The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (21 page)

He was booked on a midday shuttle the next day, and on Wednesday morning set out for the airport with Humphrey and a single carry-on bag, intending to stop at Jordanburn only long enough to make his regularly scheduled hospital rounds. Unfortunately, one of his more volatile patients had chosen this particular morning to edge into a near-suicidal depression. In the end, it was nearly three o’clock before Adam was able to get away.

Fortunately, Humphrey had not been idle while his master dealt with the unexpected medical crisis. The next flight to London-Heathrow was set to depart at three forty-five, and Humphrey had contrived to change Adam’s reservation and get him a seat on it. The doughty manservant even managed to get him to the airport in time to make the flight—though the status of Philippa Sinclair’s flight, also inbound to London, was yet unknown.

It was dark by the time Adam landed at Heathrow, with a frosty haze hovering over the runways. Once inside the terminal, he headed immediately for the nearest Arrivals monitor, for the delay had now made it a near-run thing to meet Philippa’s flight. Fortunately, a rapid scan of the flight numbers revealed that Philippa’s flight had been delayed by half an hour—which, given the weather, was hardly unexpected.

Taking advantage of the reprieve, Adam shifted his carry-on onto his shoulder and strolled off to the airport cafe nearest the International Arrivals Hall, where he ordered a large cup of tea and settled down at one of the tables to wait. The large panel windows running along the opposite wall gave back bland reflections of the cafe’s interior. Outside, the darkness was dotted with pale blurs of moving lights as planes landed and took off in a rumble of distant thunder.

Moving lights . . . fields of darkness. Almost before he was aware of it, Adam’s thoughts were drawn yet again to the memory of his recent venture into the Inner Planes, and the cryptic utterances of the Master regarding the work that lay in store for Peregrine Lovat.

Broken images must be restored
. . .
the temple of lights must be rebuilt
. . .

As Adam mused, he found himself trying to reconcile those remarks with Lady Julian’s reading of the
I Ching. “‘To discriminate,’”
Julian had said,
“‘is to perceive distinctions in the midst of confusion. To give settlement is to act in the capacity of a judge, awarding redress where there has been wrongdoing.’”

Broken images. Confusion. Adam entertained no doubts that both the oracles were pointing to the disruption of all the underlying personalities of Gillian Talbot. The image of the temple to be rebuilt was almost certainly a metaphorical reference to the totality of the individual—but how to rebuild such a ruin?

He saw suddenly in his mind’s eye an image of another ruin of a more physical nature—Templemor Tower, now in the process of restoration—and he tried to relate it to the Talbot case.

How do you restore a ruin?
he asked himself.
It’s obvious, in a physical structure like a tower house. You work from the ground up . . .

He was still ruminating on the possible implications of this insight when his reverie was abruptly interrupted by a loud crackle from the airport’s public address system, followed by a squawky announcement that British Airways Flight 214 from Boston had just landed.

Adam took the time to finish his tea, knowing that she would be held up by the necessary formalities of going through Immigration and then through baggage claim and Customs. After about twenty minutes, he shouldered his bag again and made a brief foray into one of the concourse flower shops, where he bought a delicate spray of hothouse orchids. By the time he had ensconced himself near the Meeting Point in the Arrivals Hall, with a view through the doors that opened periodically to disgorge new arrivals, the first of the arriving Boston passengers had begun to spill into the waiting area, where friends and family stood poised to greet them.

Somewhat impatiently, Adam scanned the incoming throng. A moment later he caught sight of her—a slender, platinum-haired figure in a scarlet coat and hat, moving determinedly toward the hall at the center of a small whirl of airport employees.

In her youth, Philippa Sinclair had been a beauty. At seventy-five, she was still a strikingly handsome woman, polished and immaculately groomed, with an imperiously sculptured face and flashing dark eyes. A smart young man in British Airways livery was leaning in toward her, making small, conciliatory gestures with his hands, while behind them, a middle-aged man in a foreman’s coverall appeared to be having words with a pair of uniformed baggage handlers, one of whom was pushing a baggage cart laden with Philippa’s luggage. Philippa herself seemed regally oblivious to the curious glances they were attracting from the other people in the hall. Even at a distance, Adam could see the calm, purposeful set of her chin.

