The Adept (11 page)

For the next hour, Peregrine continued to draw, pausing only now and again to sharpen his pencil before moving into new position, to catch a different perspective. By the time he finally handed the notebook to Adam, standing up to stretch, he had completed no fewer than a dozen comprehensive drawings.

Adam looked them over, marveling at the wealth of detail running throughout. The restoration of the crest was particularly interesting, for it depicted a much earlier version of the Sinclair device, harking back to the time when the name had been Saint Clair, and the Templar connection had been quite unmistakable—a variation known to Adam, though not expected here, and certainly nothing that Peregrine Lovat could be expected to know.

Given the accuracy of this heraldic detail, far beyond the scope of coincidence, there was little doubt in Adam’s mind that Peregrine had reproduced an accurate record of the structural features of the house, inside and out.

The plan of the ground floor showed two vaulted storage chambers behind an entry hall, with the kitchen housed in the northeast tower. The great hall occupied the center of the building on the first level above the ground, with auxiliary family rooms opening off into the towers at either corner. The space on the next level up was divided into two bed-chambers, a strong room, and a solarium. The rooms on the garret level gave access to the parapet walks, where household guards would have kept watch in times of trouble. It was a plan fairly typical for castles of this era, but many of the interior details could not have been deduced merely from looking at the ruined remains, and certainly not in the short time Peregrine had spent drawing them.

“Peregrine, these are truly excellent,” Adam said, looking up. “May I show them to the surveyor when he calls round this afternoon?”
The young artist had plopped down on the bottom-most step in front of the port, with his booted feet stretched out in front of him. He was looking slightly weary, but there was no longer any strain in his face. At Adam’s question, he looked up and chanced a tentative smile.

“If you really think they’ll be useful—certainly.”

“If he’s any good at his job,” Adam replied, “I think ‘useful’ will be a gross understatement. How do you feel?”

Peregrine considered. “That’s very odd,” he said. “I’m tired, but you know, I feel quite relaxed—as though I’d got something bothersome out of my system.”

“And your vision?”

“It’s gone back to normal,” said Peregrine. He added with a half-laugh, “I think your experiment worked.” He sounded almost elated.

Adam gave him a knowing nod. In the last hour, they had passed the point of no return.

“I believe it did,” he replied. “How soon do you think you might be ready to start looking at people again?”

Peregrine’s eyes widened, but this time there was none of the fear that would have accompanied contemplation of the question, but hours before.

“Do you really think I could?” he asked.

“Why not?” Adam replied. “Was this frightening for you, once you actually got into it?”

“No.”

“Well, then.” Adam smiled. “People are the next step.

It’s the step you’re going to have to take, if you really mean to see this through.”

Peregrine drew a deep breath and let it out with a determined sigh.

“All right,” he said. “If you think I can do it, I’ll give it a try. Just tell me when and where.”

Adam nodded, considering. “How about tomorrow? I’ve got to go into Edinburgh in the morning to offer testimony in a case before the High Court. One of the other men scheduled to be present is someone I’d like you to look at very closely.

Chapter Seven

THE FOLLOWING
day dawned gusty and changeable. Peregrine and Adam left Strathmourne House shortly before nine, with Humphrey behind the wheel of the reliable blue Range Rover that was the workhorse of Adam’s stable of motorcars. By the time they reached the Forth Road Bridge, most of the morning’s rush hour traffic had subsided, leaving the roads relatively clear into the center of the city.

Humphrey let his passengers out on the front steps of Parliament House, directly across from St. Giles’ Cathedral. Peregrine shifted the strap of his small artist’s satchel on his shoulder and hunched down in the collar of his trenchcoat as he and Adam headed up the steps.

“You don’t let a chap start out easily, do you?” he said.

“I think I understand what you’re hoping for, and I have to admit that the case is fascinating. But I’d still be curious to know why you want me to concentrate on sketches of the arresting officer, rather than the defendant or any of the witnesses.”

Adam reached ahead to open the door into the courthouse building, holding it so that Peregrine could pass through ahead of him.

“Oh, you can sketch the others as well, if you feel up to it—though I’m not too sure I’d dwell on the defendant, at this early stage of your training. I’d rather not go into any further detail, though, because I don’t want your reactions to be influenced by anything I might say. You’ll understand
better, I think, once you’ve had a chance to put your gifts to use.”

“All right,” said Peregrine, somewhat dubiously. “I’ll do my best, in blind faith.”

