The Adept Book 3 The Templar Treasure (3 page)

His audience had been listening with rapt fascination, caught up in the near hypnotic intensity for which Dr. Adam Sinclair was famous, and now the old lecturer nodded grudging approval.

“You appear to have thought the matter through very thoroughly, Dr. Sinclair,” he admitted. “Are we to take it then, that you personally subscribe to the belief you’ve just outlined in such poetic terms?”

“You may take it,” Adam said lightly, “that we have come as close as we can to providing Ms. Liu with the theological resolution she was seeking. Speaking more clinically, from the standpoint of a psychotherapist, I would say that whatever we may personally come to believe about the nature of past-life regressions, when we encounter such regressions in our patients, it behooves everyone concerned to treat such memories as a valid aspect of the patients’ total experience.”

He would have continued but for a rap at the lecture room door. He glanced in that direction as the door opened and one of the hospital administrators poked his head around the doorframe.

“Sorry to interrupt your lecture, Dr. Sinclair, but I have a telephone message for you. They said it was rather urgent.”

Coming forward, he handed Adam a folded piece of hospital memo paper. Inside, written in a neat secretarial hand, was a single sentence:
Sir Adam: Humphrey requests that you phone home immediately.

Conscious of a sudden feeling of foreboding, Adam consulted his pocket watch, then directed his attention back to his class as he stood.

“My apologies, but it seems I’m going to be obliged to cut this lecture short,” he said smoothly, pocketing watch and note. “Please feel free to carry on in my absence, but we’ll plan to resume the discussion next time.”

Five minutes later, seated behind the desk in his office, he was listening soberly as Humphrey, his butler and personal valet, relayed the news about Nathan Fiennes.

“Mrs. Fiennes said that emergency surgery was performed during the night to alleviate pressure on the brain, but his condition is deteriorating,” Humphrey concluded. “Apparently he asked for you immediately after the attack. Mrs. Fiennes was quite agitated that you should come, if at all possible.”

The account, as it unfolded, struck Adam as oddly coincidental, for though he had not thought about his old mentor in some time, it had been Nathan to whom he was referring when he spoke of the Qabalah during his interrupted lecture. He had to wonder whether the old man’s worsening condition, coupled with his specific request for Adam’s presence, perhaps partially explained why Adam should have been thinking about Nathan only minutes before.

“Thank you for relaying that, Humphrey,” Adam said, when Humphrey had finished. “I’ll go, of course. I don’t suppose you had time to check with the airlines to see what flights are available?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, sir. Air UK has a four-fifteen flight into Leeds-Bradford, which is the airport nearest to York itself. There were still seats available ten minutes ago. Shall I book you one, sir?”

“Yes, do that, please,” Adam said. “On second thought, book two seats. If Inspector McLeod can get away, I’m going to ask him to accompany me. Since there’s a police aspect to this, it may be that he can facilitate interface with the Yorkshire constabulary.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I pack you an overnight bag and meet you at the airport?”

Adam glanced at his gold pocket watch and grimaced.

“Good idea. It’s going to be tight to make that flight. See you when I get there, Humphrey.”

His next phone call was to the Fiennes residence in York, but there was no response. After the seventh ring, Adam abandoned the attempt and dialed the number assigned to police headquarters in Edinburgh.

“Good afternoon. Sir Adam Sinclair calling. Please put me through to Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod.”

He did not often invoke his title, but as usual, it got him the desired result.

“Hello, Adam. What can I do for you?” came a gruff, familiar voice.

“Hello, Noel. I’ve had something rather unusual come up,” Adam said. “Are you busy?”

“Not unless you count the usual backlog of paperwork,” McLeod replied. “Given half an excuse, I’d gladly play hooky for the rest of the afternoon.”

“How about a whole excuse, and play hooky tomorrow too?” Adam replied. “I’m afraid that what I have to offer is hardly in the nature of a pleasant diversion, but it
is
police business, and it isn’t behind a desk. How good are your contacts down in York?”

Adam heard the muffled squeak of chair springs as McLeod pulled himself upright. “What’s happened?”

Briefly Adam outlined the situation as Humphrey had relayed it to him.

“Nathan Fiennes is an old and dear friend,” he concluded. “I read philosophy with him when I was down at Cambridge, and we’ve maintained the friendship ever since. I would have been happy to go to him in any case, but the fact that he’s asked for
me
in particular suggests that there may be more to this situation than meets the eye. Your assistance would be welcome on a number of fronts.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” McLeod replied. “If all else fails, I’ve got some personal leave time coming to me. When were you planning on leaving?”

