The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (29 page)

“It’s the same story, whichever way we turn. No names, no faces, just a lengthening account of crimes, each one more brutal and audacious than the last-and now, a hint of having tapped into something very dark and very powerful, perhaps an elemental of some sort. Whatever they’re out to achieve, it’s something very big. And if we don’t get a break pretty soon, they may just carry it off—and us with it.”

He lapsed into troubled silence. Thoughtful, Philippa refilled her cup from the chocolate urn and sipped at it daintily while she considered.

“I’ll grant you that time is not exactly on our side,” she acknowledged after a moment. “But don’t let your frustration blind you to the fact that today’s attack on Noel McLeod was in some measure a mistake. The fact that he survived, when by rights he ought to be dead, may be precisely the loose end we need to unravel the rest of the mystery.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Adam, half-smiling now. “If there
are
any loose ends out there, I certainly hope they lead somewhere.”

Chapter Twenty-One

THE NEXT EVENING,
after sleeping until well past noon and accomplishing very little in what remained of the day, Peregrine drove up from the gate lodge to keep his dinner engagement with Adam and Adam’s mother. Humphrey was already waiting to admit him as he dashed up to the front door through flurrying snow.

“Good evening, Mr. Lovat.”

“‘Lo, Humphrey. What a night!” Peregrine exclaimed, stamping snow from his shoes in the entry lobby and shedding hat and scarf while Humphrey waited to divest him of his topcoat.

“Indeed, sir.
‘Scarce fit for man nor beast,’
as the saying goes.” Peregrine’s spectacles were splattered with snow-water, which yielded to a quick polish with his handkerchief. Tucking it back into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he replaced his glasses and gave his hair a swift brush through with his fingers.

“Right, Humphrey. Where to now?”

“Sir Adam and her ladyship are taking drinks in the Rose Room, sir,” said the butler. “This way, if you please.”

Eager if a little apprehensive, Peregrine followed Humphrey up the stairs and across the first floor landing, stealing a glance in one of the mirrors to assure himself his tie was straight. He liked the Rose Room, with its delicate tea-rose wallpaper and roseleaf draperies and delicate Louis XIV furniture. To his artist’s eye it recalled gentler times, when the elegant little parlor had served as a Victorian lady’s morning room and writing chamber. Adam seldom made use of it on his own behalf, but Peregrine could appreciate why he might have chosen to open it up on this occasion—and why it must have been a favorite of Philippa Sinclair when she was still mistress of this house. Smaller than the library and more intimate than either of the two formal reception rooms downstairs, the Rose Room offered a cozy and gracious environment for making introductions and quiet conversation.

Following Humphrey across the first floor landing toward the Rose Room door, Peregrine gave his shirt-cuffs a last minute twitch, then drew a fortifying breath as Humphrey delivered a discreet knock and announced his arrival.

“Ah, Peregrine, there you are!” Adam said. He set a cut-crystal tumbler on the mantel and started forward in welcome. “Come in and meet my mother.”

Behind Adam, a fire was blazing on the hearth beneath a fine mantelpiece of pink Carrara marble. Sitting before the fire in an open-arm chair upholstered in rose velvet was a slender, silver-haired woman with a spine like a ramrod and eyes that put Peregrine in mind of the goddesses painted on the walls of Egyptian tombs. A single glance at her face was enough to convince him that, had there been a hundred other people present, he would nevertheless have been able to single her out as Adam’s mother.

For the resemblance between them was as strong as it was striking. Mother and son shared the same elegant height, the same strong, finely-sculptured features. More striking still was their kindred air of vibrant intensity. Drawn to look more closely in spite of himself, Peregrine had this impression reinforced by the ghostly rippling of images he was coming to associate with the presence of those who shared Adam’s mysterious vocation. He was awed but hardly surprised to discover that Adam had more in common with his mother than physical appearances.

Still digesting the import of this fleeting but significant discovery, he realized belatedly that he was being introduced and started forward, bowing over the slender hand that Philippa Sinclair extended to him.

“How do you do, Lady Sinclair?” he said. “Ever since Adam told me you were coming, I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

His obvious respect drew a smile from Philippa.

