The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (16 page)

This realization crystallized his desire to see Peregrine brought into full communion with the Hunting Lodge as soon as that might be accomplished, for he had no doubt of the strength of Peregrine’s commitment. But the authority to confirm the young artist in such a vocation was vested in hands other than his own. Briefly Adam paused to acknowledge the primacy of those to whom he himself answered on the Inner Planes. And before he had formed any conscious intent, that acknowledgment translated itself, unbidden, into a wordless request for an audience.

His heart missed its next beat, almost as if time itself were suspended for an instant. Then all at once the Chamber of Records was suffused by a sudden, racing shimmer of light. Fleet as quicksilver, the light brought with it a keen sense of imminent presence. Recognizing that presence, Adam bowed his head and opened his hands in a gesture of grateful receptivity.

The Master manifested not in human form, but as a radiant pillar of light, so bright that it obscured the dimensions of the chamber. The brightness wavered for an instant before Adam’s dazzled vision, then surged forward to enfold him in a scintillating column of white fire. A voice, sparkling and chill as a spring freshet, spoke to him mind-to-mind.

A hungry predator is stalking the fold, Master of the Hunt. What is it that holds you back from the Chase?

There was a light sting in the question, almost as if the Master were testing him.

The loss of a Huntsman,
Adam replied,
and a trail obscured by darkness.

To catch a creature of the night, the Lodge needs must sometimes hunt by darkness,
the Master said.

This is true,
Adam acknowledged.
But it is also true that the darkness itself is as much our enemy as any human adversary. The Huntsmen who remain are keenly willing. But we are not at full strength.

Scarcely breathing, he waited for the Master’s response. It came veiled, designedly inscrutable. Wordlessly Adam understood that he was being left to explain himself in an atmosphere of strict neutrality, neither hindered nor encouraged by anything outside his own powers of discernment and judgment. Cleaving fast to his convictions, he steeled himself to frame his request.

Not so long ago, Master, a certain fledgling hawk was entrusted to my care. He was a hunting hawk, with rare gifts of vision and far sight, but his wings had been damaged by rough handling, and it was granted that I should render healing and instruction. Though I undertook the task gladly, I hardly dared to hope for rapid progress.

But the fledgling welcomed the healing, and in doing so, has exceeded all expectations. His wings are all but re-pinioned. Though he remains earthbound, his visionary gifts are manifest, and his yearning to fly grows stronger with each passing day, as his true nature asserts itself. I have tested him repeatedly, as he now begins to test himself, and I stand convinced of his vocation. I therefore request permission to bring him past the threshold of initiation, that he may be admitted to the ranks of the Hunting Lodge.

There was a timeless pause during which Adam could feel the beating of his own heart like an apprehensive fluttering of caged wings.

Permission cannot be granted at this time,
came the piercing clear voice of the Master in his soul.
The fledgling is not yet free to pledge his loyalty to the Hunt. First a duty must be performed on behalf of another.

This was wholly unexpected. Adam was taken aback. After some slight hesitation he asked,
Is it permitted that I know the identity of this other?

It is permitted,
the Master responded coolly.
It is he who was Michael Scot, but now in the Outer life answers to the name of Gillian Talbot.

Michael Scot—or Gillian Talbot, as she now was. On the face of it, this second disclosure was even more startling than the first. But as Adam cast his mind back over the events of October, he realized that he might have anticipated something like this. At Melrose, the spirit of Michael Scot had made a point of selecting Peregrine as the medium through which to communicate the location of his treasure and his spellbook—and apparently far more than that.

At the time, Adam had assumed that Peregrine was merely the passive recipient of given information, chosen for convenience. Now, all at once, it seemed that Scot’s choice had been anything but merely convenient, and Peregrine’s participation anything but passive. However untutored Peregrine might be in his present incarnation, his immortal soul was that of an initiate. At some level deeper than consciousness, Scot must have solicited the aid of his fellow adept; and Peregrine, for his part, must have accepted that charge. No one understood better than Adam the inviolable nature of such a solemn bond. Whether or not Peregrine was yet able, to realize the nature of his mission in conscious terms—or to act upon it—was another matter.

I discern the nature of the tie which may link the two of them,
Adam told the Master gravely.
But Peregrine Lovat is only just awakening to his potential. May I know what is to be required of him, if the pledge is to be fulfilled?

The artist must be also the craftsman. Broken images must be restored. The temple of lights must be rebuilt.

