The Adept (8 page)

Vague hope stirred the trembling eyelids as Peregrine’s lips moved soundlessly to frame a single word.

“How?”

“First,” Adam said, “you must learn to sort out the different kinds of information that, up until now, have been coming in uncontrolled. In a word, you must learn to focus your talent, and to turn it on and off when
you
decide—not just when it happens. The techniques for doing this already exist in your own subconscious mind, but they are buried. They can be retrieved through dreams. I should like to leave you with a posthypnotic suggestion to strengthen your ability to remember those dreams. Do you agree?”

Peregrine nodded his acceptance.

“Very good. Then, you will accept that suggestion, and know that you
will
dream the knowledge that will set you free. You will dream it as you are ready to receive it, and you will remember what you dream.”

“Yes,” Peregrine whispered, his head nodding slightly.

After a slight pause, Adam also nodded.

“Now, in a very few minutes, you are going to wake up of your own accord. At that time you will have no conscious memory of the conversation that has just passed between us. However, the ideas themselves will filter through to you in the course of the next few nights, couched in dreams that you will remember very clearly. I want you to record any dream that should happen to come to you—write it down, or make a sketch, if that suits you better—and then we’ll talk about it at the first opportunity. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes,” came the whispered response,

“Very good. Now in addition, because looking at people with your artist’s eye seems to be what triggers your vision, I’m going to suggest that you not set out to draw anything for several days, other than in connection with your dreams. Give yourself a bit of a rest, while your unconscious begins sorting things out. Lady Laura’s death has been a shock, I know, but it’s also the catalyst that seems to have brought everything to a head. Then, after a few days, I
will
ask you to draw quite a lot. If you can link your ability to see with an intention to draw or paint the results, that can be the first step toward gaining conscious control.

“Now, in your own good time, awaken feeling refreshed and relaxed and remembering my instructions.”

He sat back in his chair and waited, making a steeple of his forefingers and tapping them lightly against his chin. A few moments later, as instructed, Peregrine stirred and sighed, then opened his eyes. Seeing Adam in watchful attendance, he drew himself upright and stretched a little sheepishly.

“I was half-expecting to find myself sprawled out on the sofa in my studio,” he said. “How long have I been under?”

“Hmmm, the best part of an hour,” Adam said, glancing at an ornate carriage clock on a side table, “but never mind. For what it’s worth, I think we’ve made a very good beginning. How do you feel?”

Peregrine summoned a crooked attempt at a smile. “Not too bad. More tired than anything else—which is a distinct improvement.” He flexed stiff shoulders, then glanced down at his wristwatch. “Good Lord, if that really is the time, I ought to retrieve my own clothes and go home while there’s still time for you to get a few hours’ sleep.”

“Sleep is a luxury I can do well enough without, now and then,” Adam said. “Besides, you’re not really in any fit state to drive. The room where you changed can be yours. I expect Humphrey can supply anything you need.”

“Well, I don’t want to impose,” Peregrine began.

“It’s no imposition—simply common sense. As a matter of fact,” he continued casually, at the artist’s look of continued uncertainty, “it would probably be no bad thing if you were to move in here at Strathmourne for a few days. It’s clear from what you’ve told me tonight that you have a lot of soul-searching to do. And in my experience, it’s generally a good idea not to embark on that kind of inner journey without the benefit of someone standing by, ready to step in, if you feel the need of a mediator.”

Peregrine flushed slightly. “That’s uncommonly generous of you, Sir Adam, and I’m very grateful—but as you know, I didn’t exactly come prepared for an extended visit.”

“That needn’t worry you in the least,” said Adam with a deep chuckle. “It’s one of the many good reasons for having a faithful manservant. I’ll give your keys to Humphrey, and he can drive down to Edinburgh first thing in the morning and collect whatever you need from your flat.”

A relieved smile eased the younger man’s weariness. “You think of everything, don’t you? In that case, I’ll take you up on your invitation—at least for a few days. I can’t seem to summon up the energy to argue with you.”

