The Adept Book 3 The Templar Treasure (21 page)

It did not take him long to find what he required. To his no great surprise, there were several volumes of biblical commentary as well as a concordance on the shelf adjacent to four or five different translations of the Bible. Working from the concordance, a King James translation, a Latin Vulgate edition, and a Hebrew Old Testament, he soon discovered that the lines he had recorded the previous night were, indeed, from the book of Proverbs, the thirteenth and eighteenth verses of the third chapter. Propping the texts open before him on the tabletop, he stared at the slightly different translations while he pondered their relationship to the dream.

Another vision of Solomon featuring the hallows and, this time, the casket. And a direct quotation from a book of sayings said to be the words of King Solomon himself. The more Adam thought about it, the more certain he became that the resonant voice he had heard in his vision had, indeed, been direct instruction from the great King. He was still considering the possible import of this when the library door swung open behind him.

“Good heavens, you’re up early!” exclaimed a surprised female voice. “After last night, I expected you to sleep in.”

Adam turned around. The slim figure in the doorway was Caitlin Jordan, her chestnut hair burnished to auburn in the early morning sunlight, her brown eyes inquiring. Rising from his chair, Adam pulled a wry smile and said, “Good morning. I hope I didn’t startle you. If I did, I’m sorry.”

“Not at all. It’s only that I’m generally the first person up around here.” Noting the books on the tabletop before him, she added, “More research, I see. I gather that things continued to percolate while you slept.”

Adam saw no reason to dissemble.

“I had a rather intense dream, shortly after I fell asleep,” he told her. “Another ‘visitation’ from or to King Solomon. I must confess, I find it a little daunting to be receiving guidance from so sage an entity as the great Solomon, who is probably the embodiment of wisdom—but there you are. That’s who it was.”

Chuckling lightly, Caitlin came to sit beside him in the chair he pulled out for her.

“I’m sure it’s got to be daunting, in the middle of the night,” she agreed. “Would you like to bounce it off me in the clear light of day? Two heads are bound to be better than one.”

“I’d welcome your assessment,” Adam replied. “It’s hardly pre-breakfast fare, but here’s what happened.”

As she sat there beside him, listening avidly, he related the details of this second vision of Solomon.

“Finally, I surfaced long enough to write this down—just the Hebrew, at that point.” He handed her the notebook. “It has to have come from elsewhere, because I’m sure I couldn’t have recalled the Hebrew on my own. Reading and translating are one thing—and normally, I can only just squeak through in Hebrew, even with the aid of a dictionary. Writing this in Hebrew from the spoken words is quite another thing. Anyway, I scribbled out that rough translation this morning.”

“And you tracked it down to these?” she asked, leaning over to look at the texts lying open on the table.

“Yes. The lines are from Proverbs, as I expected. Here’s the King James translation, and here’s the Vulgate for comparison.”

Happy is the man that findeth wisdom.

She is a tree of life to them that lay hold upon her:

And happy is every one that retaineth her.

Beatus homo qui invenit sapientiam.

Lignum vitae est his qui apprehenderint eam, et qui tenuerit eam beatus.

Caitlin scanned the verses, taking her time.

“Well, the first line is fairly unambiguous,” she said, after reflection.
“Happy is the man that findeth wisdom.
If we take
wisdom
as a synonym for
knowledge,
then it might simply be referring to all the information you’ve been able to glean so far regarding the casket and the hallows.”

“No, I think it refers to the Crown,” Adam said positively. “Dundee said that the Crown conferred the
wisdom
to resist the madness of evil. “ He cocked his head. “Now,
there’s
a thought that just occurred to me. Judeo-Christian tradition quite often personifies Wisdom as a woman, holy Sophia. One of the charges levelled against the Templars was that they supposedly worshipped a head of some kind—quite possibly a female head. I wonder if that could have come from a misinterpretation of their veneration for the Crown of Solomon and the wisdom it represented?”