The Masters of the Inner Planes rarely spoke in plain terms. With them, a simple utterance was merely the key to something vastly more complex, requiring time and thought to unravel. Even as Adam paused to ponder this enigmatic revelation, the Master spoke again.

Beware, Master of the Hunt, for the Predators grow stronger. Not only sheep but Hunters do they seek. One Huntsman slain already, and another will they stalk. Take heed one is not lost before he is truly found.

The lightning change in tone was accompanied by an upsurge of radiance too bright to look upon. Dazzled, Adam flung up a hand to shield his eyes, hanging for a heartbeat between vision and blindness.

When he could see again, he was alone in the Chamber of Records. With his next breath, the walls of the Chamber dissolved around him. An instant later, he found himself rocketing upward through a pearly sea. He surfaced like a diver suddenly come up for air, gasping slightly at the faint psychic jar that signaled the soul’s reunion with the body. For a moment he sat motionless, to allow his physical senses time to come back into contact with his surroundings. Then, with a slight shiver, he opened his eyes.

The fire on the hearth had died back to a few dull, glowing embers. A glance at the carriage clock on a side table told him that nearly two hours had passed since he had entered into his trance. Now that he was awake, his body felt chilled and cramped, as it always did after a long foray onto the Inner Planes. He rose stiffly to unlock the door, dutifully retraced his wardings to dispel them, then rang for Humphrey to bring him sandwiches and hot cocoa and collapsed back into his chair to think over the results of his night’s work.

Already details of the experience were fading, sinking back into the uncharted seas below the level of consciousness. Two facts, however, remained indelibly clear in his waking mind.

The first was the revelation regarding the involvement of the mysterious torc in Randall’s slaying—and the probable adeptship of the one who had lured him to his death and would continue to stalk the Hunt.

The second was that the future of Peregrine Lovat as a member of the Hunting Lodge was somehow contingent on the fate of Gillian Talbot.

Chapter Twelve

ADAM’S SLEEP
that night was dreamless—which probably was a good indication that his unconscious was busily processing the possible significance of the Master’s disclosures. He awoke punctually at eight, feeling more refreshed and clear-headed than he had since the night of Randall Stewart’s death. By half past, he was sitting down to breakfast in the morning room, already dressed for rounds in a dark three-piece suit. He had just picked up the morning’s edition of
The Scotsman,
and Humphrey was pouring his tea, when the telephone rang.

Humphrey set the teapot on its trivet and walked unhurriedly to answer the summons, frowning slightly at the prospect of his master being disturbed before a proper breakfast.

“Strathmourne House. Oh, it’s you, Inspector.” His expression had lightened as he quirked an inquiring eyebrow in Adam’s direction. “One moment, if you please, sir.”

“Inspector McLeod?’ Adam said, laying aside his paper and holding out a hand. “I’ll take it, of course.”

With a slight bow, Humphrey nodded and ferried the telephone across to the breakfast table, handing the receiver to Adam.

“Here I am, Noel. What’s happened?”

“No new catastrophe, so you can relax on that account,” McLeod’s deep voice rumbled from the other end of the line. “One of our mobile units just called in a report. They’ve found Randall’s missing car.”

“Where?”

“In a pond, about a mile east of Boghall,” McLeod said. “A farmer was out rounding up stray sheep, and noticed something metallic sticking up out of the water that hadn’t been there earlier in the week. When it turned out to be the back bumper of an abandoned vehicle, he called the police. The car’s still underwater at the moment, but we have a tentative ID based on the rear number plate. I’m just heading out to join the police recovery team, on the off chance that there may be something left inside the car by way of a clue—hold on a minute.”

In the background, someone was asking McLeod a question, to which the inspector replied testily, “Well, fine. Go run it through the computer and see what you come up with. How should I know? Use your imagination!”

A moment later, he came back on the line. “Sorry about the interruption. This place is like Picadilly Circus this morning! By the way, thanks for relaying that bit of information you were able to pick up from Miranda. I’ve put young Cochrane on it. I’ve got him ferreting out the names of everyone in the Stirling area who has a documented interest in antiquarian books, either as a dealer or collector. Once we have that list, I intend to pay a few visits and ask a lot of questions.”

There was another intrusive buzz from the background. “They aren’t going to let me alone,” McLeod said, with a sigh of exasperation. “I’d better get out of here, before someone presents me with an iron-clad administrative reason for staying. What’s your schedule like for today?”

“Not too bad,” said Adam. “I have a ten o’clock lecture at the hospital, with rounds to follow, but I should be back by mid-afternoon. If not, Humphrey will always know where I’m to be reached.”