“You’ll find it rarely does any good, when I set my mind on something,” Adam said lightly, getting to his feet. “And we’ll discuss the length of your stay when you’re more rested. In the meantime, I highly recommend a late-night snack before we mm in. I heard Humphrey come in a little while ago. He makes exceptionally good hot ham sandwiches, and his recipe for cocoa, I’m convinced, has more than a touch of brandy in it.”

Chapter Five

HALF AN HOUR
later, feeling relaxed and comfortably full-fed for what seemed like the first time in days, Peregrine bade his host a drowsy good-night and made his way upstairs to the room he had used earlier. Though he had been in no condition to appreciate it before, the room was spacious and elegant, like most of what he had seen, thus far, at Strathmourne. The walls were a cool shade of Wedgewood blue, with the woodwork and cornices picked out in white. The center section of the coffered ceiling had been painted to resemble the sky by night. When he had shed his slippers and robe and climbed wearily under the chintz-covered comforter, he lay back on the feather pillows and gazed up dreamily at the tempera fresco of clouds and constellations for several minutes before switching off the bedside lamp. It was the serene image of a starry firmament that he carried with him as he settled unresisting into deep, untroubled sleep.

Overwhelmed by sheer fatigue, he had no dreams that he could clearly remember. When at long last he roused again to full awareness, the room was suffused with a subdued submarine glow, and from far, far away, he could hear the sound of church bells. Shrugging himself out from under the bedclothes, he padded barefoot over to the curtained window-bay and parted the blue damask drapes. Sunlight poured into the room, and outside, the sky was clear and bright. But the continued ringing of the church bells told him that it must be far later than he first had thought. Blinking, he retired to the bedside table and snatched up his wristwatch. To his amazement, it was nearly half past eleven. Could he really have slept so late?

He found his clothes of the night before, clean and neatly pressed, laid out over the back of a chair to the right of the bathroom door—Humphrey’s work, no doubt. On the counter beside the bathroom sink were his shaving kit and other small, assorted personal effects, obviously retrieved, according to plan, from his flat in Edinburgh. A quick foray back-Into the bedroom to inspect chests of drawers and wardrobes revealed that a thorough selection of the rest of his clothing had been brought as well. Marveling at the efficiency of Adam Sinclair’s soft-spoken manservant, Peregrine made shrift to bathe and dress as quickly as possible, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

There was no sign of Humphrey, when Peregrine made his way downstairs. Nor, at first, could he find evidence of anyone’s presence. As he paused on the bottom-most step to get his bearings, however, he noticed that the door to the library was standing slightly ajar. Taking his courage firmly in hand, he went up to the threshold and rapped lightly on the paneled oak.

“Come in,” said Adam Sinclair’s deep voice from inside.

Peregrine pushed the door open and stepped timorously into the room. Adam was sitting at his desk with his back to the window, the sleeves of an immaculate white shirt aglow in the morning sun against a dark waistcoat and cravat. The jacket of the morning suit was hanging over the back of another chair. Peregrine was surprised to see his host so formally, attired until he remembered, with a pang, that Adam had promised to pay a sympathy call on the Kintoul family that morning, and apparently had done so.

“You’ve already been up to Kintoul House, haven’t you?” Peregrine said, flinching from the direct gaze as Adam looked up. “I—I meant to go with you. You shouldn’t have let me sleep.”

Smiling, Adam set aside a newspaper cutting he had been reading, laying it on a stack of similar items in an open manila file folder.

“I felt that you needed the sleep more than the family
needed yet another caller this morning,” he said easily. “There will be ample time for a more meaningful visit in the week to come. Besides,” he added, not unkindly, “I think you may be sure that Lady Laura would not have begrudged you the benefit of a good night’s sleep.”

Peregrine opened his mouth as if to protest, then shut it again when he realized that Adam had spoken no more than the truth. While he was still searching for a suitably chastened rejoinder, Adam said, “Humphrey’s set up a table for brunch in the room across the hall from this one. If you’re sufficiently wide awake to feel peckish, I’ll ring down to let him know we’re ready for something to eat.”

