The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (42 page)

“Valium!”
The Head-Master gave a snort of contempt. “If you were going to go to all that trouble, why didn’t you fill the capsules with an appropriate amount of cyanide?”

“But that would have pointed obviously to a case of murder,” Wemyss protested weakly. “I understood that we were to use only such methods of attack that would not be traceable under forensics investigation.”

“Whatever methods you use,” the Head-Master said brutally, “I expect you to make a success of the attempt. Outright murder at least would have gotten him off our hands. As it is, you have yet to account for why your psychic attack failed.”

Wemyss flinched away from the Head-Master’s glare. “Even drugged, he put up a fight. I nearly had him, nonetheless, but he—had a Word of Power that I wasn’t expecting that I couldn’t countermand—”

“You incompetent fool!” The Head-Master’s voice cracked like a whip. “Sinclair is Master of the Hunt. Don’t you understand what that means? You had authorization to commandeer whatever assistance you required. And yet you thought to take him on by yourself. Why?”

Wemyss’ lips worked, but no sound came out.

“Shall I tell you why?” the Head-Master shouted. “It’s because you were too greedy—too eager to claim this kill for yourself! You were prepared to risk failure rather than share the credit with anyone else. Very well. Now that you have failed, I shall not ask anyone else to share the full penalty.”

Wemyss’ lean face blanched, and his clenching hands lifted involuntarily. “Mercy, Head-Master!” he whispered. “Have mercy I beg you!”

“Mercy?”
The Head Master’s black eyes were mocking. “Mercy is the vice of all those sentimental fools who really believe the Light will save them from the Dark. It was one of the first things you rejected when you joined our Order. Having failed me, how
dare
you beg me to be merciful?”

Wemyss’ legs were quaking under him. With an abject moan, he sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands. There was a stony silence broken only by the sound of the doctor’s sobbing breath. Then the Head-Master moved, gesturing curtly to the acolytes sitting on either side of the door.

“Take this worm out of my sight,” he ordered in tones of withering contempt. “Let him be stripped of his tokens of rank and relegated to the grade of Menial until I have leisure to decide what to do with him.”

The two acolytes rose from their places. Wemyss bit back a whimper as they laid rough hands on him and hustled him from the chamber. As silence descended on the room, the Head-Master allowed himself to be assisted to his feet. Face set hard in iron composure, he waved his assistants aside and made his own departure.

Francis Raeburn was waiting for him downstairs in the library. The Head-Master made his way unsteadily to his chair and sank down in it with a bitter air of spent rage.

“There must be no more failures,” he muttered.

“There won’t be,” said Raeburn steadily. “Not unless the Thunderer himself declines to keep his bargain.”

“He will keep it.” The Head-Master rounded on the younger man, his withered hands spread claw-like on the table. “What else do you think keeps me fettered to this miserable frame? Not any love of life, but dedication to the service of our Dark Master. From him I shall look to receive fitting recompense when the hour of awakening arrives.”

His glittering gaze fixed on Raeburn’s fair face, and he sat back in his chair.

“You will not go back to Nether Leckie. After this latest setback, our enemies may be close enough on our trail to begin looking for you there. You will remain here, in seclusion, until time for our next assault in the name of the Thunderer.”

Chapter Thirty-One

THE FOLLOWING MORNING,
just before eleven o’clock, Peregrine went up to Strathmourne House to see how Adam was getting on. It was a grey, dreary Monday, and he found his mentor still at the breakfast table, not yet shaved or dressed. He accepted a cup of tea and an offer of scones from Humphrey, then settled down to eat and listen with some eagerness as Adam related what he had discovered the night before.

“Raeburn,” Peregrine said around a mouthful of scone, gesturing with the rest of it. “I swear that name rings a bell. I’m not just thinking of Sir Henry Raeburn, the famous Scottish portrait artist, either,” he hastened to add. “This is something else, much more recent—certainly since I met you.”

His hazel eyes narrowed as he chewed on his bite of scone, thinking.

“Nope, I can’t remember,” he said finally. “It’s knocking around somewhere in the back of my mind, but I can’t quite seem to get a fix on it.”

Adam had been watching the younger man’s face as he considered. If Peregrine even half-remembered something about a man named Raeburn since this whole thing began, it might well be worth exploring further.

“Now you’ve got me curious,” he said, folding his napkin left-handed and setting it aside, for he was still in his sling. “In light of our present situation, anybody by the name of Raeburn is worth giving some thought to. Finish up your scone, and let’s see if we can’t retrieve that memory.”

Grinning, Peregrine popped the last bite of his third scone into his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of tea.

“Voila!”
he said, dusting the crumbs from his fingertips. “I’m ready any time you are.”

Smiling a little over the demands of a young man’s appetite, Adam reached his left hand across the table to lightly touch Peregrine’s forehead.

