The Adept (23 page)

“It’s for you, Mr. Rowley: Dr. Middleton.”

“Ah!” Rowley moved toward the telephone on his desk.

“Go ahead and take your call, sir,” Peregrine said, raising a hand in farewell. “I’ll hand these maps back to your secretary and find my own way out. And thanks again.”

Rowley gave him a nod and a wave before picking up the receiver Snatches of his end of the conversation filtered through into the adjoining room as Peregrine lingered long enough to allow Mrs. Trayle to take the requisite inventory of the documents involved.

“Hullo, William! So, how was the Highlands and Islands Conference? Oh? Oh, really? I’m sorry to hear that. Still, Raeburn was bound to be there, wasn’t he? After all, he’s got business interests in Inverness, as well as academic ones . . .”

Peregrine realized he was listening in, and gave himself a mental shake, mildly surprised at himself.
Whatever they’re talking about, it’s hardly any concern of yours,
he told himself as he made for the door. It puzzled him that fragments of that conversation continued to echo in his mind long after he had left the museum.

He had forgotten about the incident completely, however, by the time he had hailed a taxi and made the short trip back to the Caledonian Club. He entered the main hall to find Adam already there, sitting in a club chair in the angle of the staircase and thoughtfully sipping at a whiskey. The older man looked up immediately at Peregrine’s entrance, raising his glass in invitation to join him.

“Hullo,” Peregrine said, flopping his briefcase on the settee next to Adam and pausing to shed his trenchcoat. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Not at all,” Adam replied. “I’ve only been back a little while myself. How did you make out at the Museum?”

Peregrine sat down beside Adam and gestured to catch a waiter’s attention, pointing to Adam’s glass in signal for another of the same.

“I’m afraid my luck was variable,” he said. “In going over the
Brevis Descriptio,
I was able to narrow down our area to the kingdom of Ross. But that was the best I was able to do with the materials available.” He sighed and grimaced. “Most of the maps Rowley showed me were prints rather than drawings. Maybe I’d have done better if I’d had access to the manuscript originals.”

“Don’t be too quick to underrate your achievements,” Adam said. “Ross narrows the field considerably. You’ve provided us with a clue that may prove vital—not the least, because it’s the only clue we have at the moment.” Seeing Peregrine’s startled expression, he went on to explain.

“I saw the Talbot girl. She
is
the individual we’re looking for. Unfortunately, the information we need is, for the moment, completely inaccessible.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“The summoning and binding at Melrose had far more destructive consequences than I supposed,” Adam said bluntly. “There’s been a complete breakdown of personality. At all levels.”

“Did she not come out of her coma after all, then?” Peregrine asked.

Adam allowed himself a weary smile and shook his head, bowing his forehead briefly to press against the cool side of his glass.

“I wish it was that simple, Peregrine,” he murmured. “Clinically, the girl is conscious; but she’s in an almost catatonic state. She displays classic autistic responses—or non-responses. No, the personality has been fragmented, at all levels. I know. I was there.”

Peregrine’s brow furrowed in confusion—and concern for Adam’s apparent exhaustion—but before he could pursue either question, a waiter delivered his drink. He gave a distracted nod of thanks as the man discreetly withdrew, sipping automatically and then with more focused attention before raising the glass slightly in approval.

“This is very good,” he remarked, rolling the flavor on his palate. “Single malt?”

Adam nodded. “The MacAllan. You were about to comment?”

Peregrine swallowed and nodded, gesturing slightly with his glass.

“You said her personality was fragmented—but isn’t Michael Scot a separate personality?”

“Yes, but remember that I likened the personalities of successive incarnations to masks,” Adam replied, keeping his voice down as their conversation got more specific. “The
spirit
is the essence of what is ongoing, immortal—what wears the mask in a given incarnation. But pure spirit, unless it is
extremely
evolved, cannot interact with incarnate humans except through the agency of a mask—either a past one or a current one.

“I would venture to say that
all
of the masks once accessible to the spirit now occupying the body called Gillian Talbot have been fragmented—including the Michael Scot mask. Until that one, at least, can be reassembled, we’ll get no further access to information that would have been accessible to the Michael Scot incarnation.”

Peregrine’s eyes had grown round behind his spectacles. “Is there anything you can do to repair the damage?”