Smiling, for it was so like Philippa to wind up making a grand entrance, he moved smoothly forward and waved a hand to attract her attention. As soon as she spotted him, her formidable calm dissolved in a smile of dazzling warmth. Veering off on a sharp tangent, she sailed gracefully forward to meet him, leaving her escort to scurry after her with unbecoming haste. As they met, Adam gathered his mother into a long-armed embrace and saluted her with a kiss, then presented her with the orchids.

“Good Lord, Philippa,” he murmured good-naturedly, “can’t you go
anywhere
without creating a stir?”

His mother’s response to this question was a small, ironic moue. After delightedly inhaling the flowers’ perfume, she rose on tiptoe to plant an answering kiss on her son’s bronzed cheek, settling then on his arm to glance back at her entourage.

“Somebody appears to have mislaid one of my cases between Boston and London,” she said astringently, in an accent mixed of Yankee and Highland antecedents. “Inquiries are in progress, but so far no one seems to know where it’s got to. I’m relying on Mr. Martin here to get it all sorted out.”

The look that she directed at Mr. Martin was surgically penetrating. Endlessly compassionate with the truly unfortunate, Philippa had no patience whatsoever when it came to matters of petty incompetence. The airport official squirmed guiltily and cast Adam a silent appeal for mercy.

“We
are
working on it, Lady Sinclair,” he said. “I’m frightfully sorry about the inconvenience. I’m sure the bag will turn up very soon. If it missed the flight in Boston, it will be on the next one. If you’ll just give me the name of your hotel, I’ll have it sent along just as soon as it arrives.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that,” Philippa said crisply, and threw an inquiring glance at her son.

“We’ll be staying at the Caledonian Club until Friday,” Adam said, handing the man a business card from a monogrammed case. “If it should take longer than that to resolve this, the steward at the club will advise you of my home address in Scotland. I trust that won’t be a problem.”

“Not at all, Sir Adam. Thank you very much. Sorry again, Lady Sinclair.”

Philippa favored the man with her frostiest nod of acknowledgement and sailed off in the direction of the exit, Adam and a porter with the baggage trolley following in her wake.

They engaged a taxi from the rank in front of the terminal building. Adam gave the driver their destination and oversaw getting all the cases into the boot, then sank back in his seat to regard his mother with quizzical affection as they pulled away from the curb.

“I hope,” he said, “that there wasn’t anything irreplaceable in that lost bag of yours. If it turns up in Paris’ unclaimed, it’ll probably be destroyed as a suspected terrorist bomb.”

Philippa nodded abstractedly. “Yes, dear, I know.” She settled herself against the upholstery like a bird settling its plumage and said more briskly, “No, there’s nothing vital in it: just an uninteresting assortment of personal fripperies I can easily do without. If I seemed a bit severe with that young man back there, it was because he initially tried to fob me off. If there’s one thing I cannot abide, it’s someone who’s too lazy to do the job for which he’s been hired!”

She broke off with a laugh and shook her head at her own vehemence. “What a terrible old woman I’ve become since you were last over! We need to see more of each other. If I thought for a moment that anyone at the clinic could do the job half as well as I can, I’d retire to a cottage on the Isle of Arran and spend my declining years cultivating petunias!”

Adam thought of McLeod and chuckled. “No, you wouldn’t. You’re as badly addicted to the work as I am. Which reminds me, how
are
things at the clinic?”

Philippa’s shoulders rose and fell in an elegant shrug. “Busy. Busier than ever, in fact. We’re getting increasing numbers of referrals from hospitals outside of our own district. Probably a tribute to our reputation for achieving results, but it’s meant a heavy increase in case loads for the staff. I’ve taken on three new consultants in as many months. Two of them are competent analysts, but the third shows real promise. I shall be interested to see where his talents lead him in the months to come.”

She paused to take a long look at her son’s face. “What about you? How are things on the home front?”

“If you mean how are things at the hospital,” he said, “we’re getting on more or less as usual, though some of the recent changes in the National Health Service have generated a devilish amount of extra paperwork. As far as everything else is concerned . . .” He lowered his voice. “How much have you heard so far about Randall’s death?”