“Close your eyes and relax,” he murmured, removing his hand as the hazel eyes closed at the post-hypnotic suggestion. “Take a deep breath, and as you let it out, feel yourself sinking to a good, comfortable working level of trance, as you do when you’re trying to See. Take several breaths. That’s right . . . “

Peregrine relaxed visibly as Adam spoke, eyes closed behind his spectacles, his breathing becoming light and regular as his head nodded forward slightly.

“That’s very good,” Adam said quietly, sitting back. “Now cast your mind back to the month of October, to our first meeting, and slowly begin moving forward, one day at a time. Let the name Raeburn act as a magnet, and let your mind be drawn toward it like the needle of a compass.”

Peregrine nodded his understanding. Adam could see the flicker of movement behind his closed lids as he responded to the direction. The seconds ticked away in silence broken only by the faint hiss of the gas fire on the breakfast room hearth. Then Peregrine caught his breath with a small shiver.

“I’ve got it,” he breathed, head lifting but eyes remaining closed. “The British Museum. It was Monday, October 29. I’d been looking at maps. Your friend there—Mr. Rowley—was speaking on the telephone to a colleague named Middleton. They were talking about someone called Raeburn.”

His brow creased. “Something about a Highlands and Islands Conference. I got the impression something unpleasant had happened. Rowley said, “
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
. . .”

His voice trailed off. Considering the date, Adam realized that the conversation would have coincided roughly with the theft of the Fairy Flag from Dunvegan Castle—and linking the name of Raeburn with Inverness, just at the north end of Loch Ness, surely was too much coincidence to be mere chance. Whether Peregrine’s Raeburn and Francis Raeburn were one and the same remained to be seen . . .

“That’s very interesting,” he said, returning his attention to the artist. “I don’t suppose that a first name was mentioned?”

“No.”

“All right, you’ve done very well,” Adam told him. “I’m going to count backwards now, from three to one. When I reach one, I want you to return to normal waking consciousness, refreshed and relaxed, in full possession of the memory we’ve just called to mind. Three, two, one.”

Peregrine, like Adam, was quick to appreciate the coincidences of time and place.

“It’s
got
to be the same Raeburn, Adam!” he said excitedly.

“No, it doesn’t
have
to be,” Adam replied, getting carefully to his feet, “but I intend to find out whether it is. Come with me.”

Five minutes later, he was sitting at his desk in the library, listening to a telephone ring at a London number. Peregrine had pulled a straight-backed chair closer and straddled it, leaning his hands and chin on the back as he watched and also waited. He could almost make out the words as someone picked up at the other end and Adam turned his attention to the conversation.

“Mr. Rowley, please. This is Sir Adam Sinclair calling.”

As the call went on hold, Adam quirked a slightly roguish smile at Peregrine.

“One of the more useful things about a title is its power to get one past intermediaries more quickly,” he murmured. “Hello, Peter? Yes, good to hear your voice, too. No, nothing special. I’m afraid Christmas has managed to sneak up on me this year. Somehow, it usually does.

“Listen, Peter. I need to pick your brain. I didn’t make it to the Highlands and Islands Conference in October. Was there a chap there called Raeburn? Yes, Francis Raeburn—that’s the one. Lives up by Stirling. You don’t sound too pleased.”

He listened avidly for several minutes, nodding occasionally and making noises of agreement, jotting a few notes on a pad of foolscap that Peregrine craned his neck to see, at last flicking his glance at Peregrine as he drew breath to speak.

“Oh, I agree. He sounds most disagreeable. Interesting credentials, though. Yes, I thought he might. It sounds like we’d be at cross-purposes, though. No, that’s good to know.

“Listen, Peter, I’ve got to run. Thanks very much for the info. Yes, indeed. No, I’ll buy
you
a drink the next time I’m in London. Right. Happy Christmas to you too, Peter.”

Without even taking the receiver from his ear, Adam pressed the switch hook to end the connection and began dialing another number.

“Adam,” Peregrine muttered under his breath, “what did he
say?”

“In a minute,” Adam murmured, holding a finger to his lips for silence as the number rang. “Yes, Detective Chief Inspector McLeod, please. Sir Adam Sinclair calling.”

Peregrine sat forward on his chair, eyes alight, as the lines clicked and transferred.

“Good morning, indeed. Not bad, all things considered,” Adam replied. “Listen, Noel, can you call me back from another phone? Right. I’m at home. Five minutes. I’ll be waiting.”

A predatory look had come into his eyes as he spoke, and he refused to be drawn out as they waited for McLeod to return the call. Adam had Humphrey bring in an extension phone and patch it into the one on Adam’s desk, so that when the instrument rang and Adam had verified that it was McLeod, he had Peregrine pick it up.

“Yes, thanks for getting back so quickly,” Adam said. “By the way, Peregrine’s on the extension, so I don’t have to tell this twice. Did your departure seem to arouse any undue attention?”

“Morning, Peregrine. No, I don’t think so. Napier’s off somewhere, but we don’t know for sure that he’s our mole. Right now, I’m suspicious of just about everybody. What’s up?”