“The Crown of Wisdom,” Caitlin said, nodding. “You may well be right. In any case, I’d say it’s fairly clear that you’ve been given formal license from Solomon himself to reclaim his Crown.”

Meeting her eyes, Adam drew a deep breath. It was a heady realization, but the burden was likewise a daunting one.

“If you’re right about the Crown,” Caitlin went on, “then perhaps the other part refers to the Sceptre. The King James translation refers to a ‘tree of life’, but the Latin
lignum
has more of the feel of wood, timber, a staff—or, by extension, a rod of rule, a sceptre.
A staff of life to him who grasps her, and whoso holds her fast is safe . . .”
She gave a perplexed sigh. “I don’t want to be alarmist, but it rather sounds to me like an additional warning that the Crown by itself is not enough to see you through whatever lies ahead.”

“Which tends to reinforce what Dundee said—that both the Crown and the Sceptre are necessary to control the demons in safety,” Adam agreed. “And I have the impression that the Sceptre is involved in setting the Seal. It certainly seemed to work that way for Solomon.”

“Which means that even once you’ve secured the Crown, you mustn’t dare try to go to the casket until you’ve found the Sceptre as well,” Caitlin said. “To do so would be folly, if the Seal’s been used to open the casket and the demons are free.”

Adam nodded. “It makes our task that much more daunting, because I’ll have to go directly from whatever’s needed to retrieve the Crown into another difficult working to locate both the casket and the Sceptre. But we’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

“Well, the time has come for breakfast, just now,” said a new voice from the doorway.

Both Adam and Caitlin turned around to find Sir John smiling at them from the threshold, his hands resting on the head of his walking stick.

“Good morning, all,” he said.

Laughing delightedly, Caitlin rolled her eyes in mock consternation as she rose.

“Now you can see why Gray did so well in intelligence work,” she said to Adam, going to greet her great-grandfather with a fond kiss. “He still comes and goes like the Cheshire Cat!”

“Nonsense,” said Sir John, slipping an arm around her waist. “The pair of you were simply deeply absorbed in what seemed to be a very intriguing conversation. No, don’t tell me about it now,” he went on, when Adam would have spoken. “If you like, we’ll confer after breakfast—which Linton informs me is being served in the dining room. You’re welcome to linger here if you like, but I think I ought to warn you that young Peregrine has already set a covetous eye on the scones.”

“In that case, we’d better come at once,” Adam said with a smile, pocketing his notebook and pen. “My young friend is normally the soul of courtesy and moderation, but I’m afraid scones are a fatal weakness of his . . .”

* * *

The party at breakfast was nearly twice the size of their group the night before. On entering the dining room, Adam found himself presented first to Caitlin’s grandparents, the Earl and Countess of Selwyn, then to her mother, Lady Jordan. Bowing gravely over the hands of both ladies in turn, Adam thought he could see where Caitlin had come by her looks.

“We’ve heard a great deal about you, Sir Adam,” said Lord Selwyn. He was a robust, silver-haired man in his early seventies, with a firm and vigorous handshake. “I’m sorry we weren’t on hand to greet you when you arrived. Caitlin’s father sits in Commons, you know, and Audrey and Sarah and I had been up to London for the weekend to attend a reception; didn’t get home until quite late last night. I trust the rest of the household were able to make you feel welcome in our absence.”

“The hospitality was unimpeachable,” Adam assured him, “all the more so in view of the fact that we made so bold as to accept lodgings for the night on rather short notice. I hope we haven’t thrown the domestic staff into an uproar.”

“The staff, I venture to say, are well up to dealing with far greater crises than unexpected guests,” said Lady Selwyn. “Linton alone has seen us through more storms than a Yankee clipper on the China run round Cape Horn.”

Over breakfast, to which they helped themselves from a sumptuous sideboard, she went on to regale them with a succession of anecdotes illustrative of their butler’s redoubtable sang-froid in the face of household disaster. Listening and laughing with the rest of the company, Adam was moved to furnish one or two tales of his own from the domestic annals of Strathmourne.