“And I’m very pleased to meet
you,
Mr. Lovat,” she said warmly. “Adam has shown me some of your work. In this age of the computer-generated image, it’s a rare experience to encounter an artist with a gift for
true
portraiture.”

Her voice was a low, clear contralto, its colonial accent subtly modulated by inflectional resonances from several other languages, and the slight stress she laid on the word
true
was unmistakable.

“You’re very kind, Lady Sinclair,” Peregrine said. “But in fact, I’m indebted to Adam for providing a working demonstration that there’s far more to some people than meets the naked eye.”

He accompanied this statement with a look that was both significant and admiring, and Philippa’s lips curved upward in a smile of genuine amusement.

“Touché!” she laughed. “That’s what I get for needling you with compliments. Now that we all know who and what we’re dealing with, perhaps Adam will be good enough to pour you a drink. And you must call me Philippa. I’d like to think that one of these days, Adam will see fit to bestow the title of ‘Lady Sinclair’ on another mistress of Strathmourne.”

Adam rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and Peregrine found himself smiling along with Philippa as she steered him toward a chair opposite her own.

As he sipped appreciatively at a glass of Adam’s favorite MacAllan, Peregrine continued to be impressed at the unstudied force of Philippa’s personality. In spite of her age, she had a quicksilver quality about her that refused to be pinned down to easy definitions. He caught himself wondering if she had ever crossed swords with the Lodge of the Lynx, and decided that if she had, she was more than capable of defending herself.

After half an hour’s easy conversation, dinner was served in modest state in the dining room, on a Regency table set with crested Sevres china, antique silver flatware, and Edinburgh crystal. The first course was a soup made from fresh mussels, cider, and cream, with poached turbot in Granville sauce to follow. While they lingered over it, enjoying the company as well as the meal, Peregrine inquired after McLeod and learned that the inspector was resting at home in reasonable comfort.

“I rang him this morning,” Adam said. “The official story is that he’s come down with a nasty case of flu and has been advised to take some time off to recuperate. In real terms, that probably means he’ll be back at work Tuesday or Wednesday—sooner, if he gets his way. Young Cochrane’s minding the store in the meantime. And at least we don’t anticipate any permanent side effects.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Peregrine said. “When you next speak with him, give him my regards.”

Following this exchange, Philippa deftly turned the conversation in the direction of the arts, professing an avid interest in the school of American realism. Peregrine was surprised and delighted to discover that she was very knowledgeable on the subject, and found himself drawn into an animated discourse on the relative merits of various American realists from Winslow Homer to John Sloan.

“The term
realism
is more apt than most critics realize,” Philippa said with a touch of irony, over the fresh fruit terrine Mrs. Gilchrist had laid on for dessert. “As far as the critics are concerned, an artist is a realist if he paints scenes from daily life, rather than painting scenes from the realm of allegorical imagination. But there’s far more to it than that. Artists like Whistler and John Singer Sargent make you look beyond the faces of their subjects to something interior—something more real, if you like, than shows up on a photographic print. It’s something the eye of the camera can’t catch—only the eye of the truly gifted artist.”

“Speaking of which,” Adam said with a pointed glance at Peregrine, “have you finished that portrait of the provost?”

“Almost,” Peregrine said with a smile, touching a napkin to his lips. “It would’ve been done yesterday, only I had to go and rescue Noel. I’ve already rescheduled the final sitting for Monday. Of course it won’t be ready for delivery until it’s properly dried and varnished, but I think even the provost is pleased with the results; I know his wife is. So I flatter myself we can consider this commission successfully completed.”

He bent his head over his terrine again, and thus missed seeing the glances his host and hostess exchanged across the table.

“In that case,” said Adam, “I have in mind to offer another commission for your consideration.”

Peregrine looked up with an arrested expression on his face, his spoon halfway to his mouth. Meeting Adam’s gaze, he said, “Why do I have this sudden feeling that you don’t mean that in the conventional sense?”