“Enough to convince me that the affair is likely to prove more than the police can safely handle—other than your Inspector McLeod, of course.” Philippa’s chiseled face went very still, and she spared a fleeting glance for the averted back of the taxi driver before adding, “That’s one of the things I want to talk with you about, later on. Till then, suffice it to say that I’m deeply sorry you should have lost such a friend in such a way.”

* * *

The Caledonian Club was where Adam habitually stayed on his visits to London. Upon their arrival, he and Philippa left the porter to see to their luggage while they went on through to the reception area. The clerk at the desk recognized Adam at once, and bobbed up from his seat with a welcoming grin.

“Good evening, Sir Adam.”

“Good evening, Tom,” Adam said. “This is my mother, Lady Philippa Sinclair. I believe my man booked adjoining rooms for us?”

“That’s right, Sir Adam. I took the call myself. If you’d care to sign the register, I’ll get the keys.” Over his shoulder, he added, “There’s also a message for you, sir. It came in about twenty minutes ago.”

He tendered Adam a folded message slip, along with two sets of room keys, and Adam unfolded the paper and tilted it toward the light.

For Sir Adam—Hold for arrival,
the block printing read.
Important news. Respectfully request you call home without delay. Humphrey.

Wordlessly Adam passed the note to Philippa, who arched her eyebrows and muttered, “I suspect you’d better call him.”

“If it’s urgent, sir,” put in Tom, “you’re welcome to make your call from here.”

“Thank you,” said Adam, reaching for the phone.

“Just dial nine first to get an outside line, sir,” Tom said.

As soon as he heard the dial tone, Adam punched out the code and telephone number for Strathmourne. Humphrey answered on the second ring.

“Hello, Humphrey,” Adam said. “I’ve just collected Philippa and gotten the message you left at the club. What’s up?”

“There’s a lady trying to get in touch with you, sir, on behalf of her daughter,” said Humphrey, his usual telephone formality not quite masking his excitement. “She gave her name as Mrs. Iris Talbot.”

Gillian Talbot’s mother!

“I see,” he said neutrally, reining in his own feelings. “I gather she was phoning from London?”

“She was, sir. I have her number right here, if you’d care to make a note of it.”

Adam was already reaching for a pen on the counter.

“Right you are, Humphrey. Go ahead.”

He jotted down the number on the back of the hotel message slip, reading back the digits to Humphrey to double-check. When he had hung up, he turned to Philippa. Before he could offer an explanation, she raised a forestalling hand.

“I can see this is going to get involved, and I, for one, am perishing for a cup of tea. Why don’t I see the luggage up to our rooms and meet you in the lounge when you’re finished?”

“Better yet,” he replied, flagging the attention of the porter, who was just rolling in the trolley with their luggage, “I’ll call from my room, and you can have tea sent up.”

He thought about Iris Talbot as he and Philippa followed the porter into the lift and headed for the rooms, blessing whatever had made her choose tonight to try to call him—though making the call at all suggested a further deterioration in Gillian’s condition. Still, the timing could hardly be better. Once he had gained the privacy of his room, he paused only long enough to shed his topcoat before dialing the London number Humphrey had given him. A man’s voice answered on the third ring, sounding worried.

“Good evening,” Adam said. “This is Dr. Adam Sinclair, from Jordanburn Hospital in Edinburgh. I’ve received a message asking that I get in touch with Mrs. Iris Talbot—”

“Dr. Sinclair?” the other voice broke in before Adam could say more. “Oh, thank God, we’ve been hoping you’d call! I’m George Talbot. Iris is my wife. We—it’s about our daughter Gillian.”

“Of course. I remember the case quite well,” Adam interposed smoothly. “How can I help you, Mr. Talbot?”

“It isn’t for me—it’s for Gillian,” Talbot replied. “When you spoke to my wife last month, you told her—that is, you gave her to understand that if—if our daughter’s condition didn’t improve, we might refer her to you for treatment.”

“I take it that Gillian’s condition has
not
improved, then,” Adam said.

“No, it hasn’t. In fact, she’s worse, if anything. The doctors at Charing Cross have tried everything they can think of, but nothing’s working. She’s just slipping farther and farther away. We had a word with Dr. Ogilvy—that’s Gillian’s attending physician—and she agreed that we should seek your professional assistance. I know this may be asking a great deal, but would you—do you think you might be able to see her?”