The case was being tried in a courtroom on the third floor. It had been in the papers for months—a gradual buildup of bizarre events involving threats of retaliation by black magic, a series of bizarre animal executions, and culminating in an attempt to bum down a house belonging to an elderly woman who kept dozens of cats. Initially, Adam had been called in to construct a psychological profile of the probable perpetrator. When the police eventually arrested the son of a prominent and wealthy businessman, Adam had been asked to perform a psychiatric evaluation on behalf of the courts—and would be presenting testimony as an expert witness in that regard today. He had reviewed his notes on the way in, familiarizing Peregrine with the essential background of the case. Now, as they stood waiting for the lift, Peregrine glanced speculatively at his mentor.

“Your suspect—he really took all of that black magic nonsense seriously, didn’t he?”

“That black magic nonsense, as you so eloquently phrase it,
should
be taken seriously,” Adam replied, though a faint smile softened any rebuke that might have accompanied the bald statement, “Some of what the uninformed
call
black magic can be put down to psychological aberration and delusion, I would be the first to admit. But as you yourself have cause to know, the lines between delusion, illusion, and fact can be very fine, indeed.

The stark reference to Peregrine’s own situation produced the desired surprised silence, just as a soft chime announced the arrival of the lift. The doors opened, discharging a bewigged trio of barristers in their black courtroom robes.

When Adam headed briskly into the empty car, Peregrine had to scramble a few steps to keep up.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Peregrine said, when the doors had closed. “Are you saying that the suspect really
was
working black magic?”

“Oh, there’s little doubt he was
trying,”
Adam replied.
Peregrine stared at Adam in shock.

“Did he
succeed?”
he asked.

“No.” The flat denial hung in the air between them as Adam gazed somewhat distractedly
through
the lift’s control panel. “This wretched young man, not content with the material advantages he already had, aspired to powers he was not entitled to. He began to practice what he fancied was a form of black magic. Unfortunately, helpless animals suffered unspeakable torture—and an innocent old woman lost her home, her beloved pets, and very nearly her life. If there had been anything else to it, beyond a degree of petty and vicious immaturity, his activities might have attracted my notice sooner. As it was, he was only deluding himself in thinking that he was actually accomplishing something—which is better, I suppose, than the real thing, except that the victim still suffers, to one degree or another.”

“You’re implying that black magic
is
real, then,” Peregrine said, obviously finding it hard to believe what he was hearing.

“Oh, it certainly can be,” Adam said, fixing him with one of his bland, matter-of-fact looks. “The High Roads are many, and the Dark turnings have always been enticing to those of evil intent, who have a true affinity for spiritual power. And those who choose to travel the Dark Roads often engage in far blacker practices than animal sacrifice.”

The sheer nonchalance of his tone made the actual words somehow even more ominous in their impact. Even though it was close in the lift, Peregrine shivered. Before he could press for further information, the lift grounded with a bump and the doors parted on a corridor full of people waiting to be admitted to the courtroom.

“Inspector McLeod will be sitting with me behind the Crown prosecutor,” Adam murmured, as they stepped out and headed down the corridor, as casual as if they had just been discussing the previous day’s racing results. “If you make for the right-hand side of the visitors’ gallery, you should be able to get a reasonably good angle on his face.”

The visitors’ gallery extended along the back of the courtroom, with flanking extensions running halfway along the walls on either hand. Peregrine shouldered his way through a mixed group of journalists and idle spectators to secure a seat in the front row, overlooking the bench which Adam was sharing with a fit-looking grey-haired man in a tweed suit. The moustache and gold-rimmed aviator-style glasses tallied with the brief description Adam had given him. Never doubting that he had located his intended subject, Peregrine hauled his sketchbook from his satchel and embarked on his first sketch.

Other testimony occupied the better part of two hours.

Adam immersed himself in the proceedings, only allowing himself a glance up at the visitors’ gallery when it came time to take the stand himself. He was pleased to note that Peregrine was hard at work, his expression intensely absorbed. As Adam was sworn in, he briefly found himself wondering what McLeod would say when he learned he had been subjected to such penetrating scrutiny. After that, however, he gave his full attention to the questions of the Crown prosecutor, and then of the counsel for the defense.

Adam’s testimony was finished just before the court recessed for lunch. Taken as a whole, the morning had not gone well. As he and McLeod made their way toward tieback of the courtroom, moving with the flow of attorneys and witnesses and spectators, McLeod gave vent to an uncharacteristic rumble of complaint.

“Sometimes I don’t know why we bother,” he muttered through clenched teeth, so that only Adam could hear him.

“That smirking little weasel back there is going to get off with a fine and probation, when by rights he should be locked away before he gets a chance to really hurt somebody. I’ll lay you any odds you like that we get him back again within the year—and next time, it won’t be just for torturing animals.”

