep, then.”

Closing his eyes, Adam drew a deep breath to trigger his own trance-state, sinking easily to a useful working depth. The shift in perception brought a momentary distancing of his outer senses; but with his next breath he was able to open the eyes of his mind to the psychic residue of what had happened here in the last few hours. The image that came to him was that of McLeod standing weakly within a ring of thorns, just at the limits of his arm span.

Shadows played over the thorns like black flames. With a murmured invocation to the Light, Adam moved out of himself to stand with McLeod in the circle. Power welled up like a fountain within him. Focusing that power in his right hand, he sketched a sign of warding in the air.

The movement of his hand left a shimmering tracer. Hissing, the shadows curled back from the symbol he had drawn. His concentration deepening, Adam circled to his right, pausing at each of the remaining quarters to repeat the warding sign. The drain on his energy was palpable. By the time he finished sealing off the circle, he was beginning to tremble with exertion.

But the circle, once drawn, held firm. Satisfied that McLeod was defended for the moment against further injury, Adam retreated to the center of the circle, making the origin his point of withdrawal. His shift in consciousness was accompanied by a familiar twinge of vertigo. When the dizziness eased, he opened his eyes.

McLeod had not moved, but his breathing had eased somewhat, though his face still was the color of wax. Peregrine was standing by, his expression more than a little anxious. Seeing that Adam had roused himself, he asked in an undertone, “Is he going to be all right now?”

“He won’t be completely all right until the charm itself is disposed of,” said Adam. “But that is
not
something I intend to attempt here.”

He sat there quietly, giving further reinforcement to McLeod’s defenses, until Cochrane returned with the requested photocopy. Carefully pulling the paper clips with silk-shielded fingers, ‘Adam freed the foil-backed paper and signature scrap, and used the chopsticks to drop them back into a nest made by the handkerchief. The Styrofoam strips followed, so that Adam could fold it all into a more compact mass, surrounded by the silk, and stuff everything into another envelope, which he sealed. The copy he folded and slipped into his breast pocket, along with the envelope. The lining of his suit jacket was silk, and would further shield him from what he carried.

“Time to get him out of here,” Adam said to his two young assistants, glancing at his pocket watch. “It must be near enough quitting time. Hopefully there will be enough people coming and going in the next quarter hour that we’ll be able to slip out without anyone taking much notice of our movements.”

Peregrine reached for his coat and scarf. Adam, meanwhile, addressed McLeod across the threshold of hypnotic trance.

“Are you with me, Noel? Nod if you can hear me. All right, that’s fine. Now listen,” he continued with soft urgency. “In a moment or two we’re going to be leaving the building. When I tell you to, you will rouse to full awareness, remembering everything that has happened, but showing no outward distress. I know you’re still experiencing considerable discomfort, but you will resist giving way to that discomfort for as long as it takes us to get you safely to your car. If anyone should inquire, you’ll say that you think you’re coming down with the flu . . .”

They got McLeod’s jacket and then his overcoat on him. Cochrane accompanied them out of the office, pulling the office door shut and locking up with a nonchalance that Adam commended on their way down the back stairs. Thanks to Adam’s post-hypnotic suggestion, McLeod made it out to the car park without his legs buckling under him, though several of his colleagues gave him odd looks. While Cochrane went off to retrieve Adam’s medical bag from the front of the police car and Peregrine’s “citation” from the Morris Minor, Adam and Peregrine located McLeod’s black BMW in its assigned space and used the inspector’s keys to open the doors. With Adam’s help, McLeod climbed into the passenger seat and laid his head against the headrest with a sigh.

Cochrane rejoined them a moment later. After handing over Adam’s black bag, he leaned in at the car window to take a last anxious look at his superior.

“Much as I hate to say this, sir,” he said, in an attempt to sound casual, “you don’t look as if you’re going to be in any fit state to attend St. Andrew’s Day observances at the Lodge tonight.”

“Much as I hate to admit it, I think you’re probably right,” McLeod agreed ruefully. “I wonder if you’d be good enough to convey my apologies?”