“It sounds to me as if Linton and my man Humphrey belong to the same rare breed,” he concluded with a reminiscent grin. “The next time you have an occasion to stray north of Hadrian’ s Wall, you must call by Strathmourne and see for yourself.”

Breakfast concluded on a note of congeniality. While Caitlin and her mother took Peregrine and McLeod on a last tour of the rose gardens, Sir John drew Adam back into the library for a final assessment of all that had transpired.

“I would have to concur with what you and Caitlin worked out regarding the Solomonic pronouncement,” Sir John said, when he had heard Adam out. “And the point about the head the Templars are said to have worshipped makes good sense. I know some scholars have tried to tie it in with one of the numerous cults of the head, but those mainly come from Celtic sources, and I’ve always felt that the Templar head connection was Middle Eastern in origin. Solomon’s Crown would fit that hypothesis.

“Still, it’s the Crown’s present use that concerns us now,” he went on, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing the jeweller’s case with the Templar cross, which he passed to Adam. “Mustn’t forget this, either. Aside from being your passport to get the Green Lady to help you, you may find it of use as additional protection, since it’s a badge long associated with the Templar Order and its function guardian. I’d advise you to wear it, especially when you go to deal with the casket.”

Nodding, Adam slipped the case into a coat pocket. “I’ll do that. And thank you for all your help. I hope you realize that mere words are totally inadequate.”

“But words are what we have to work with,” Sir John said with a wistful smile. “I’m only sorry that we didn’t meet sooner, and that this meeting was under such conditions of urgency. Still, I suppose there’s nothing like urgency to cut through the dross and focus on what’s really important. In the normal course of things, it probably would have taken years to achieve the level of trust we shared last night, across our differences of tradition—and at ninety-two, I don’t expect I have that many more years, this time around.”

“Then it’s good that we skipped over all those intervening years,” Adam said, smiling, “because as far as I’m concerned, our differences are very superficial—except that I see in you a glimpse of what’s still to come, as I continue my own progression toward the Light. I feel privileged to have met you, Gray—and honored to have worked with you. Do you suppose I might ask for your blessing before we part?”

Sir John looked a little startled, then pleased. “You’re sure?”

“Very sure.”

As Adam bowed his head, eyes closing as his hands dropped to his sides, he felt the touch of the general’s hands lightly on his hair, and then the heady weight of benison filling him from head to toes.

“I give you the blessing of all the gods and goddesses whom I have been privileged to serve,” Sir John murmured, “and I invoke upon you their wisdom to guide you and their strength to sustain and defend you and yours. May their bright blessings be with you and remain with you as you go forth in the service of the Light. Amen. Selah. So mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” Adam repeated, lifting his head as Sir John’s hands fell away. “Thank you.”

“Thank
you.”

The general’s eyes were a little brighter as he glanced out the French doors where McLeod and Peregrine were returning in the company of Caitlin and Lady Selwyn.

“I think Linton’s probably brought your things down to the car by now,” he said brusquely. “You probably ought to be on your way. You wouldn’t want to miss your flight.”

“No, we should be off,” Adam agreed. “Saying we’ll go up to Fyvie is all well and good, but there are practicalities involved. Realistically, I don’t think we can get up there before tomorrow night. There’s groundwork to be laid. We can’t very well show up on their doorstep and tell them why we’re really there.”

“Well, the Crown has to be first,” Sir John agreed. “Without it, you can’t even find out where the casket is, much less do anything if your man’s gotten there first. Move as quickly as you can, though. And don’t take any needless risks.”

“Sound advice,” Adam said lightly. “And I’ll ring you as soon as we’ve wrapped things up—and give you an in-person report, as soon after that as I can. After all,” he added, patting the pocket with the jeweller’s box, “I have this cross to return.”

