The Adept (21 page)

“I see,” Adam said. “Ah, what tests have been ordered, please?” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Just a moment, doctor.” The sound of rustling paper intruded briefly. “Yes. She’s ordered more blood work and a CAT scan. Is there some problem with that?”

“No, not at all. Thanks very much for your help, matron.”

“You’re very welcome, doctor. Shall I have Dr. Ogilvy call you? She should be here within the hour.”

“Thank you, no,” Adam said again. “I won’t be reachable by telephone for the next few hours. Perhaps I’ll check back later in the day.”

When he had cradled the receiver, Adam sat back thoughtfully in his chair.

So. The two telephone calls had gained him a great deal of useful information, but only so far as it pertained to getting him in to see Gillian Talbot. Unfortunately, he was not likely to learn anything else of use until and unless he could examine the girl—and hopefully, reestablish communication with that part of the soul that once had been Michael Scot. Whether or not he could accomplish that would depend, at least partially, on luck. If the damage had been great, re-integrating the soul’s present personality might be a long and tedious process.

There was another aspect of a trip to London that might not depend so much on luck, however. As Adam folded away his maps and stashed the jeweller’s loupe in its drawer again, it occurred to him that if his own line of investigation proved in vain, perhaps Peregrine’s burgeoning talents might provide an alternative avenue of approach. Of more immediate urgency than repairing the damage that might have been done by Scot’s tormentors was the thwarting of their intentions concerning Scot’s book of spells and his gold.

To do that, Adam and his colleagues needed to know where the perpetrators were headed—and that information might well yield to more conventional methods of investigation, especially if augmented by Peregrine’s increasing ability to see on many levels. The artist already was as deeply involved in this affair as either McLeod or himself—not least because Michael Scot had singled him out as the recipient of information he hoped would enable his rescuers to bring his summoners to justice. And, Adam reminded himself, however inexperienced Peregrine might be in his present life, his soul was still that of a trained occultist.

Once an Initiate, always an Initiate
, he thought, and put his lingering doubts behind him.

He stood up and stretched, then glanced at his watch. He and Peregrine were about to have another busy day. Though it was just approaching eight o’clock, he knew Humphrey would be up by now—probably in the kitchen already, dealing with breakfast. He picked up the in-house telephone and rang there first. Humphrey answered on the second ring.

“Mr. Lovat and I need to go down to London today,” he informed-Humphrey, settling briskly down to business after exchanging good mornings. “I’d be obliged if you’d ring the airport as soon as the reservation desk is open and book seats on one of the midday flights. Route us into Heathrow, if you can, and notify me as soon as you have the details.”

“Certainly, sir.” Humphrey’s voice was imperturbable as ever. “Will you be staying overnight?”

“I think so,” Adam said. “You’d better pack a bag for me, just in case. And book us rooms at the Caledonian Club, if you can get us in. If not, one of my other clubs will do.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I arrange for a car and driver?”

“No, we’ll make do with taxis this time, I think.”

* * *

Peregrine entered the breakfast room just before nine o’clock, wearing grey flannels and his navy blazer, for Humphrey had already alerted him regarding the impending flight to London. He found his mentor already seated at the table, dressed for the city in a navy three-piece suit, riffling through his morning’s mail. He had a stack of books at his elbow.

“Good morning,” Adam said, with one of his wry smiles. “I hope you’re feeling fit for active duty.”

“Never better,” Peregrine said. He seated himself opposite Adam and pretended casual interest in unfurling his napkin. “Humphrey tells me he’s booked us seats on the noon flight to Heathrow. He also said I ought to bring along at least one change of clothes.”

“That’s correct,” Adam said. “I’ve been able to locate the precise whereabouts of Gillian Talbot.

“
Have
you?” Astonishment and relief mixed in Peregrine’s expressive eyes. “Where is she, then?”

“She’s a patient at Charing Cross Hospital, in Hammersmith,” Adam replied. “I rang there just a few minutes ago. There seems little doubt that she is, indeed, the child we’re looking for.”