“Be glad to, sir,” said Cochrane. “Any other last orders before I take myself off?”

“Aye. Sometime in the next twenty-four hours, go out and have yourself a pint,” said McLeod. “You’ve more than earned it.”

Chapter Twenty

ADAM DROVE
McLeod home in the BMW, Peregrine following in
his own car. Jane McLeod was momentarily alarmed to see Adam escorting her husband up the path, and a second car pulling in behind the BMW, but McLeod himself disarmed her concern with the excuse Adam had suggested back at the station.

“Looks like this year’s flu virus has finally caught up with me,” he announced with a queasy grin. “Adam assures me I’m going to live, but right now, the prospect is not entirely attractive.”

“This husband of yours,” Adam said with a wry grimace, “is not the most cooperative of patients—though I don’t suppose I need to tell you that. If you can keep him in bed for a day or two, though, he should start feeling better.”

“Och, that’ll be the trick,” Jane said with some asperity, taking McLeod’s other arm and helping Adam get him inside. “The man’s impossible sometimes. But you’re going straight to bed, Noel McLeod, and if anyone from the department should happen to phone, I shall tell them you’ve gotten fed up with city life and have run away to sea!”

“He can have aspirin if the headache gets too intolerable,” Adam said, “but otherwise, I think sleep is likely to prove the best medicine of all. I’ll ring you in the morning and see how he’s getting on.”

After seeing McLeod settled comfortably and telephoning Strathmourne to alert Humphrey and Philippa, Adam joined Peregrine in the Morris Minor. Rush hour traffic was in full force as they eased along the approach to the Forth Road Bridge and home, and for the next several miles, Peregrine was too preoccupied with his driving to voice any of the numerous questions that were buzzing about like bluebottles in the back of his brain. Once clear of the city’s environs, however, he could no longer keep his thoughts to himself.

“Adam,” he ventured, “from what little I’ve heard so far concerning the Lodge of the Lynx, it seems they make every effort to keep their doings a secret. And yet this attack on the inspector is plainly their work. Why do you suppose they were so careless as to leave their calling card?”

Adam stirred in his seat, as if rousing from some private reverie. “I don’t think it was carelessness so much as arrogance,” he said grimly. “The attack on Noel was intended to be fatal. If it had succeeded, the physical evidence would have been consistent with death by heart failure or stroke. No one who didn’t know what to look for would have suspected a thing.”

“But what about the charm itself?” Peregrine protested. “It was a lynx, for God’s sake! Surely whoever made it must have realized it might well be found.”

“Yes, but who would have thought anything of it?” Adam said. “For that matter, how many people even know the Lodge of the Lynx exists, or would believe it? Very few, I can tell you. But just about everyone in the department knows McLeod does origami. He’s got dozens of examples right there in his office. Whatever way you look at it, the risks were minimal.

“Picture it for yourself,” he continued, gazing off at the tail-lights ahead. “Someone enters McLeod’s office to find him slumped dead over his desk. There’s an immediate alarm that brings everyone within earshot rushing to the scene to see what might have happened. While all attention is focused on the victim, who’s going to notice yet another origami figure? And something like that could disappear very easily after the body was taken away. That may have been their plan, in fact.”

Peregrine nodded. He
could
envision the scene quite clearly.

“Most fortunately for us,” Adam went on, “and even more fortunately for Noel, the opposition seem to have underestimated Noel’s ability to defend himself. He is, as you have observed for yourself, a man of uncommon willpower and fortitude. That kind of toughness is something the opposition didn’t reckon on. I would guess that’s probably what saved him—or at least gave him the strength to hold out long enough for reinforcements to arrive.”

Peregrine shivered slightly. “I had no idea it was anywhere near as critical as that,” he muttered. “Probably just as well that I never suspected.”

Adam smiled. “You came through with flying colors. Lady Julian knew well what she was about when she presented you with Michael’s ring.”

Peregrine had the grace to blush at the praise. After a moment’s silence, he said curiously, “What do you suppose prompted this sudden attack? I mean, why
now?
If they’d been onto McLeod since Urquhart, wouldn’t they have done something sooner than this? And if they were onto
him,
wouldn’t they be onto us as well? Will we be next?”