“I’ll track you down, never fear-hopefully with good news. Talk to you later.”

After breakfast, which he was allowed to finish without further interruption, Adam packed his lecture notes into his monogrammed leather briefcase and set off for Edinburgh. His lecture went well—his students asked far more intelligent questions than usual—and the morning passed reasonably quickly. He was home in time for a belated lunch in the library. He had just finished a second cup of tea when the telephone rang. He set his lunch tray aside in order to answer the summons.

“It’s Inspector McLeod telephoning from Boghall, sir,” said Humphrey’s voice.

“Ah. I’d hoped it might be. Put it right through, please. “ “Yes, sir.”

As soon as a click on the line confirmed the transfer, Adam said, “That you, Noel?”

“Aye, but the news is disappointing, so don’t get your hopes up. Randall’s car is a write-off.” Adam could hear the dejection in McLeod’s voice. “Whoever arranged to dispose of it took the precaution of setting fire to the interior. Forensics are still going over the outside, but frankly I don’t think they’re going to find anything much. Looks like it’s back to the drawing board.”

Back to the drawing board . . . the image gave Adam sudden pause for thought.

“That reminds me,” he said. “What about that list of names I passed along to you regarding previous tenants of that ‘haunted’ flat?”

“Haunted flat?” McLeod sounded blank.

“The place now being rented by one of Christopher’s parishioners,” said Adam. “Peregrine and I told you about it on the way up to Blairgowrie.”

“Bloody hell, I’d forgotten all about that!” McLeod exclaimed. “What the devil did I do with your note? It must be in my other jacket.”

“I’m not saying there’s necessarily any connection,” Adam said, choosing his words with care, “but we can’t afford to overlook even a tenuous lead right now.”

“Aye,” McLeod agreed. “I’ll swing by home and collect it on my way back, and get a man right on it. Back to you later. Thanks, Adam.”

The line disconnected. As Adam cradled the receiver, he found himself gloomily reflecting how little they still knew about the individuals who had murdered Randall Stewart, or even the specifics of his death.

Somewhere there has to be a key to all this,
he told himself firmly.
Maybe even in the means of the death itself
. . .

Even as the thought crossed his mind, a new possibility occurred to him. Following a sudden impulse, he slid open the upper right-hand drawer of the desk and brought out his personal directory. A quick skim through the entries produced the number he was looking for.

“Hello, Royal Infirmary?” he said, when a pleasant voice answered with the lilt of the Western Islands. “This is Dr. Adam Sinclair. Can you tell me if Dr. David DiCapua is there this afternoon?”

Less than an hour later, Adam was easing his blue Jaguar into a space in the car park of the Perth Royal Infirmary. He had enjoyed the brief run up from Strathmourne, even though the light drizzle had forced him to leave the soft top up. He turned up his collar against the mist as he dashed for the shelter of the nearest entrance.

The vast medical complex that was Perth’s Royal Infirmary encompassed a sprawl of modern extensions grafted onto the original grey stone facility. The forensics section was attached to the pathology department-a sanitized, relatively new annex on the north side of the hospital. Following the appropriate arrows posted at intervals on the walls, Adam made his way along a zigzag course of stairways and corridors, eventually coming to a set of double doors marked
Pathology Department,
and below that,
Medical Staff Only.

Adam pushed open the doors and entered. The corridor beyond was floored with green carpet tiles; the walls bore paint of that pallid shade of mustard which seemed to be the institutional norm for hospitals all over Scotland. The air in this part of the building was several degrees colder than it had been elsewhere. The pungent smell of industrial-strength disinfectants seemed almost thick enough to manifest itself as a visible presence.

No stranger to hospital odors, Adam set off down the hall toward the T -junction at the far end. Just before he reached it, a skinny young lab assistant in a baggy green coverall whisked around the corner from the opposite direction, carrying a tray of tagged specimen jars. Startled, she only just avoided colliding with Adam—who was ready to rescue the tray if disaster seemed imminent—but he disarmed her with a smile as she checked and eyed him somewhat warily.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Sinclair from Edinburgh, here to have a word with Dr. diCapua. He’s expecting me. Can you tell me where to find him?”

The woman’s manner thawed perceptibly in the face of Adam’s particular blend of authority and charm.

“Sorry, Doctor, I believe he’s just finishing a post-mortem,” she said, a little self-consciously. She indicated the left-hand branch of the corridor with a jerk of her sharp little chin and added, “The autopsy theatre is down there—the second doorway on your right.”