“I doubt you’ll get any takers, even at those odds,”

Adam replied. “However, there’s no point in dwelling on the limitations of the law. You’re through for the day, aren’t you? Why don’t you join me for lunch? I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

“That young man who was sketching, up in the gallery?”

McLeod asked. “I thought he might be with you. Unfortunately, I’m
not
through for the day.” He glanced at his
watch and grimaced. “And if I don’t get my skates on, it’ll be my hide, too.”

“What, have you been seconded for royal protection duty this afternoon?” Adam quipped, certain that McLeod was doing no such thing. “I seem to recall that a certain Royal Duke is in town.”

McLeod rolled his eyes and snorted. He had little patience with what he regarded as royal baby-sitting.

“Don’t you dare wish
that
on me, Adam, Let the younger chaps have the glory, so that old fogies like me can concentrate on real police work. No, this is some colonel from the S.A.S., come to teach a special workshop on using anti-terrorist tactics against inner city drug barons. I’ve already missed the morning session.”

“Next time, then,” Adam replied: “You
are
going to want to meet my young friend.”

“Hmmm, then I expect I’d better make the effort. Call me later in the week, will you?”

“I’ll do precisely that,” Adam agreed.

The two men parted outside the courtroom. Adam found Peregrine waiting for him in front of the lift, watching McLeod disappear into the crowd. The young artist was clutching his sketchbook to his breast, his eyes bright with eagerness behind his spectacles. Sensing that Peregrine was about to thrust the drawings at him, Adam fended him off with a smile and a restraining gesture.

“No, don’t show them to me now,” he said. “There’s an excellent French restaurant a few blocks from here. I had Humphrey book us a booth in the back, so we can have some privacy. I’d hoped the inspector could join, us, but unfortunately, he has another commitment.”

The restaurant was located down a stepped close off the Grassmarket. In between courses, Adam looked over the sketches Peregrine had made. He had
not
drawn the defendant. “I could hardly bear to look at him, Adam,” he said, as he handed over his sketchpad. “There was a fuzzy black line all around him, like someone had taken charcoal and smudged it. But at the same time, he looked—slimy is the only word that comes to mind.”

“Hmmm, yes,” Adam said, casting Peregrine a wry, I-told-you-so glance as he opened the pad. “Now perhaps you understand why I suggested you not try to sketch him. Selectively is very important at this stage of the game.”

But the sketches of Noel McLeod were precisely what Adam had expected. The first was a lively study of the inspector on the witness stand, moustache bristling above a mouth set in a bulldog scowl, wire-rimmed aviator glasses lending him a slightly dashing air. Another showed him and Adam behind the Crown prosecutor’s table, listening intently to testimony, both precisely as they would have appeared to everyone else in the courtroom.

The other drawings, however, were of far greater interest to Adam. In one version, McLeod’s bright blue eyes stared uncompromisingly out from under a Highland bonnet with a white cockade pinned to the band. In a second, he wore the cowled visage of a medieval monk. In yet another, the police inspector of the present day had assumed the guise of a raffish sea-captain with a bushy beard. Adam smiled involuntarily.

“I always thought McLeod had a touch of the pirate Henry Martin in him,” he observed out loud. “You’ve just confirmed that suspicion.”

Peregrine looked up from stirring cream into his coffee.

“You and he have more in common than first meets the eye,” he said on impulse. “The inspector’s another one like you, isn’t he?”

Adam confirmed it with a slight smile and a nod of the head. “Though he would be slow to admit it in so many words,” he said carefully, “Noel McLeod owes a great deal of his professional success and effectiveness to his hidden talents. The inspector is not alone in this respect,” he added pointedly.

The startled look on Peregrine’s face told him that the point had struck home.

“If you’re talking about me,” the artist said, “I don’t see how my gift for seeing this kind of thing can be of much use to the rest of humanity.”

“Keep working to perfect it,” said Adam, “and you might be surprised.”

So saying, he signaled the waiter to bring them the bill.
Adam’s cryptic words stayed with Peregrine, cropping up when he least expected them. He pondered them repeatedly, but he was not aware of being any the wiser. Indeed, he was kept far too busy to even think very much about them, for Adam kept giving him ever more demanding exercises to develop control.

The weather had cleared after lunch, so they walked down to Princes Street Gardens, where Adam had him sketch passers-by, sometimes opening his sight to all impressions, looking for the deeper resonances, sometimes deliberately limiting himself to what he saw with his physical sight. The next day, the challenge deepened when Adam took him along on a consultation session at Jordan-burn Hospital, where two of his patients had given their consent to have their portraits sketched.