“Not necessarily, on all counts,” Adam said. “Sometimes it’s advisable simply to leave well enough alone. But the fact that they don’t appear to have had an accurate idea of Noel’s strength leads me to suspect that perhaps they haven’t been watching him for very long—which means that, at least until they realize he’s survived, they may not have any strong opinions about us either.

“My guess is that something may have happened in the last week to convince them it might be safer to eliminate him than to leave him alone. When he’s feeling better, and I’ve dealt with
this—”
he patted the breast of his suit jacket “—we’ll review all his activities since Randall Stewart’s death, and see if we can identify any potential hot-spots . . .”

It was nearly seven o’ clock when they turned in at the gates to Strathmourne. By then, Peregrine was feeling the weight of an aching weariness.

“God, I’m tired!” he muttered, as he pulled up at the side door of the manor house. “The first thing I’m going to do when I get back to the lodge is take a hot shower! And dinner would be a bowl of cornflakes, if I didn’t know Mrs. Gilchrist had left me some stovies and oatcakes!”

Adam grinned. Stovies—a savory hash of corned beef, onions, and potatoes—was almost as much a feature of the Scottish national diet as haggis, and a favorite dish with more than one of Adam’s baronial acquaintances. No one made it better than the redoubtable Mrs. Gilchrist, whose maternal concern for Peregrine’s welfare not infrequently prompted her to provide him with offerings from her kitchen.

“I’m glad you mentioned dinner,” Adam said, retrieving his medical bag from behind the seat. “That puts me in mind of something I meant to ask you earlier this afternoon. Have you made any plans for tomorrow evening? If not, perhaps you’d care to come up to the house round about seven for drinks and dinner. Nothing particularly formal—just a chance for you and Philippa to get acquainted.”

“Thanks, I’d enjoy that,” Peregrine replied. “See you then, if not before.”

Dinner arrangements having been made, Adam bade the artist good-night and alighted from the car. Humphrey was on hand to greet him as he entered the house, and relieved him of his coat and bag.

“It’s good to have you home, sir,” Humphrey said. “I hope all is well with Inspector McLeod.”

“Well enough for the moment,” Adam said, “but there’s still quite a bit of work to be done. Is Mother in the library?”

“She is, sir. And she instructed me not to proceed with dinner until she’d heard more from you.”

Adam nodded. “I’d better confer with her, then. I’m afraid dinner may be scrubbed entirely.”

Concern showed through Humphrey’s usual imperturbability. “As serious as that, sir?”

“As serious as that.”

“I see, sir.” Humphrey paused briefly, then inquired, “Would a spot of tea be in order in the meantime, then?”

Adam allowed himself a grateful sigh and nodded. ‘ ‘An excellent suggestion,” he said, “but don’t bring it up right away. We’ll ring when we’re ready.”

He repaired to the library to find Philippa ensconced before the fire with a book balanced across her lap, relaxed but elegant in a red cowl-necked sweater and a kilted hostess skirt of red Sinclair tartan. From the book’s binding, Adam recognized it as a first edition, in German, of Carl Gustav Jung’s
Aion.
In her youth, Philippa had been a student of Jung’s.

“I see you’re consulting with an old friend,” Adam said lightly.

Philippa’s smile was like a flicker of distant lightning. “Once a pupil, always a pupil,” she observed. “And I hate to waste time, as you know. With Gillian Talbot arriving on Monday, I thought it might be appropriate to pay a mental visit to the lecture hall for a review of the phenomenology of Self.”

She reached for her bookmark, a thin fillet of fine gold, and inserted it at her place before setting the book aside.

“You look more tired than distraught,” she observed, searching her son’s face with keen, dark eyes. “Is the crisis satisfactorily resolved, then?”

With a long sigh, Adam sank down in the armchair opposite hers and opened a long, casket-shaped box on the chair-side table, hammered brass over a carcass of fragrant sandalwood. The inside was lined with sea-blue silk, and into it Adam put the envelope containing McLeod’s silk handkerchief and its dangerous contents.