“Not in the short term,” Adam said. “I’ve offered to take Gillian under my care as a private patient. If her parents decide to avail themselves of my services, there are some grounds for hope. Otherwise . . .”

He shrugged and took another deep pull from his drink, and Peregrine’s eyes gradually went cold and grim behind his spectacles.

“The people responsible for this,” he said after a moment. “They’re the ones who dug up the abbey, aren’t they? The ones I sketched.”

At Adam’s grave nod, the artist leaned a little closer.

“Well, then, let’s
find
them, Adam,” he whispered. “They can’t be allowed to get away with something as—as bloody awful as this!”

“My thought, precisely,” Adam agreed.

“So, what do we do next, then?” Peregrine demanded.

“For tonight,” Adam said, “we have a proper dinner and early to bed. And in the morning, I propose that we pay a visit to the Scottish Geographical Society—which, illogical as it might sound, has its headquarters here in London.”

Peregrine furrowed his brow. “Will they have materials Rowley didn’t have at the British Museum?”

“They’ll have different
kinds
of materials,” Adam replied. “And from those, we shall learn everything we can about fortified sites in the ancient kingdom of Ross.”

Chapter Fifteen

LESS THAN
twenty-four hours later, on the Isle of Skye, in a castle that had been the seat of the Chiefs of Clan MacLeod for more than seven hundred years, a present-day MacLeod regaled yet another group of visitors with tales of the clan’s past glories. Finlay MacLeod was not the Chief, but he was proud to be one of the Chief’s principal retainers—what would have been called a henchman, in the old days.

Henchmen no longer were expected to bear arms for their Chief in any literal sense, except for ceremonial occasions, but in fact, Finlay
had
borne arms at his Chief’s command—during the Second War. He carried pieces of German shrapnel in his knee to this day, and walked with a stick when the weather was bad.

Now Finlay and his wife lived in honorable retirement, as live-in caretakers for the castle, and extra household staff when the Chief was in residence. During the tourist season, they also filled in as castle guides, especially toward the end of the season, when the extra staff hired on for the summer had gone home and the visitors began to thin out, as the harsh weather of late autumn and winter approached. Today Margaret was manning the ticket desk in the main entry hall, while Finlay circulated in the castle drawing room. The Chief was in America, attending one of the large highland gatherings, and was expected back the following week.

Finlay gravitated back toward his customary post near the white-painted window bays as another shoal of visitors began to drift through the room, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from an imposing Bosendorfer grand piano. The last lot had been a busload of Japanese, with expensive cameras and only a smattering of English. The current batch appeared to be the more usual mix of western Europeans, mostly Scots and Brits and a fair number of Americans.

Finlay enjoyed his job. He enjoyed people, and he particularly enjoyed trying to guess the origins of the castle’s visitors, especially if he could identify them before an accent gave them away. Over the years, for example, he had found that he could almost always spot Americans by their clothes: the older ones in new London Fog raincoats and tartan or Burbury scarves, and the younger ones uniformly sporting running shoes, backpacks, and puffy down jackets.

Finlay liked the Americans, even though some of them were a bit brash and loud by local standards, because often they came looking for their MacLeod roots—which was one reason that all the castle staff wore some item of MacLeod tartan when on duty. Margaret and the other two women working this afternoon favored sashes in the bright yellow-and-black tartan affectionately called “Loud MacLeod,” worn baldric-fashion and brooched to the shoulder with cairngorms or agates set in Scottish silver.

Finlay preferred tartan trews in the predominantly green set known as MacLeod of MacLeod. He noticed that several of the visitors in the current batch wore ties or scarves in that tartan. As one looked expectantly in his direction, Finlay cleared his throat genially and clasped his hands behind his back, preparatory to beginning his customary spiel.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of our Chief, I bid ye welcome again to Dunvegan Castle. This is the drawing room, which is one of the oldest parts of the castle. Its Georgian decor may not suggest great age, but just through that door and around the corner, on t’other side o’ that wall,” he gestured to his left, “ye can look down into the old bottle-neck dungeon—hardly a Georgian feature. I willnae waste yer time by dwellin’ on things that ye can read about for yerself in the guidebook, but I
would
like to
point out perhaps the greatest treasure of the Clan MacLeod, which is kept in this very room:
am Bratach Sih,
the Fairy Flag.”