When Peregrine made no demur, Adam reached across the bay to tug at an embroidered bellpull, then returned his attention to tidying up the stack of cuttings in his file. The motion drew Peregrine’s gaze like a magnet, and the words, “
Antique Sword
,” jumped out at him from the headline on the top cutting, just as Adam closed the folder.

“You’ll find I have a variety of interests,” Adam said casually, taking no apparent note of the slightly guilty look of surprise on Peregrine’s face as the artist quickly looked up. “Every once in a while, I get asked to assist the police with cases that have aspects of the—shall we say,
unusual
about them. For quite some time now, I’ve made a habit of saving anything in the papers that happens to catch my eye. More than once, this eccentricity has given me advance warning that my services may be called for.”

Peregrine blinked and nodded, but he had the sudden, inexplicable feeling that something had just gone totally over his head. Adam’s manner seemed as relaxed as ever, but Peregrine abruptly was certain of one thing: his host’s apparently simple and open explanation was camouflage for something far from simple. Whatever the nature of the case involving this mysterious sword, Sir Adam Sinclair had some personal stake in the affair.

“I’m sorry, Sir Adam,” Peregrine said stiffly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Adam cocked his head at Peregrine in some amusement.

“Sir
Adam?” he said archly. “If we’re going to work together, Peregrine, I think you
might
be entitled to drop the Sir, at least in private. And you’re not prying. If you’d not been meant to see this, do you think I would have been reading it when I knew you might come in at any time? Besides, it’s all been in the newspapers at one time or other. Have a look, if you’re interested.”

He held out the file folder, still smiling, but Peregrine shook his head, aware of feeling a little silly to have made such a fuss, yet quite certain that Adam was not laughing
at
him.

“That isn’t necessary,” he murmured. “I—just didn’t want you to think I’d take advantage of your kindness. And frankly, even if I did read that,” he jutted his chin toward the folder with a sheepish grin, “I doubt I’d be any the wiser.“

“Perhaps not,” Adam agreed with a chuckle. He opened a drawer on the right-hand side of the desk and deposited the folder inside before reaching for his jacket. “Shall we go? I seem to recall that Humphrey mentioned something about fresh salmon . . . ”

Later, after they, had disposed of the salmon, not to mention eggs Benedict and fresh asparagus, Adam took Peregrine on a long guided tour of the house. The present Strathmourne House was not of any great antiquity, having been rebuilt on the site of an earlier house ravaged by fire in the mid-nineteenth century—which, in turn, had been built on an old monastic site. In its present form, it was a Victorian rendering of Scottish vernacular architecture, designed and built, at the instigation of Adam’s grandfather, by a talented local architect named Forbes. Pundits south of the Solway and River Tweed tended to label Forbes’ distinctive style as neo-Gothic; Adam, when feeling particularly irreverent, was reminded of a favorite childhood picture book of
Wind in the Willows,
with its illustrations of Toad Hall.

“Toad Hall” notwithstanding, Forbes had gained a sufficient reputation to eventually be awarded a knighthood, in recognition of the excellence of his architectural achievements; and it was widely accepted that Strathmourne exemplified some of his best technical work. Peregrine’s artistic sensibilities were impressed, not only by the layout
of the rooms and galleries, but by the close attention Forbes had paid to small details of embellishment. The vine-leaf friezes adorning the walls throughout the rooms on the ground floor were reminiscent of the best designs of the High Gothic period. Similarly, the stained glass window in the private chapel depicted the dream of Jacob with a medieval richness of jewel-like color.

Peregrine was particularly struck by a heraldic crest carved and painted on the central boss of the ceiling in the great hall—a phoenix taking flight out of a nest of fire, within a traditional Scottish buckle and strap.

“That’s a striking crest,” he said, shading his eyes with both hands to peer up at it.” Is it a Sinclair device?”