“That’s amazing!” Peregrine declared, his expression then changing to one of concern. “But—why is she still in hospital? I thought you said she’d be all right, once Scot got back.”

“I had hoped she would be,” Adam replied. “Unfortunately, the news in that regard is mixed. As you rightly surmised, she was in a coma for a time. She was brought in as an emergency case yesterday morning. She regained consciousness yesterday afternoon—you can guess at about what time—but she appears to be completely out of touch with her surroundings. I know the name of her doctor now, and what tests have been ordered—not that they’ll tell anyone much. It’s my plan to go to the hospital and try to see her, try to get a few minutes alone with her without arousing unwanted curiosity.”

“You don’t want me there, then,” Peregrine said. “I don’t know anything about hospitals. I’ve never even been a patient.”

“No, I’ve got a separate commission for you in another part of London,” Adam agreed. “How’s your Latin?”

Peregrine gave him a quizzical look. “Rusty, I’m afraid. It’s been a few years.”

“You may be surprised at how quickly it comes back. Here.”

Adam passed Peregrine the topmost book from his stack: a handsome volume bound in brown Moroccan leather, with creamy pages the quality and texture of good watercolor paper. The gilt lettering on the spine read:
Miscellany of the Maitland Club—Vol. IV, Pt. I
. Opening to the title page revealed that the Miscellany was a collection of “original papers and other documents illustrative of the history and literature of Scotland.”

“Look at the second entry,” Adam directed, “beginning on page twenty-one.”

“
Brevis Descriptio Regni Scotie
,” Peregrine read aloud. “A Brief Description of the Kingdoms of Scotland.” He looked to Adam in question.

“The
Brevis Descriptio
is a thirteenth-century account of Scotland as seen through the eyes of an itinerant Englishman,” Adam explained. “In the absence of any contemporary maps, it’s the earliest surviving document of recorded locations in Scotland. The original manuscript is in the British Museum. I want you to go and take a look at it.”

“All right,” Peregrine said. “But what exactly am I supposed to be looking for in the original, that isn’t in here?”

“Psychic correspondences—if any,” said Adam, “between the
Brevis Descriptio
and your own drawings from Melrose. If that castle Scot showed you was still in existence at the time the
Descriptio
was made, you may be able to pick up sympathetic resonances between your sketches and the manuscript that will give us a clue to the castle’s general location.”

At Peregrine’s growing expression of dismay—and self-doubt—Adam paused and smiled.

“You needn’t worry,” he said. “I would not send you on this errand, if I did not think you were capable of the task. The process is not unlike setting up an electrical conductor between two points. Here is the method I recommend that you use . . .”

Peregrine listened intently as Adam proceeded to explain, incredulity gradually changing to eager agreement.

“I think I
can
do that,” he said, when the older man had finished. “Not only do you make it sound easy, but somehow the idea doesn’t daunt me at all—though if you’d told me, even a week ago, that we’d be having this conversation, I’d have said at least one of us was daft.”

Adam smiled. “Life is an ongoing learning process—and the learning stretches from life to life as well.”

“I think I almost believe you,” Peregrine replied. “There’s one practical aspect of this that still worries me a little, though. I understand what I’m to do, once I get my hands on the appropriate manuscripts. But getting the museum staff to let me see the manuscripts in the first place may pose a bit of a problem. I don’t have any academic credentials for this kind of research.”

“No,” Adam agreed, “but fortunately I do. I’ve prepared a letter of introduction for you—stuck there in the back of the book—addressed to an acquaintance of mine in the Department of Medieval Antiquities. He’s a specialist in medieval geography and cartography, and will give you all the assistance you may require.”