“Something else on our Francis Raeburn chap,” Adam replied. “Peregrine remembered something that connects.”

“Oh? What have you got?”

Briefly Adam related the memory Peregrine had retrieved of the conversation overheard.

“So I called Rowley to see if they could be one and the same—and they are. Apparently he made a rather vitriolic attack on someone’s paper at the Highlands and Islands Conference. What’s important, though, is that it places him in the area at the time the whole Dunvegan-Loch Ness caper went down. All circumstantial, granted, but at least it’s a starting place.”

“I’ll say. Good work, Peregrine.”

“Thanks,” Peregrine murmured.

“I got an interesting academic précis, too,” Adam went on. “According to Rowley, Raeburn took a First in Classics at Cambridge, started an M. Div., but didn’t finish, has funded several archaeological digs, dabbles in local folklore. And I’d be willing to bet that he does more than dabble in certain other areas—though that may be difficult to prove in a court of law.”

“Aye, sounds like I ought to have another word with him,” McLeod said. “I’m thinking maybe I’ve got some more questions I’d like to ask him about the rare book trade. In fact, I think I’ll go and ask them this afternoon.”

“Be careful, Noel. If he
is
our man—”

“Och, aye, I’m not daft, Adam. I’ve got a healthy respect for anybody connected with putting that Lynx letter bomb onto me. But even if he
is
our man, I doubt he’d dare to touch me in broad daylight—especially if I show up in a police car, with Donald to back me up, and dragging a trail of red tape after me to show where I’ve been. I’ll ring you from Stirling after I’ve seen him.”

After McLeod had rung off, Peregrine stayed a while longer, speculating eagerly about what the inspector might discover, but he left shortly before noon.

“There’s a Christmas recital at Holyrood Palace this afternoon,” he told his mentor. “Something to benefit the National Trust for Scotland. I promised Julia I’d take her—and after abandoning her that night we went up to Blairgowrie, I’d better not disappoint her today. The place should look splendid, all decked out for Christmas.”

When Peregrine had gone, Adam looked in on Philippa, who was doing a therapy session with Gillian, spent a few minutes assuring Mrs. Talbot that he really was feeling better than he looked, then decided that perhaps a nap might do him more good than lunch. He had retired to his bedroom and was just drawing the drapes when he looked out across the expanse of lawn and saw a lovely Morgan sports car nosing up the drive—bright yellow, with black wings and top.

Cautious, he stepped back from the window and watched through a gap in the drapes as the car pulled up in front of the house and stopped. The car was not familiar, and he was not expecting anyone. His surprise was complete, then, when the driver’s door opened and a tall, willowy brunette got out. She was halfway up the steps before he realized why her identity had not registered immediately. Green surgical scrubs had not done justice to the lovely Dr. Ximena Lockhart.

Grinning like a schoolboy, he let the drapes fall into place and picked up the bedside phone, buzzing the intercom in the entry hall, since he knew Humphrey would be on his way to the door.

“Ah, good, I’ve caught you,” Adam said, when Humphrey picked up. “I know who the lady is at the door, and I’ll be right down. Show her into the library.”

Humphrey’s “Very good, sir,” was as correct and neutral as always, but Adam thought he caught just a hint of amusement. He supposed he
had
sounded a bit eager—and, in fact, he was. Feeling much revitalized, he ducked into the bathroom to comb his hair, lamenting that he had not taken the time to shave before going down for breakfast. Then he decided, what the hell? He was supposed to be convalescing, after all. And designer-stubble was said to be in fashion these days.

Grinning at the face in the mirror, he smoothed the lapels of his dressing gown as best he could under his sling, then headed downstairs. Humphrey was just coming out of the library, and gave him a ghost of a smile as he nodded greeting.

“A Dr. Lockhart to see you, Sir Adam,” he said formally.

“Yes, thank you, Humphrey,” Adam said. “I’ll call if I need you.”

She was standing in front of the fireplace, gazing up at the painting of a hunting scene above the mantel. Her dark hair was loose on the shoulders of her long black coat, parted to one side and gently curling. Her turtleneck sweater and skirt were the color of rich cream. She turned as she heard the door open, dark eyes lit with intelligence, wit, and just a hint of challenge.

“So, there you are,” she said, one eyebrow arching in faint disapproval, though she was also smiling slightly. “Who told you that you could check out of the hospital without your attending physician’s approval? What do you think you are, a doctor or something?”

He smiled and slipped his left hand into the pocket of his dressing gown, returning her gaze measure for measure.

“I apologize. Something urgent came up. Since I
am
a doctor, and since my mother, who is
also
a doctor, is here for the holidays, it seemed a not unreasonable thing to do. As you can see, I’m following doctor’s orders.” He slightly raised his right hand in its sling. “I also have been sleeping in the last few mornings—which is why I haven’t yet shaved today. And when you pulled into my front drive, I was just about to have a midday nap. Swear to God!” He raised his left hand in affirmation of his oath.

“Humph!” She looked him up and down critically, then nodded faintly.