“Thanks to Peregrine’s brilliant holding action and McLeod’s own resilience, I was able to contain the worst of the storm damage,” he informed his mother with a grimace. “However, the situation is far from settled yet.” He closed the box.

“Indeed?” Philippa arched an eyebrow curved like a blackbird’s wing. “In that case, perhaps you’d better fill me in on all the details.”

In as few words as possible, Adam related all that had happened since they parted company at the airport, presenting her with the copy he had made of the writing from inside the charm. Philippa offered no comment during the course of his recital, but by the time he had finished, her elegant, angular face had gone hard, like the mask of a sphinx.

“The writing is runic, not cuneiform,” she said, handing back the copy, “probably northern European. The spell itself could be La Tène, relating back to that torc you’ve described. I’ll do some further research to narrow it down more specifically, but in the meantime, the charm itself must be destroyed to remove the threat from McLeod.” She gazed on the box at Adam’s elbow with cold calculation. “Neutralizing it won’t be easy, though especially after what you’ve already been through today. Do you mean to deal with it tonight?”

Adam leaned his head against the back of his chair and rubbed at his eyes with a weary hand.

“It has to be done tonight,” he said. “And if you’re thinking to do it yourself, don’t. If only because of my close ties with Noel, I’m the best qualified. But I’d welcome your assistance.”

“Why else do you suppose I’ve been keeping poor Humphrey on tenterhooks regarding dinner?” Philippa said with a grim smile. “I devoutly hope he didn’t have anything special planned for this evening! Much as I dislike having to cancel a meal at short notice, I’m afraid that in this instance it can’t be helped. If we’re to deal properly with
that,”
she gestured toward the casket-shaped box, “we’re going to need all our faculties about us.”

Adam acknowledged the point with a sober nod. Fasting was a desirable part of the preparations for any major work of the kind he and Philippa were contemplating, for the physiological process of digestion diverted blood from the brain, dulling mental functions that needed to be razor sharp. More critical still, in esoteric terms; was the grounding effect of taking in food, interfering with the elevation of the psyche to the higher planes. Indeed, eating was
recommended
after a psychic working of any depth at all, to ground the operator back onto reality.

‘’I’ve already alerted Humphrey to the possibility that dinner might not happen,” Adam said. “In any case, I believe Mrs. Gilchrist said something about leaving a hot pot of some kind that could stand by in ease of balky airline schedules. I’m sure it will keep, whatever it is. And Humphrey understands the need for abstinence as well as you or I, when it comes to the Work. Whatever culinary plans we may have overset, he’ll not begrudge any effort lost where the welfare of the Hunting Lodge is at stake.”

* * *

After a cup of tea apiece, they retired to their respective rooms to shower and spend some time apart in preparation. When Adam came back downstairs an hour later, he was wearing a quilted blue dressing gown over grey slacks and a clean white shirt, and crested slippers on his feet—his preferred attire for formal Work. Philippa sported a caftan-type robe of a deep, mauvey-pink. As they descended narrow steps into the sweet, musty dimness of the wine cellar, Philippa bore before them an antique oil lamp in the shape of a papyrus leaf, augmenting the electric light with a yellowish glow and a whisper of lemon verbena. Behind her, Adam carried the long metal casket containing the debris of the origami lynx.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Adam led the way past shadowy racks of vintage wines to the far end of the barrel-vaulted chamber. Here, a recessed doorway echoed the curve of the vaulting, the projecting arch surmounted by the heraldic crest of the Sinclairs—a phoenix taking flight out of a nest of fire. The door itself was patterned in oblong panels of variegated wood, each panel about the size of a man’s hand and decorated with its own design in marquetry inlay.

Handing the casket momentarily into Philippa’s keeping, Adam ducked under the archway to set his right hand to a tulip-wood panel at the top center of the door. The panel yielded under the pressure of his fingers, then hinged upward, spring-loaded, to reveal a shallow recess. The adjacent panel on the left was made from maple, and shifted smoothly at Adam’s touch into the slot prepared for it, like a movable segment from a Chinese puzzle box.