“Thank you very much,” Adam said, and moved on past her in the direction she had pointed out to him. A dozen brisk strides brought him to the threshold of the door in question. The upper half was fitted with a small plate glass window, and through it he glimpsed the averted back of a wiry, active-looking man that he recognized, even from behind, as David diCapua.

The name was not a Scottish one, of course. DiCapua’s father had been an Italian army captain who was captured in Sicily during the Second World War and subsequently shipped to Scotland for internment in a POW camp. When the war ended, a number of these Italian POW’s had elected to remain in Scotland rather than return to their devastated and impoverished homeland—a fact which accounted for the widespread incidence of Italian surnames throughout Perthshire, Tayside, and Fife.

DiCapua himself was short and spare, with straight dark hair and a clean-shaven profile that recalled the faces stamped on Roman coins. Adam was accustomed to seeing him in dinner clothes of uncommonly fine cut, for the more usual venue of their meetings, perhaps half a dozen times each year, took place in the context of the Scottish National Opera, of which both men were avid patrons. Somehow, however, the dapper little forensics expert managed to look almost equally dashing in the green scrub suit and Wellington boots that were regulation attire for his present occupation.

At the moment, DiCapua was hunched over the partly draped figure of a male cadaver, working away with the scholarly precision of a Swiss watchmaker, clearly oblivious to his cheerless surroundings. When Adam rapped at the glass, however, he straightened up and looked around, flashing a welcoming smile at the sight of Adam’s face at the window and waving his visitor inside with a flourish of one surgically-gloved hand.

Adam opened the door and stepped into an atmosphere reeking of formalin.

“Adam, how nice to see you!” the pathologist exclaimed. “I wasn’t expecting a reunion before next month’s
La Traviata!”
The profile might proclaim him a son of Rome, but the accent was pure Scots.

“Hello, David.”

DiCapua stripped off his right-hand glove and switched off the Dictaphone into which he had been speaking, before reaching out to trade handshakes with his visitor.

“Now then,” he said genially, “tell me what brings you up to the wilds of Perth.”

“I’ve come,” Adam said, “to ask a professional favor.”

“Ah.” DiCapua nodded sagely. “Needless to say, I shall be happy to oblige in any way I can. Let me guess. It has something to do with the Randall Stewart post-mortem.”

Adam nodded. “You’ve guessed correctly. With your permission, I’d like an advance look at the autopsy report.”

“Ah.” DiCapua sounded suddenly thoughtful. “Well, the official report won’t be ready to go out until tomorrow morning—I still have a summation to do, tying in the lab results—but I believe the transcripts are done of what I dictated.”

“I don’t necessarily need to see a finished report,” Adam said. “Frankly, I’d be just as well-satisfied to see the transcript and lab results.”

DiCapua gave him a measured look, then shrugged. “I don’t see any reason why not, especially,” he added, “since your signature was on the death certificate.” He glanced back at his cadaver. “I’ve got about another ten minutes’ work to do here. Why don’t you go upstairs to the staff lounge and wait for me there? I’ll bring you the file as soon as I’ve had a chance to clean up.”

Adam went up to the lounge to find it empty except for a pair of interns arguing amiably over the projected treatment for an orthopaedic patient. As soon as they caught sight of Adam, they rather sheepishly broke off their argument and took themselves off. The coffee out of the vending machine was something both Humphrey and Mrs. Gilchrist would have condemned as “strong enough for a mouse to walk on.” After a single taste, he set his cup aside and summoned the patience to await his colleague’s arrival.

Twenty minutes later, DiCapua pushed his way through the lounge’s swinging door and made his way across to the table where Adam was sitting. He had shed his green scrubs and Wellies in favor of an elegantly cut grey suit and a glossy pair of Italian-made leather shoes. His burgundy silk tie had a discreet pattern of tiny gold paisleys. As the pathologist sat down across from him, Adam privately paid tribute to the minor miracle of personal grooming by which diCapua managed to avoid bringing with him any residual whiff of the dissecting theatre.

“Here you are,” said DiCapua, handing over a manila folder. “It doesn’t make pleasant reading—but I don’t suppose that will come as any great surprise to you.”

Set down in black and white, the cold medical facts surrounding Randall Stewart’s murder allowed a degree of clinical detachment, for which Adam was grateful. The victim had been struck three times in the back of the head, with cranial fractures resulting from two of the three blows. DiCapua speculated that the probable implement might have been a hammer.