* * *

The noon flight from Edinburgh touched down at Heathrow Airport only a few minutes later than its scheduled arrival time, amid an autumn haze of thin fog backed by pallid sunshine. En route, Adam pointed out an article in that morning’s edition of
The Scotsman
:
Bizarre Grave Desecration at Melrose Abbey
. His own copy of the article had already made its way into his files. After reading it, Peregrine could only exchange an amazed look with his mentor. The article did not even hint at supernatural goings-on. Noel McLeod had done his job well.

With only carry-on baggage to contend with, the two made their way out of the main terminal at Heathrow with reasonable efficiency, though engaging a taxi proved more difficult than usual. The drive to the Caledonian Club also took far longer than Adam had hoped, though the doorman at the Caledonian recognized Adam at once, and took charge of their luggage with cordial efficiency, necessitating scarcely any delay at all.

The Caledonian Club lay just off Belgrave Square, in Halkin Street, near Hyde Park Corner. It was Adam’s favorite London club, of the several to which he belonged, and it was also quite centrally located for what both he and Peregrine had to do. Had time not been of the essence, he would have had their taxi double back and drop him at Charing Cross Hospital before taking Peregrine on to the British Museum—or hailed another taxi. But the doorman told him that taxis seemed to be in short supply today, and they already knew that traffic was moving very slowly.

Fortunately, Adam’s destination was reasonably convenient to the London Underground—which would be far faster than fighting surface traffic. Accordingly, he had the taxi deposit him by one of the entrances at Hyde Park Corner, passing a folded wad of currency to Peregrine to cover the fare and instructing the driver to continue on to the British Museum. The artist had his Melrose sketches locked away in the briefcase clutched across his knees, along with his letter of introduction, and he gave Adam a “thumbs up” sign just before the taxi pulled away.

Adam had forgotten how busy the London Underground could be, even outside rush hour. Fortunately, the correct train was waiting at the platform as he stepped off the escalator. Six quick stops later he was alighting at Hammersmith Station, following the signs that directed him along the pedestrian tunnels to surface on Fulham Palace Road, just under the Hammersmith Flyover. He paused briefly to get his bearings, then struck off along Fulham Palace Road, the collar of his trenchcoat turned up against a wind that suddenly had grown chill. Five minutes later, he was mounting the steps to the main entrance of Charing Cross Hospital.

He shed his trenchcoat as he entered the hospital lobby. Without it, outside and on the Underground, his three-piece suit would have set him a little apart from most of the men around him; here, he blended right in. Drawing anonymity from the “uniform,” he made his way purposefully to the hospital directory, confirming that Pediatrics was up in the west wing, where he remembered. A casual inquiry at the reception desk revealed that, as hoped, Dr. Helen Ogilvy was not in.

“I’m very sorry, doctor,” the receptionist told him. “You must have just missed her. If it’s urgent, you could probably reach her at the children’s hospital in Great Ormond Street, in about half an hour.”

Reassured that he probably would not have to deal with Gillian Talbot’s physician, Adam thanked the receptionist and made his way to the escalators on the other side of the lobby. Visiting hours had just begun, so he was able to blend in easily with the many other non-staff people moving about. He alighted on the first floor amid half a dozen people, obviously concerned parents, heading toward Pediatrics and followed along with them toward the nurses’ station. Scanning the status boards behind the desk, he found the name TALBOT,G. printed with two others in a space indicating a four-bed ward at the end of the corridor. Without stopping at the nurses’ station, he headed in that direction, hopeful of making his first contact without interference.

The door was open. It was not difficult to decide which bed was Gillian’s. The two closest to the door were occupied by younger children, one with a plastered leg in traction and one sporting an arm in a cast and supported by a sling, each engaged in contented chatter with a doting parent. The third bed was empty. The child in the fourth one, next to the windows, had to be Gillian.

She was sitting bolt upright in her bed—a slender, angelically fair creature with short blond curls, an engaging spray of freckles, and a rosebud mouth—with wide blue eyes staring fixedly at the wall just to the right of the door. The round, childlike face was utterly devoid of expression, and the small-boned hands lay curled aimlessly in her lap, occasionally plucking at the edge of the blanket.