Chapter Twenty

INSTEAD OF
returning the way they had come, McLeod headed them north out of Ashford to pick up the M20 motorway, skirting south of London on the M25 ring road and then dropping down to Gatwick on the M23. Their return flight touched down in Edinburgh shortly after two, slightly late because of heavy rain. Humphrey was not at the gate to meet them, but they found him waiting for them at curbside, standing beside the blue Range Rover. As he saw them approaching, he moved around to open up the rear for their luggage.

“Welcome home, sir,” he said, as he took Adam’s bag and stashed it in the back. “Before you ask, a package arrived for you from York this morning by special courier. I thought it might be urgent, so I took the liberty of bringing it along. It’s in the glove box.”

“Well done, indeed, Humphrey!” Adam murmured, exchanging a glance with Peregrine and McLeod. “That will be from Peter Fiennes. I wonder what he found.”

While Humphrey continued stowing McLeod’s and Peregrine’s bags, Adam slid into the passenger seat and opened the glove box. The parcel was a paper-wrapped box about the size of a thick paperback book, heavy for its size. He had it opened by the time the others had piled in and Humphrey was pulling away from the curb. Inside, swathed in layers of tissue paper, was something hard and heavy, like a stone paperweight.

There was a note from Peter resting on top. Adam picked it up and read it aloud for the benefit of McLeod and Peregrine, listening avidly from the backseat.

“’Dear Adam: Found this yesterday, while I was clearing out Dad’s office at the university. It seems to be an impression of the Seal. I thought you might as well have it, on the off chance it might be of some use to you in your investigation. Thanks again for all your help and support. Peter Fiennes.’

“Well, then.”

While Peregrine and McLeod looked on, Adam gingerly lifted the object free of its wrappings and turned it over. It proved to be a square lump of thick red sealing wax a little larger than a man’s palm. Pressed into the wax was the clear image of a six-pointed star of interlocking triangles encircled by a scroll of Qabalistic characters.

“An imprint of the Seal,” Peregrine murmured, leaning in closer between the two front seats to stare at it, his hazel eyes narrowed behind his gold-framed spectacles. “If I look the right way, I can actually see a hand pressing a metal seal into the wax—maybe Nathan Fiennes’ hand.”

“I wonder why he did it,” McLeod said.

“He probably was curious to see what the positive image looked like in three dimensions,” Adam said. “Or perhaps he anticipated submitting the design to someone for analysis. Either way, it could be very useful indeed, since it represents our first clear physical link with the missing object. This actually touched the Seal, and carries its mirror image.”

As he spoke, he saw again in his mind’s eye the image of King Solomon setting his Seal to the casket containing a pair of demon-spirits. The memory brought a sympathetic tingle to Adam’s fingertips from the Seal imprint he held in his hands. The residue of power was palpable. He did not doubt that the object which had made the imprint was the Seal itself, not a copy.

Peregrine’s voice recalled him.

“What are you planning to do with it?”

“For now, nothing,” Adam said. “Ask me again after we’ve seen what we can learn at Fyvie.”

They dropped McLeod off at his house in Ormidale Terrace and stayed long enough for a quick cup of tea while the inspector put in a call to police headquarters.

“Yes. Well, thanks anyway, Donald,” he said, just before he hung up. “Yes, definitely keep working on it. See you tomorrow.”

He pulled a glum face, then glanced at Adam.

“Still nothing on Gerard,” he said. “Looks like we continue to do this the hard way.”

“Well, at least we’re better prepared for that now than we were this time yesterday,” Adam said resignedly. “Come on, Peregrine. I need you to give me a hand with some homework back at Strathmourne. Noel, we’ll get back to you later this evening, when we’ve sorted out something on Fyvie.”

Back home at the manor house, he and Peregrine repaired to the library, where they spent the next two hours sifting through the books in the Scottish collection in search of material pertaining to Fyvie Castle. While Adam pored over volumes on history and folklore, Peregrine concentrated his attention on commentaries dealing with the castle’s layout and structure.