“I’ve had Humphrey book seats for us on the four-fifteen flight to Leeds,” Adam said. “I realize that’s cutting things a bit fine at your end, but the alternative is to drive, which wouldn’t put us in much before midnight. I’m not sure Nathan has that much time.”

“Don’t worry about me,” McLeod said sturdily. “How do you want to handle this, logistic-wise?”

“Why don’t I meet you there at your office in about half an hour?” Adam said. “Humphrey will be at the airport ahead of us to pick up the tickets. I drove the Jag in this morning, so I’d rather leave it in the police car park than here, if it’s going to sit for a few days. If you don’t mind, we can take your car from there, and swing by your house on the way to the airport to collect your kit.”

“Aye, that ought to streamline things a bit,” McLeod agreed. “I’ll call Jane and have her pack me a bag. See you when you get here.”

Several more phone calls handled the arrangements to cover Adam’s duties at the hospital for the next few days. Then he put a call through to York District Hospital.

“Yes, Dr. Adam Sinclair calling with regard to a patient named Fiennes. He would have been admitted last night for emergency surgery. I expect he’s in ICU.”

After several transfers of his call, Adam found himself speaking to one of the on-call physicians in intensive care.

“I’m afraid the professor’s prognosis is very poor, Dr. Sinclair,” the woman concluded. “He was still conscious when he came in last night, but a hematoma developed during the night and we had to go in to relieve it. Unfortunately, he hasn’t regained consciousness since the surgery. I wish I could say there was much hope that he will.”

“I see,” Adam said. “I don’t suppose Mrs. Fiennes is there in the ICU, by any chance?”

“No, I don’t see her—though I’m sure she hasn’t gone far. I think her son finally persuaded her to go down to the hospital cafe for a cup of coffee. She’s been here all night, and he came in first thing this morning. Shall I have one of them return your call when they come back?”

“No, I’ll be on my way to the airport by then,” Adam said. “Just tell Mrs. Fiennes that I’ve received her message and that I expect to be joining her there at the hospital in a couple of hours. Will you do that? Thank you very much.”

Chapter Two

ADAM MADE
the drive
across town to police headquarters in
a mood of somber reflection, skirting west of the castle mound and into Princes Street, then winding up around Charlotte Square and on along Queensferry Road. He could not escape the growing conviction that something beyond a mere burglary and assault lay at the root of what was now unfolding.

The headquarters complex for the Lothian and Borders Police Department was a multistorey confection of glass and steel, bristling with radio antennae on its roofs and set back from Fettes Avenue, northwest of the city center. Pulling around into the visitors’ car park, within sight of McLeod’s black BMW, Adam parked and locked the dark blue Jaguar and headed for the main entrance. One of the officers on duty at the desk recognized him and waved him on through, rather than asking him to wait for an escort to come down and fetch him, and he made his way purposefully up a back stair. As he headed through the large open-plan office toward McLeod’s door, which was ajar, he nodded recognition to several officers working there. He could hear McLeod’s voice through the gap as he approached.

“Yes, thanks, Walter. That’s all I can think of at the moment. Right. We’ll talk again when I get there. In the meantime, thanks for all your trouble.”

There followed the click of a telephone receiver being returned to its cradle, just before Adam gave a light rap at the door to announce his presence.

“Enter!” McLeod called.

Adam pushed the door open. McLeod was at his desk, gold-rimmed aviator spectacles pushed up on his forehead and his tie askew, looking like a man in no mood to welcome interruptions. As soon as he caught sight of Adam, however, his expression eased to a grin of welcome, the wiry grey moustache bristling above a glint of white teeth.

“Hullo, Adam. Sorry about the bark. I thought for a moment it was one of my confounded juniors determined to bollix things up at the last minute.”

“I take it, then, that you’re free and clear?”

“At least for the rest of today and tomorrow,” McLeod said with a grim nod, getting to his feet and reaching for his coat. “I’ve just been on the phone to a colleague down in York, who’s going to find out what he can. Someone will meet us when we arrive. On the surface, at least, it appears to have been a professional job: household alarm effectively disabled—safe opened, not blown—no identifiable prints left anywhere, other than those of the victim and his wife. There were two perpetrators, but they were wearing balaclava masks and surgical gloves. York Police are still interviewing possible witnesses in the neighborhood, but they haven’t got any leads. It doesn’t look very hopeful at present.”

As he did up his tie, a fresh-faced young man in civilian clothes appeared in the doorway—Donald Cochrane, one of McLeod’s most able assistants, recently promoted to the rank of detective.

“Oh, there you are, Donald,” McLeod said. “Did you finally get through?”

