The Adept (2 page)

Chapter One

IT
WAS
not until the following Monday, while waiting for his breakfast, that Sir Adam Sinclair became aware of the incident in Glasgow. He was still in riding clothes, having just come in from a brisk, early morning canter over the grounds of his country estate, not far from Edinburgh.

Sunlight was pouring into the little parlor always called the “honey-bee room,” because of the pale gold pattern of bees and flowers on the wallpaper, so he shrugged but of his hacking jacket and tossed it over the back of a nearby settee before pulling out the chair set before the little table in the wide window bay.

On the table, centered on a snowy tablecloth of fine Irish linen, a crystal vase of cut chrysanthemums reigned over a single place setting of antique silver and fine delft breakfast china. On top of his leather-bound appointment book, the morning edition of
The Scotsman
lay neatly folded in its customary place to the right of the china and cutlery. Adam unfolded it with a sharp flick of the wrist and scanned the main headlines as he sat down, absently loosening the knot of his tie.

Nothing of major interest had happened over the weekend. The European Parliament was poised to ratify a new set of air pollution control standards; a Japanese electronics firm had announced its intention to open up a manufacturing plant in Dundee; members of the Scottish Nationalist Party had staged another protest against the poll tax. He almost missed the item tucked away in the paper’s lower left-hand corner:
Body of Alleged Drug Dealer to Be Returned to U.S.

Raising an eyebrow, Adam folded down the top half of the paper and continued reading. As a physician and sometime police consultant, he tried to keep up with progress—or lack thereof—in the ongoing war against illegal drugs, but this seemed to be a follow-up to a story he somehow had missed, toward the end of last week. According to the article, the body of an American serviceman had been found in a derelict area of Glasgow’s docklands—probably the victim of a drug deal gone wrong, judging by the execution-style shooting and the amount of money found on the body.

Given only what was in the article, Adam allowed that the police theory probably was correct, for drug trafficking, unfortunately, was becoming more and more a fixture in Scotland’s largest city. Still, the thought crossed his mind, for no rational reason he could fathom, that the case might not be as open-and-shut as the Glasgow police seemed to think it was.

Further speculation was diverted by the arrival of Humphrey, his butler and valet of some twenty years’ service, bearing a laden silver breakfast tray.

“Good morning, Humphrey,” Adam said easily, lowering the paper as the butler set down a rack of buttered toast and a steaming porcelain teapot beside the immaculate breakfast service.

“Good morning, sir. I trust you had a pleasant ride.”

“Yes, Humphrey, I did. I rode up by the castle ruins. I was appalled to discover that there are several small trees growing out of the debris on top of the first floor vaulting. And the ivy doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Humphrey gave a subdued chuckle as he poured his master a cup of tea.

“I understand that even the Queen Mother wages a constant war against ivy, sir,” he murmured. “Absolutely hates the stuff. It’s said that weekend guests are apt to be drafted to help pull it down. Perhaps we might consider the same tactic, here at Strathmourne.”

“Hmmm, yes,” Adam replied, with a twitch of his newspaper. “Well, I didn’t realize ours had gotten so bad over the summer. I left a message for MacDonald to get a
crew up there today, if possible, and start clearing it away.

If he should call, you can confirm that for me. We can’t have the thing collapsing any more, just when I’m intending to start restoring it next spring.”

“Indeed not, sir,” Humphrey agreed. “I’ll see to it.”

As the butler retreated to the kitchen, Adam helped himself to toast and opened the paper to pages two and three. He skimmed over the first few headlines on the left-hand page, not paying particularly close attention, until his gaze was arrested by another item, tucked away in the lower right-hand column:
Antique Sword Goes Missing.

The dark brows rose slightly as Adam bent for a closer look. As a connoisseur and sometime collector of edged weaponry himself, such an article never failed to pique his interest. He scanned it once through, quickly, then turned the paper inside-out and folded it in half to read the article again, while he sipped his tea, trying to supply what the article did
not
say.

Lothian and Borders Police are investigating the disappearance of a historic sword from the museum in Mossiecairn House, outside Edinburgh. The sixteenth-century Italian rapier, known as the “Hepburn Sword,” has long been associated with Sir Francis Hepburn, the fifth Earl of Bothwell, who died in 1624. The sword is presumed stolen, but the actual date of the theft is uncertain. Its disappearance was not noticed for several days, owing to confusion on the part of museum staff, who were under the impression that the weapon had been removed from its case for cleaning. The sword is valued at approximately £2000. A reward is offered for information leading to its recovery . . .

Adam sat back in his chair, lips pursed, dark brows drawn together in a deep frown. Though he told himself that his interest came of the subject matter in general, some sixth sense insisted that this story almost certainly reflected more than met the eye. Taking a pen from beside his appointment book, he drew a circle around the entire article. Then he reached around behind him and leaned back in his chair to snare the telephone off a side-table next to the settee. The number of the Lothian and Borders Police in Edinburgh was a familiar one. He dialed swiftly, identified himself, and asked to speak with Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod. There was a short delay while the police operator transferred the call to Press Liaison. Then a familiar, bass voice rumbled in his ear.

“Is that you, Sir Adam? Good morning. What can I do for you?”

“Good morning, Noel. I’ve just been casting my eye over the morning paper. If you’ve got a moment, I’d like a word with you concerning one of the items on page two of
The Scotsman.”

“Oh, aye?” The voice on the other end of the line sounded anything but surprised. “I suppose that’ll be the piece about the Hepburn Sword.”

“You seem quite certain it wasn’t the report on the latest sighting of the Loch Ness Monster,” Adam said, smiling.