He found what he was looking for in Volume II of a work entitled
Castellated and Domestic Architecture of Scotland,
by Macgibbon and Ross. The section on Fyvie Castle was reasonably detailed, and included not only floor plans but a number of illustrations.

“This may be exactly what we need, Adam,” he reported over his shoulder. “It’s all pretty technical—no mention of any ‘Green Lady’—but there’s plenty of other stuff having to do with the way the place is constructed. Here, have a look for yourself.”

He passed Adam the tan volume. Inspecting the layout of the rooms detailed in black and white, Adam nodded his satisfaction.

“That’s useful,” he told his young associate. “I’ve unearthed some interesting information as well. Between us, we should be able to work out where Grizel Seton was murdered.”

“What have you got, then?” Peregrine asked, edging closer.

“To start with, a few tidbits of local folklore that may be pertinent. There appears to be a long-standing tradition that ‘the Devil’ is supposed to reside at Fyvie, walled up in a secret room.”

“The Devil!” Peregrine murmured, going a little pale.

“Now, just relax,” Adam returned. “I don’t anticipate having to come face-to-face with the Prince of Darkness. A few of his minions, perhaps—”

“Adam, that isn’t funny!”

Giving Peregrine a droll sidelong glance, Adam returned his attention to the notes he had jotted down.

“The room in question appears to be in the Meldrum Tower, just below the Charter Room—here on your floor plan. Macgibbon and Ross even label it as being sealed. Any attempt to open this room is said to operate an otherwise latent curse, bringing death to the laird and blindness to his wife.”

“Good Lord, has anyone ever attempted to test the curse?” Peregrine asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes. Two lairds of the manor made exploratory incursions. Both died shortly thereafter, and their wives both became afflicted with eye trouble. One of them actually did go completely blind. It’s probably no wonder that when the castle went up for sale in 1984, all prospective purchasers—including the National Trust for Scotland, which finally bought it—were enjoined to agree to a covenant undertaking not to open the room, allow it to be opened, or allow any X-rays or other high-tech imaging to be done there.”

“Just in case the Devil really
is
locked up at Fyvie,” Peregrine said.

“Or something
like
a devil.”

“You mean something like Gog and Magog.” Peregrine caught his breath slightly, his eyes gone wide and round. “Adam,” he breathed, “you don’t suppose the
casket
might be there at Fyvie, as well as the Crown?”

“I shouldn’t think so—though I’d venture to guess that it might well have been there at some time in the past,” Adam said. “That could account for the ‘devil’ tradition, not to mention the lingering influence of malignancy that apparently still resonates there. But even if I’m right in that conjecture, the casket has almost certainly been moved since. Once the local legend had taken root, it no longer would have been safe to keep it there.”

“Too right,” Peregrine agreed. “And I don’t imagine Dundee would have sent the Crown to Fyvie for safekeeping if the casket had been there as well.”

“Not unless he didn’t know the casket was there,” Adam reminded him. “But I do think that it would have been moved by Dundee’s time, even if he didn’t know where it had ended up. The Crown is another matter.”

“You think it might have been hidden in the secret room, then? If people really thought the Devil was walled up there, they wouldn’t be likely to disturb it.”

“No, but hiding it there in the first place would have been a tricky proposition, if there
is
something down there. No, we’ll have a look at the vicinity of the Charter Room, just in case I’m wrong, but I think that we’ll find what we’re looking for up here, toward the top of the Gordon Tower.”

As Adam pointed out the equivalent space on the floor plan, Peregrine squinted at the legend in small print.

“The Douglas Room,” he read off. “Why there?”

“Because that’s the room associated with the Green Lady, “ Adam said, “and if she’s Grizel Seton, she’s the one who can tell us where the Crown is, even if it isn’t in that particular room. I haven’t been able to find out anything more to connect the Green Lady with a particular name, but the room itself is sometimes referred to as the Murder Room—which would be quite apt, if that’s where Grizel was killed. There’s even supposed to be a bloodstain on the floor that can’t be washed off.”