Cochrane grinned, just missing a salute. “Yes, sir. Mrs. McLeod apologizes for tying up the phone, and will have a bag waiting for you by the time you get there. Anything else you’d like me to do?”

“Can’t think of anything,” McLeod replied. “You have the con till I get back. Keep things ticking over smoothly, will you? I don’t want to come home to find half a dozen crises on my desk.”

“Aye, sir,” Cochrane returned with a grin. “See you in a couple of days.”

On the way out to McLeod’s house in Ormidale Terrace, Adam gave the inspector a concise briefing on Nathan Fiennes’ medical condition.

“No wonder Walter and his lads are frantic, down in York,” McLeod said when Adam had finished. “A burglary with assault is bad enough, but if the case gets compounded with a murder charge, they’re really going to have their work cut out for them.”

“If the charges extend to murder,” Adam said grimly, “the perpetrators are going to have more than the Yorkshire police to contend with.”

They picked up McLeod’s bag and made it to the airport in time to rendezvous with Humphrey a good twenty minutes before flight time. The intrepid Humphrey had already checked them in, and handed over tickets and boarding cards along with Adam’s overnight bag before bidding them farewell. The flight itself was uneventful, touching down at Leeds-Bradford within a minute or two of its appointed arrival time.

With only carry-on luggage, Adam and McLeod disembarked along with the rest of the passengers and made their way into the arrivals lounge. Here they were intercepted by a short, wiry individual in a dapper three-piece tweed suit and sunglasses. McLeod’s look of intense scrutiny transformed immediately into a grin of recognition.

“Hello, Walter!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you’d come in person.”

His associate shrugged and smiled.

“I figured I might as well, and save time all around. My driver’s waiting outside in the car. We can talk on the way back to York. Do you have any luggage?”

“No, just what we’re carrying,” McLeod replied. “Walter, I’d like you to meet Sir Adam Sinclair, special psychiatric consultant for Lothian and Borders Police. As I mentioned earlier on the phone, he’s a longtime close friend of Nathan Fiennes, and Fiennes apparently asked his wife to call Adam, right after the assault. Adam, this is Superintendent Walter Phipps, whose men are following up on the investigation.”

“I’m grateful for any assistance you and your men can render, Superintendent,” Adam said, taking stock of his new acquaintance as he and the Yorkshireman traded handshakes. Half a head shorter than McLeod, Phipps was lean and active-looking, with short-cropped fair hair and a crisp moustache, both lightly touched with hints of silver. Steady grey eyes returned Adam’s gaze with shrewd regard, then crinkled slightly at the edges, as if their owner was favorably impressed by what he saw.

“Your reputation precedes you, Sir Adam,” Phipps said with a tight-lipped smile. “And please call me Walter, if you’re a friend of Noel’s. I seem to recall that you’re the man Scotland Yard called in several years ago to construct a psychiatric profile of the man they eventually arrested as the so-called Scarborough Slasher. Nobody looks for a miracle like that to come along every day, but maybe you can come up with some leads in the present case—because I’m afraid we haven’t much to go on, so far.”

“I’ll certainly do whatever I can,” Adam promised, as they headed out to the curb and a waiting black Ford Granada. “Right now, however, I’d like to get to the hospital as soon as possible. I gather that Professor Fiennes’ prospects are not good, and I’d like at least to
attempt
to speak with him before time runs out.”

“Well, I don’t know how successful you’re going to be in that,” Phipps replied, opening the boot so McLeod and Adam could stash their bags. “He was still unconscious when I left York, three-quarters of an hour ago, though at least he was holding his own. It doesn’t look good, though.” He got into the front, next to the uniformed constable who was driving, and McLeod and Adam piled into the back.

It was twenty-three miles back to York. On the way, Phipps briefed them on the essentials of the case to date. The police car pulled up at the main entrance to York District Hospital shortly before six o’clock. As Adam prepared to get out, Phipps produced a business card from his breast pocket and scribbled some numbers on the back.

“I expect you’ll want to be here for a while,” Phipps said, handing the card to Adam. “This is the extension at my office, and the other one is my home number. Noel and I will pick up a bite to eat on the way to headquarters, but then we’ll be at this number or thereabouts for the rest of the evening. If it gets too late, we may come to check on you. Incidentally, you’re both welcome to stay at my place, if you haven’t made other arrangements.”

“Thank you,” Adam said with a nod. “I’m not sure sleep is in the cards for me tonight, but I’ll try to give you a call later this evening, when I know more. See you later, Noel.”

