The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (7 page)

They said their farewells on the doorstep before heading downstairs to the basement flat occupied by the landlady. Mrs. Beaton, a motherly widow, greeted Christopher with a pleasure that was tinged with relief.

“I’m that glad to see ye, Father Houston,” she said broadly. “I’ve been worried about our poor lamb all this last fortnight, but now ye’ve been in to see her, she’ll perhaps be easier in her mind.”

She proved quite ready to answer Christopher’s questions regarding the flat and its previous occupants. When at last Adam and his companions took leave of her, they had a short list of names, along with the fact that Helena’s flat had been redecorated only a few months earlier. Outside, the weather had turned wet and gusty. They beat a path back to the car under a stinging splatter of cold rain.

“I suppose it was only a matter of time,” Christopher said resignedly, futilely brushing rain from the shoulders of his trenchcoat when they had reached the shelter of the car.

Adam glanced over the scrap of paper they had obtained from Mrs. Beaton, then tucked it carefully away in the breast pocket of his coat.

“I’ll pass the names on to Noel,” he said. “He’ll know how to track down whatever additional information may be available. How are we doing for time, Christopher?”

The priest glanced at his wristwatch. “Not too badly. Vicky will be hoping we’re back by one; but she knows better than to plan anything for lunch that won’t hold for an hour or so. Why?”

“Oh, I had a note from Randall yesterday, saying that he’d managed to find a book for me that I’ve been after for some time,” Adam said, turning the key in the ignition. “Would you mind if we made a slight detour to his shop, to pick it up?”

“Might as well, since we’re here,” said Christopher. “Don’t fancy your chances of getting parked, though—not in this weather and on a Saturday.”

“We can but hope,” said Adam, and eased the blue Range Rover deftly into traffic.

The bookshop in question lay at the upper end of a stepped close opening off the Royal Mile. The street itself was ablaze with headlamps as cars and lorries ploughed doggedly through the worsening rain. After two passes, Adam gave up looking for a parking place and pulled up at the curb in what was formally designated as a loading zone.

“This will have to do,” he said ruefully, glancing up and down the street for signs of a traffic warden. “I shan’t be long. Christopher, could I prevail upon you to stay behind and keep an eye out for the ‘yellow peril’? I doubt very much that even the most punctilious traffic warden would award a ticket to a man of the cloth.”

“Benefit of clergy, eh?” Christopher cocked a sly grin at his seat-mate, then made a show of adjusting the neck of his trenchcoat so that his collar was more clearly visible.

“Very well, heathen that you are! I’ll stay here and keep dry, and hope I shan’t be obliged to move the car.”

“In that eventuality, I do hope you’ll come back for us,” Adam said with a smile. “Come on, Peregrine. This place might interest you.”

The Parnassus Bookshop was warm and still inside, an Aladdin’s cave of library shelves crammed full with volumes of every size, shape, and binding. The air had a pleasant, powdery smell that reminded Peregrine of the manuscript collections housed in the Oxford University libraries.

Almost at once, his eye was drawn to a complete set of the collected fairy tales of Andrew Lang, their gold-embossed covers proclaiming them to be first editions. As he paused to admire them, a slim girl with a long mop of dark curly hair popped out from behind the counter at the back of the shop and came forward with a smile.

“May I help you, sir?” she began, then her face lit up with pleased recognition. “Oh, it’s you, Adam! How lovely to see you. Papa didn’t tell me you’d be calling in today. Is that a friend you’ve brought with you?”

She tilted her head in Peregrine’s direction, her dark eyes bright as a wren’s.

“Miranda, if you flirt with that rascal instead of me, I shall be inconsolable!” Adam informed her with a chuckle. “However, I
will
admit both to having brought him and to him being a friend—a uniquely talented one, as it happens. His name is Peregrine Lovat, and he’s a portrait artist.”

“A portrait artist?” Miranda was intrigued. “Have you ever painted anyone famous, Mr. Lovat?’

Peregrine flushed at the question, but found himself already caught up in the good-natured banter.

“Well, I once did a sketch of the Queen Mother,” he told her with a wry grin. “It was only from someone else’s photograph, though, so I don’t really think it counts.”

“Don’t let him get away with false modesty, Miranda,” Adam said easily. “He hasn’t painted any of the Royals—yet—but he’s had some very distinguished clients. Peregrine, this is Miranda Stewart, my friend Randall’s daughter.”

Peregrine had already taken note of the piquant face and the way she had draped a silk paisley shawl, Romany-fashion, about her slender shoulders, and now he cocked his head at her in new reflection.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Stewart, though I should tell you that the most famous faces are not necessarily the most interesting ones.”

Miranda gave him a tip-tilt glance from under long, dark eyelashes.

“Now I’m not sure which I’d rather be—famous or interesting. Would you paint my portrait either way?”

“With pleasure,” Peregrine said, and added recklessly, “Anyway, I don’t see why you shouldn’t be both.”

Miranda laughed, and Adam, not without regrets, took the opportunity to intervene.