Philippa smiled and darted one of her flashing looks at Adam. “You may as well come clean, my dear,” she advised. “You’ve already lost the element of surprise.”

“So I observe,” Adam said dryly. “I trust, then, that you’ll recall the name Gillian Talbot?”

Peregrine put his spoon down, sneaking a guarded glance at Philippa. “Of course,” he said quietly.

“You needn’t feel shy about speaking freely,” Adam said. “Philippa knows all about the business at Melrose. Anyway,” he continued, setting his napkin aside, “last week while I was in London, the Talbots finally got in touch with me and requested my professional intervention on Gillian’s behalf. Philippa and I went to meet them at the hospital the next day. The upshot of that meeting is that Gillian is being transferred up to Jordanburn. She and her mother will be arriving on Monday.”

Peregrine nodded, still carefully noncommittal.

“I know you were hoping something like that might be arranged. But what does this have to do with me?”

“I have in mind something in the nature of an experiment,” Adam said. “Once Gillian is comfortably settled in, I’d like you to come visit her in the hospital to make some sketches. I have a suspicion they may prove more than a little illuminating when we approach the problem of rebuilding her personality. At the very least, they may reveal the role that you yourself have been designated to play.”

“Me?”
Peregrine blanched slightly. “But I don’t know anything about—“

“You may not think you know,” Philippa interjected, “but I think Michael Scot made it clear, at Melrose, that
he
found your talents useful. Adam believes—and I agree with him—that the choice was not random. Quite the contrary. We think that Scot singled you out as someone who might be able to help him in the
future
—his
future.”

Peregrine looked from Philippa to Adam and back again. “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “What’s her mother going to say about this? I’m not even a doctor.”

Adam smiled. “I’m sure we can come up with a plausible explanation.”

* * *

While Peregrine was sitting down to dinner with his host and hostess at Strathmourne, a far less amicable meeting was taking place in the library of a large country house twelve miles to the west of Stirling. Those present by demand included Charles Napier, a senior police inspector from Edinburgh, Dr. Preston Wemyss, an eminent physician, and Angela Fitzgerald, a prominent Glasgow society columnist. None of them had been offered refreshments. All of them were decidedly ill at ease under the cold, disparaging gaze of their host. Francis Raeburn, himself fresh from an earlier meeting with
his
superior, was in no mood to spare anyone.

“I don’t suppose I need dwell on the fact that Noel McLeod is still alive, when by rights he should be dead,” he informed his subordinates with biting sarcasm. “Our failure to neutralize him has created complications that I, for one, could well have done without. Henceforth, we can afford no further errors. I require the assurance of all of you that there will be none.”

He fixed his gaze on each of his three subordinates in turn. Napier, his heavy face sullen under lowering brows, gave a wrestler’s hunch to his shoulders and spoke for the rest.

“How were we supposed to know he’d prove so resistant to the charm?” he demanded resentfully. “Besides,
you
were the one who decided the form of the attack.”

“And I relied upon you to evaluate the victim,” Raeburn snapped.
“You
ought to have known. It was your particular business to know. None of you are novices at this game. You knew what tests to apply—”

“Really, Francis, it
was
a calculated risk,” the lone female of their number protested. “If you wanted a guarantee, you should have given us more time to make a full assessment of the victim.”

“How much time would you have considered adequate?” Raeburn retorted. “A week? A fortnight? A month? Until the Hunting Lodge arrived in force on our very doorstep? Leisure is not a luxury we can afford in this business. Or have you perhaps forgotten that our Head-Master is even less patient than I am?”

“If the Head-Master is that keen for results, perhaps he ought to consider taking a more direct role in this affair!” Angela Fitzgerald primmed her hard, painted mouth as she plucked an imaginary fleck of fluff from the sleeve of her grey silk blouse. “This McLeod didn’t just
happen
to survive, you know. He had help from some of his cohorts.”

“Aye, that damned artist, Lovat,” Napier grumbled. “Who would have thought that effete puppy could possibly have had the knowledge to intervene? And I let him walk right into McLeod’s office with Cochrane—who also will bear watching, after this. He can’t have been totally oblivious to what was going on.”