Peregrine gave a nod, obviously impressed. “I can’t argue with that logic,” he agreed. “Now all we have to do is figure out a way to drop in for a look around, without anyone else being the wiser.”

At his accompanying grimace, Adam sat back with a thoughtful sigh.

“I’ve been wondering about that myself,” he said. “Merely gaining access is no problem, of course, since we’re still in the tourist season, and Fyvie is open to visitors during the usual hours. But that alone makes it rather too public for our purposes. If we’re to gain entry to the castle outside normal visiting hours, I think we shall have to resort to some other stratagem—ideally, something that doesn’t involve breaking and entering.”

Peregrine snorted. “Well, that’s a relief. I’m not sure I’d care to try breaking and entering a castle.”

Nodding distractedly, Adam continued to consider, then said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you on the books of the National Trust as someone they can call on, if they need an expert to authenticate a given work in their possession?”

“That’s right,” Peregrine answered. “My special area of expertise is the works of Sir Henry Raeburn. They’ve got more than a dozen at Fyvie, you know. I’ve also done some minor restorations of paintings for the Trust—but I’m only one of a whole army of qualified people they can call upon.”

“That doesn’t much matter,” Adam said. “Have you ever done any work on any of the portraits housed at Fyvie?”

“Not in any official capacity,” Peregrine said. “I’m familiar with the Raeburns, of course. But that’s only because they were among the many works of his that I surveyed in detail while I was working on my thesis.”

“Did you survey them firsthand?”

“Yes, of course. You can’t work from photographs or copies if you’re learning to distinguish particular features of an artist’s distinctive style.”

“Who arranged your surveying visits for you?”

“My academic supervisor worked it out with the castle administrator,” Peregrine said. He peered owlishly at Adam and added, “Is this important?”

“It could be,” Adam said, “depending on whether or not the castle administrator would still remember you.”

“I expect he would. I spent quite a few hours under his nose while I was going over the Raebums,” Peregrine said. “That’s assuming, of course, that he hasn’t been replaced since I was last there. I’ll be happy to telephone Fyvie and inquire, but before I do, could you tell me what, all this is leading up to?”

The baffled appeal in his expression moved Adam to smile in spite of himself.

“Of course. We need a good excuse for getting inside Fyvie Castle outside normal visiting hours. With any luck, you’re going to supply us with that excuse.”

The ruse he went on to describe was relatively simple. Peregrine’s response was a scandalized grin.

“Sounds deliciously devious to me,” he said. “Do you really think it will work?”

“Our success or failure in the long run will depend largely on Noel’s ability to brazen out an imposture,” Adam replied with a smile. “In the short term, though, it’s going to be up to you to sell the administrator on the initial idea.”

“I’m game to try,” Peregrine said. “Mr. Lauder was always pretty flexible—he used to let me in at all kinds of odd hours, when I was doing my research—but he may not much like the idea of having after-hours visitors descending on him at such short notice.”

“The time factor can’t be helped. Time is one thing we are desperately short on,” Adam reminded him.

“I know,” Peregrine said. “But let me see what I can do—though if Lauder’s been replaced, all bets may be off. “

The telephone number for Fyvie Castle was listed in one of the guidebooks Adam had been consulting. Taking the booklet with him for reference, Peregrine went over to Adam’s desk and reached for the telephone, turning to pull a wry face at Adam as he dialled the number at Fyvie.

“Hello, I wonder if I could speak to Mr. Frederick Lauder, please,” he said. “It’s Peregrine Lovat calling.”

There was a brief delay while the call was transferred to the administration office.

“Mr. Lauder, this is Peregrine Lovat—Mr. Bottomley’s student,” Peregrine said, when the line had picked up. “Yes, that’s right—the one who was studying the Raeburns. No, I’m working out of Edinburgh these days. Yes, doing very well, thank you. I’m ringing up to ask if I might impose on you for a favor . . .”