Once inside the building, Adam made his way up to the intensive-care unit. The sister in charge of the ward greeted him with an air of reservation at first, but her manner thawed at once when he produced one of his business cards listing his credentials.

He skimmed over Nathan’s chart with growing dismay, returning it with a word of thanks. He was just turning to go into the ICU when a tenor voice hailed him from farther up the corridor.

“Is that Sir Adam Sinclair? Oh, thank God you’re here!” The speaker was Nathan’s elder son, Peter, a muscular, dark young man in his mid-thirties, wearing an impeccably cut grey pin-striped suit and round horn-rimmed glasses that made him look studious. After graduating with a first-class law degree from Oxford, Peter Fiennes had gone to work for one of the most prestigious corporation legal firms in London and quickly earned his barrister’s credentials. Recent rumor had it that he soon would take silk as a Queen’s Counsel. At the moment, however, little in his manner suggested the cool, levelheaded barrister. Instead, he looked tense and grief-stricken and far younger than he was—a man already in mourning for a father whose grasp on life was growing weaker with every passing hour.

He hurried forward to clasp the hand that Adam held out to him, allowing himself to be drawn briefly into an embrace of commiseration. Feeling the tremor in the younger man’s shoulders and hand, Adam said quietly, as they drew apart, “Peter, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this should have happened. Naturally, I came as quickly as I could. How’s your mother holding up?”

Peter shrugged and shook his head. “She’s exhausted; I don’t think she’s gotten more than an hour or two of sleep while Dad was in surgery early this morning. He’s always meant the world to her. Right now, all she can think about is that she’s losing him. And there doesn’t seem to be anything anyone can do about it.”

“Peter, I’m so sorry,” Adam repeated. “How about your brother? Have you gotten through to him?”

Peter nodded. “He’ll be in a few hours. He’s flying in from Tel Aviv. The orchestra’s getting ready to go on tour, but they drafted the second flute to move up to first. She’s thrilled at the chance, but sorry for the circumstances, of course—a really nice girl. I hope Larry marries her. Anyway, that means that he’ll be able stay as long as—as he has to.”

“As will I,” Adam said quietly. “As long as I’m needed. Where’s your mother just now?”

“Keeping watch over Dad,” Peter said, gesturing with his chin toward the glass-windowed double doors. “She’s hardly left his side since he came back from surgery. Come with me and I’ll take you to her.”

The intensive-care unit, like most facilities of its type, was a gleaming, antiseptic wilderness of light-panels, consoles, and life-support installations. Several of the other patients confined there had relatives in attendance, in addition to physicians and nurses circulating among them, and the big room breathed with the susurrant murmur of lowered voices above the hum and ping of the electrical equipment. Adam and Peter drew one or two token glances as they entered from the corridor, for both were striking-looking men, in different ways, but it was clear that the other visitors present were too wrapped up in their own concerns to pay much heed to what was going on elsewhere in the unit.

Nathan Fiennes occupied the bed farthest to the left of the room, his supine, white-draped body wired up to a battery of monitors. His face beneath the alien white skullcap of surgical bandages was grey and bruised-looking, more like the face of an effigy than that of a living man. As Adam drew closer, he could hear the older man’s breath whistling as it sawed in and out between slack, dry lips. A nasal oxygen tube of transparent greenish plastic snaked back over his head to disappear among the orderly tangle of other tubes and wires. Even without a knowledge of what was recorded on Nathan’s medical chart, Adam would have known at a glance that his old friend was not likely to recover from his injuries.

Rachel Fiennes was slumped exhaustedly in a chair between her husband’s bed and the next, which was empty, her back to the doorway. Her head was bowed, either dozing or praying, but even from across the room, Adam could see the tension in the lines of her body as she clung fast to one of her husband’s slack hands. His other hand, confined by a cuff, was connected to an I.V. drip. Together they made a study in tragedy.

Shaking his head sorrowfully, Peter Fiennes went up to his mother and laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. When she started up, he soothed her with a pat and said gently, “It’s all right, Mother. Sir Adam’s here—just as Dad wanted.”

Rachel Fiennes’ haggard gaze flew beyond her son to the tall, dark figure standing a few feet behind him, at the foot of her husband’s bed, and a tremulous smile touched her lips.

“Adam,” she breathed softly. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“I only wish it were under happier circumstances,” Adam said quietly. “I’m not sure why Nathan asked for me in particular, but now that I’m here, I hope I can be of some service.”

Wordlessly Peter Fiennes brought up a chair for Adam beside his mother, then took another for himself on the other side of the bed, facing them. As Adam settled beside Rachel, she reached out to take one of Adam’s hands with her free one.