As he indicated the wall between the two seaward windows at his back, all eyes turned toward the antique frame hanging there—an impressive gilded thing measuring perhaps three feet wide by four feet high, hung against a background of peachy-salmon.

The Flag itself was a tattered web of translucent gossamer the color of parchment, with patches of brown and scarlet where the fragile fabric had been mended in centuries past. To preserve it from further deterioration, it had been mounted behind glass on a stabilizing mat of natural-colored linen. Figured brocade draperies of a burnt orange on ivory were drawn to either side of its frame, with a pleated sconce of the same material hiding the curtain mechanism above. Finlay’s staunch Presbyterian sensibilities would have been affronted at even the hint that he condoned religious frippery, but it did not seem at all odd to him that the flag’s setting should resemble nothing so much as a High Kirk religious shrine.

“There are several versions of how the MacLeods got the Fairy Flag,” Finlay said, his voice dropping into the awed silence as his audience moved in for a closer look. “Some historians believe that it was the war-banner of Harald Hardrada, lost during his defeat at Stamford Bridge and brought to Skye by his descendants. Others believe that it was a Saracen banner captured during the crusades and brought back from the Holy Land.”

Several people in the front row nodded approvingly, for what remained of the fabric behind the glass did resemble oriental work.

“MacLeods hold, however, that the Flag came from no earthly source,” Finlay went on, “but was the gift of a fairy lady to a beloved MacLeod Chief, with the promise that future Chiefs might unfurl it three times when the clan was in need, and the fairy folk would come to their aid. Tradition says that the Flag has been unfurled twice already, an’ that the fairies did come, so ye can imagine how carefully each new Chief considers whether he should be the one to unfurl the Flag for the third an’ final time.”

“That’s ridiculous,” a male voice murmured from the rear of the group, to which a female voice responded, “Shut up, George. I wanna hear about how the fairies gave them the Flag.”

Finlay smiled indulgently. After more than a quarter century of dealing with the public, he was well used to coping with scoffers.

“As with most old stories, we have several versions of how the fairies happened to give us the Flag,” he went on blithely. “The one I like best tells of a MacLeod Chief who fell in love with a beautiful fairy lady, an’ she with him. Though both families opposed the match, eventually it was allowed—but with the stipulation that the fairy lady might remain with her human lord for only a year or until the birth of an heir, whichever came first.

“Well, the Chief an’ his fairy bride were deliriously happy, an’ just before the year was out, she bore him a son. But then she must return to her people, across the Fairy Bridge ye can see just north o’ the castle here.

“But during the festivities to celebrate the birth of the Chief’s heir, his nurse left him sleeping in his cradle in the tower, back where ye’ve been, next t’ what is now the dining room. As will happen, th’ wee bairn kicked off his blankets and began tae fret. His nurse didnae hear his cries, but the mother did. Drawn by her love for her bairn, she came back across the Fairy Bridge tae comfort him, an’ wrapped him in her shawl against the cold. She fled when the nurse returned, but there was no mistakin’ where the shawl had come from. An’
that
is where the Clan MacLeod got the Fairy Flag—or so the legend goes.”

His droll delivery elicited the expected chuckle, and several of the Americans crowded in for a closer look, including a middle-aged couple with a prepubescent boy in tow.

“Excuse me, sir,” the boy said tentatively, “but you don’t
really
think the Flag came from the fairies, do you?”

Finlay leaned down and gave the lad his grave appraisal.

“What, do ye no’ believe in fairies, laddie?” he asked.
As the boy shrugged noncommittally, Finlay nodded. “I see. Well, I wouldnae presume tae tell a man what he ought to believe, but I can tell ye this,” he confided. “The Fairy Flag stands for th’ luck o’ the MacLeods, wherever it came from. During the Second War, many young MacLeod flyers carried a photograph of the Fairy Flag as a good luck charm. An’ do ye know what? Every single one o’ them came back.”

The boy was goggle-eyed, and even his parents looked impressed.

“Is that really true?” the boy’s father asked. Finlay smiled and slowly took out his wallet, thumbing through the contents of one inside pocket until he could extract a yellowed and dog-eared photograph of the Flag in its frame.