“Aye, one of several.” Adam smiled. “According to the Alexandrian Physiologus, the phoenix betokens life eternal. When it reaches extreme old age, it builds itself a pyre of Arabian spices and is consumed, to rise up again out of the flames as a new creature, reborn to ongoing life.”

“Reincarnation,” Peregrine murmured; “Do you think such a thing is possible?”

Adam flashed him a penetrating look from under raised brows. “Is it possible that we are born again and again in the course of fulfilling our individual spiritual destinies? Don’t ask me. Ask yourself.”

Glancing startledly at the chiseled face of his companion, Peregrine found himself without a word to say.

They left the great hall and moved upstairs. Peregrine’s discomfiture gradually subsided as they wandered in and out of the apartments in the north wing. The pair of adjoining rooms at the end of the corridor boasted an intriguing collection of Edwardian toys.

“This was the nursery, when my father and his brother were boys,” Adam said, watching indulgently as Peregrine bent to inspect a child-sized mechanical pony and cart. “My sister tells me that when she was a child, she used to regard it as a special treat to be allowed to come and play up here. That was one of her favorites.”

The mechanical pony had a removable leather harness, and a mane and tail of real horsehair. Peregrine fingered the
brass rail behind the seat on the cart, cocking his head to admire the designs stenciled on the side.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” he said. Somehow, in spite of all his social grace and obvious charm, Adam Sinclair seemed strangely solitary—as though somehow set apart even from his friends.

“Theodora’s quite a bit older than I am,” Adam replied. “Actually, she’s my half-sister—not that it matters. Her mother was my father’s first wife. There’s quite a good portrait of her in the room next to yours. Come along and I’ll show it to you.”

The portrait was full-length, and showed a slender, dark-haired girl with laughing eyes, hugging a shawl of tartan silk over an elegant white ball gown.

“That was painted shortly before Theo’s twenty-first birthday,” Adam said. “The following year she married Sir Thomas MacAllan. He was in the diplomatic service. They’ve spent most of their married life in the Far East, though they’re home now. All three of the children were born abroad. I’d love to see what you’d do for a family portrait of all of them.”

“Where is home now?” Peregrine asked.

“Over in Argyllshire, not far from Inveraray,” Adam replied. “It’s a pretty place, if a trifle tame after the Orient. But Theo, I think, was more than ready to settle down in one spot, after so many years spent in foreign climes. Thomas retired a few years ago. Theo tells me he rather enjoys being his own man for a change.”

The rest of the tour was taken up with travel anecdotes, ending up in the library once more. While they were waiting for Humphrey to bring up the tea tray, and Adam was making a phone call, Peregrine prowled idly up and down the array of bookcases that lined the walls adjoining the desk. A handsome volume bound in Moroccan leather caught his eye.

On an impulse, he drew it off the shelf and turned it over in his hands, appreciating the workmanship of the fine binding. Riffling through the pages, he discovered that it was a first edition of
Psychologie und Alchemie
by Carl Jung, dated 1944. On the flyleaf, a handwritten note read:
“To Philippa Sinclair,” followed by an inscription in German. The signature was that of Jung himself.

A shadow fell across Peregrine’s right shoulder. “My mother was a student of Jung’s,” Adam said from behind him. “She’s also a psychiatrist. He sent her that book shortly after she and my father were married.”

Peregrine turned to glance at his host, the book still open in his hands. “Is she Swiss, then?”

“No, she’s an American,” Adam said, “but she was in Switzerland, studying with Jung, when the Second World War broke out. When the United States entered the war in 1942, she joined the U.S. Army Medical Corps. She and my father met up in a field hospital behind the lines—and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Peregrine closed the book and carefully returned it to its place on the shelf. “I gather she’s still alive?”

“Oh, quite,” Adam returned with a laugh. “At the moment she’s in America, supervising the running of her clinic in New Hampshire. That was a bone of contention while my father was alive, since he thought she should be here all the time, attending to her duties as lady of the manor. Since his death, however, that’s where she spends most of her time. She maintains that the work keeps her young.”