“Monster sightings,” said McLeod, “are five pence a dozen. And you wouldn’t be phoning me, you’d be phoning the constabulary up at Inverness. On the other hand, the theft of a sword that once belonged to Sir Francis Hepburn might well be of interest to you, given the good earl’s reputation.”

“As a wizard?” Adam replied, careful to phrase his next words with suitable ambiguity, just in case anyone should chance to listen in. “I know of no reason,” he said ingenuously, “to dispute with tradition on that account.”

There was just the slightest of hesitations on the other end of the line, before McLeod replied, “I see.”

“As a collector of edged weaponry myself,” Adam went on, “I was disappointed that the newspaper account was so thin on detail. It’s a beautiful sword. Can you supply any additional information?”

McLeod made a noise between a growl and a snort, back now on more neutral ground.

“I wish I could,” he said. “We’ve got two good men assigned to the case, but they’ve not got much to show for their pains. One thing’s for certain: it wasn’t a conventional theft. Nothing else in the place was lifted—not so much as a silver spoon.”

“Which means,” Adam replied, “that the thief was after the sword, and that alone. Was it an amateur job?”

“Most definitely not,” McLeod said emphatically.

“Quite the reverse. Our jolly thief disarmed the security alarms at the back of the house and then avoided the hall sensors by going through the dining room and picking the lock on the connecting doors. We figure he must have visited the house at least once to case it, so we’re following that lead, to see if any of the staff remembers anyone suspicious.”

His sigh conveyed a world of exasperation.

“Unfortunately, I doubt any of this will come to anything. We’re not even certain when the theft occurred, because our boy left a sign in the case:
Display Removed for Conservation.
Oh, he was clever, this one. Needless to say, we didn’t find any prints.”

“In other words,” said Adam, “you haven’t any leads.”

“Not one worth a wooden ha’penny,” came the tart reply.

“We’ll just have to keep our eyes open, and hope for a break. It’s possible the sword will turn up eventually in one of the auction rooms or arms fairs—though I doubt it. The case has all the earmarks of a contract acquisition for some collector who fancies items with odd provenances.”

“Hmmm, as a collector with similar proclivities, I would tend to agree,” Adam said, “—though you can rest easy,

Noel,” he hastened to add, smiling. “
I
haven’t got your sword!”

McLeod’s easy chuckle left no doubt that the inspector had never even considered such a notion.

“It
would
help if we had some idea what kind of person might go after an item like the Hepburn Sword,” McLeod said. “As a psychiatrist as well as a collector, would you care to speculate?”

It was an unofficial way of inviting Adam to tender an opinion—and to articulate an idea that probably had already occurred to the canny McLeod, though he would never dare to admit it in any official capacity.

“Well,” Adam said, again choosing his words carefully, “I believe we can rule out a simple profit motive. A £2000 sword simply isn’t worth the effort and expertise it took to evade the security system and steal it. The fact that nothing else is missing would tend to support that theory. This means that the thief was after this specific sword.”

“Aye,” McLeod agreed.

“So we must ask ourselves, what sort of a person would want this particular sword?” Adam went on. “It isn’t especially unique for its kind; I have several similar blades in my collection, some of them previously owned by men far more historically important than the Earl of Bothwell.

“So it has to be something else about the sword’s past. What else do we know? It belonged to the
Wizard
Earl of Bothwell. I shouldn’t want this to be taken wrong, Noel, but it is not inconceivable that the thief—or someone for whom he is acting—is someone who believes that the sword is imbued with some measure of the powers ascribed to its former owner.”

“Now there’s an interesting thought,” McLeod said. The tone of this noncommittal reply made it quite clear to Adam that the other man was well aware of the Wizard Earl’s legendary fame as a necromancer.

“Assuming less esoteric motives, however,” McLeod continued blandly, “I think I’ll still have my chaps keep an eye on the auction rooms and arms fairs.”

“That’s what
I
would do,” Adam agreed.

McLeod snorted, “Somehow I figured you would! Meanwhile, if some poor sod turns up impaled on Francis Hepburn’s blade, in culmination of some satanic rite, I’ll be sure to let you know before the press get wind of it.”

“Thank you,” Adam said dryly. “I’d appreciate that.” He pushed the newspaper aside thoughtfully. “Oh, there was one other item I wanted to ask you about, since I’ve got you on the line. I don’t suppose you’ve formulated any personal theories concerning that American serviceman who turned up dead in Glasgow?”

“No. I was just relieved that he didn’t turn up dead in my jurisdiction,” McLeod said baldly. “The Glasgow police have been getting a hell of a row from the people at the Home Office, who have been getting a hell of a row from the American embassy—” He broke off abruptly. “Do you
think there might be some connection between the two cases?”

“I don’t know,” said Adam. “I was merely wondering.”

“That,” said McLeod “is anything but reassuring. Whenever you start wondering, I know it’s only a matter of time before something happens that I’m going to have trouble explaining to the satisfaction of the media.”

Adam allowed himself a companionable chuckle. “I
am
sorry, Noel. If this case produces any unusual complications, you know you can count on my help.”

“Oh, aye,” came the gruff reply. “But as they say somewhere or other: I knew the job was dangerous. Anyway, I’ve got another bloody phone ringing. Call me if anything else occurs to you, all right?”

“You know I will.”

With this assurance, Adam rang off and resumed his breakfast, thinking about the Hepburn Sword. He was just finishing his second cup of tea, and thumbing through his day’s appointments, when Humphrey reappeared with the morning’s post on a silver tray.

Adam accepted the stack of mail with a murmur of thanks and gave it a cursory riffle, then set it aside and handed Humphrey the front section of
The Scotsman.