“Mine brought
me
back safely,” he murmured, showing it to them. “That’s one reason I feel privileged to guard the Flag itself.” He gestured at it over his shoulder as he slid the photo back into his wallet for safekeeping. “Ye can
believe
what ye will, regardin’ how the Flag came to be in MacLeod hands; but I
know
that it was given tae my ancestors by th’ Fairies.”

The remark served as a conversation-stopper, as it always did; and after looking more closely at the Flag behind its glass, the three wandered on out of the room with the other visitors. A few more drifted through, but the numbers were dwindling as closing time approached. Looking at his watch, Finlay knew that Margaret would have admitted the last of the day’s ticket holders a quarter hour ago.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed five. Finlay heard the last lot coming along the corridor from the dining room and met them at the door, ushering them through the drawing room with courtesy, but not encouraging them to linger, either. They moved on to look at the dungeon, and then at the other MacLeod treasures in the two display rooms beyond, eventually beading downstairs to the Clan Center and gift shop.

Noises filtered up from the front hall downstairs—a genial hum of voices that eventually was silenced by the hollow closing of the front door. Assured that the last of the day’s visitors had departed, Finlay made a leisurely circuit of the drawing room, noting everything in its familiar place, easing around the piano to close the window in the left-hand bay. Some fifty years before, following a serious fire in the castle, a metal fire-escape ladder had been ran up the side of the building from the gun court below, whence great cannons once had guarded Dunvegan Castle from attack by sea. Safety regulations required that access must be kept available during the day, when visitors were coming and going, but the window was always locked during the night, lest a burglar climb-up from below and break in. Of course, one would have to breach the castle’s outer walls first . . .

Nonetheless, checking all the windows had become second nature to Finlay MacLeod after decades at the castle, so he gave the matter hardly a second thought as he secured the window latch and drew the drapes in the bay.

The Fairy Flag was another matter entirely, and never,
never
received perfunctory, unthinking service. Coming around to face the Flag squarely, old Finlay drew himself smartly to attention and raised his right hand in a brisk, formal salute. He held for a moment, remembering the yellowed photo in his wallet, before slowly lowering his hand.

Then, just before he drew the brocade drapes that covered the Rag at night and protected it from the light when the castle was not open, he kissed the fingertips of his right hand and touched them fondly to the lower right-hand corner of the frame. The gilt was a little worn there, from years of Finlay’s devotion, and he smiled as he eased the drapes into place. He gave the room at last, fond glance as he headed for the door, turning off the lights before making his way downstairs to the foyer.

Margaret was still in her seat behind the ticket desk, counting up the proceeds from the afternoon. She greeted his arrival with a cheerful wink and held up a finger while she continued counting, warning him not to interrupt. Finlay acknowledged with a companionable nod and moved toward the nearest bench. Before he could sit down, there was a sudden, peremptory knock at the door.

“Hello, is anyone in there?” called a muffled female voice from outside. “Please, could you open up a minute?”

The voice sounded distressed. Finlay’s wife shot him a look over the top of her spectacles.

“Sounds like someone’s forgotten something,” she said, with a slight frown. “Better see what she’s wantin’.”

“Aye.” Finlay strode over and unbolted the door.

The forlorn figure waiting on the doorstep was a young woman he vaguely recalled seeing in the castle during the last hour or so, drab and anonymous in a brownish suit of nondescript tweed. In fact he would not have remembered her at all, except that she had spoken English without a trace of regional accent. He had decided at the time that she must be Canadian, or perhaps American—maybe a nurse or a secretary.

Probably a secretary, he decided now, as he eyed her anxious expression and the hands twisting nervously at the strap of a plain leather shoulder bag. On closer inspection, he judged her to be thirtyish, with dark brown hair cut in a neat bob and a clear-skinned oval face that was neither plain nor pretty, framed by dark-rimmed glasses. The pale eyes behind the lenses were worried-looking.

“Oh, thank goodness someone’s still here,” she said. “I’m awfully sorry to bother you, but I seem to have misplaced my car keys. I had them when I came in, because I remember putting them in my bag when I paid my admission, but I can’t find them now—and I certainly can’t go very far without them. I can only imagine that they must have fallen out in the gift shop—or maybe in the drawing room. I did open my bag when I was there, to take out my guide book. Do you think we could go and look?”