“Much as I would like to continue this merry exchange, I have Christopher waiting in a loading zone outside, and I need to have a word with your father, if I may. Is he in?”

“He’s in the stockroom,” Miranda said. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll nip back and tell him you’re here.”

She was gone in a gypsy whirl of dark skirts, vanishing through a door at the back of the shop. When she returned a few minutes later, she was accompanied by a slight, elderly man in spectacles. When he caught sight of his two visitors, he hurried forward.

“Adam!” he exclaimed. “What a delightful surprise on an otherwise gloomy Saturday morning!”

“You’ll spoil me with such greetings, Randall,” Adam said with a chuckle. “Perhaps I should have telephoned, but I must confess, this is a slightly impromptu visit.”

“It matters not a whit,” said the elderly bookseller. “You know you’re always a welcome visitor.”

His mild blue gaze turned to Peregrine. “And who is this?” he inquired. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“This is Mr. Peregrine Lovat,” Adam said, beckoning Peregrine forward. “Peregrine, my very dear friend, Randall Stewart.”

Peregrine surveyed Miranda’s father as they exchanged handshakes. Lightly-built like his daughter, Randall Stewart had silvery hair and the finely-chiseled face of an aging scholar. The gentle, old-world courtesy in his manner was suggestive of more courtly times.

“Peregrine Lovat,” the old man mused. “That name is not unfamiliar to me—ah, I have it! You,’re the portrait artist, aren’t you? The one whose works were so favorably reviewed in
The Scotsman.”

Peregrine had the grace to blush. “The critics have been very generous, sir.”

“And
you
are too modest,” Randall replied. “I myself saw an exhibition of your work in the National Gallery. The critics’ praise was well-merited, and I’m happy to have met you in person.”

Before Peregrine could summon a suitable reply, the old man turned back to Adam.

“Forgive me, but I was almost forgetting. You’ve come about the Bartholomaeus, haven’t you? It’s locked up in my desk. Come upstairs and I’ll get it for you—you, too, Mr. Lovat. Miranda will look after the shop while we chat, won’t you, my dear?”

They followed him up two flights of stairs to a large garret room at the top of the building. In addition to the heavy oaken desk by the windows, there were two comfortably well-worn armchairs drawn up on either side of a gas fire, as well as a sink and sideboard built into a nook in one corner.

“My home away from home,” Randall explained to Peregrine with a smile. “Adam, would you and your young friend care for some tea?”

“I’m afraid we really haven’t a great deal of time,” Adam said apologetically. “I’ve left Christopher minding the car, with instructions to invoke benefit of clergy if a traffic warden gets stroppy, and Victoria will be holding lunch for us. Besides that, we appear to have caught you in the middle of some work.”

He gestured toward the desk, which was dominated by an ancient manual typewriter. A sheet of typing paper half-covered in print stuck up above the platen.

“It’s nothing that can’t wait a few minutes,” Randall said with a faint smile. “A letter to the editor of the
Sunday Times.
It won’t make this week’s edition anyway.”

“Another
letter?” Adam quirked an eyebrow. “I admire your diligence, Randall. Your piece in last week’s
Times
was quite an elegant apologia for the institution of Freemasonry.”

The bookseller looked pleased. “Why, thank you. That’s high praise, coming from someone who is not a member of the Craft-though I know you’re sympathetic to the work.” Then his face sobered. “I must confess, I’m not a little worried about the recent attacks that have been made on our fraternal order. Just the other night, vandals broke into the Freemason’s Hall in George Street and did damage to several of the rooms. And there have been other incidents . . .”

His voice trailed off and he shook his head. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. Granted, the public have not always understood the nature of our institution. Our detractors mistrust what they regard as our secrecy. But it’s only through secrecy that we can guarantee that the knowledge entrusted to us will not be abused by men of self-seeking ambition. And so we must continue to guard our rites, hoping at the same time that our works themselves will stand as proof of our benign intentions.”

Adam was nodding. “To quote from a more modern rendering of the passage from St. Matthew, ‘
Be careful not to parade your good deeds before men to attract their notice, for by doing this you will lose all reward from your Father in heaven.’”
You make a very able advocate, Randall. I’ll be watching for your letter in next Sunday’s editorial section.”

“In that case,” said Randall, “I shall make a point of getting it finished. Now, let me show you the Bartholomaeus.”

Beckoning Adam to accompany him, he crossed over to the desk and unlocked the lowest drawer on the left-hand side. Peregrine followed, peering over Adam’s shoulder as the elderly bookseller lifted out a stout volume bound in tooled leather.

“This is merely a Victorian facsimile of the 1495 edition by Wynken de Worde,” Randall explained, “but I think you’ll find that it faithfully mirrors the original.”

Adam opened to the title page, then lifted the book in his hands so that Peregrine could read it:
De Proprietatibus Rerum.

“Concerning the Properties of Things,” he said aloud, automatically translating the Latin. As Adam continued to leaf through it, Peregrine realized that the book itself was written not in Latin, but in Middle English.

“It’s a late medieval encyclopedia,” Adam said, answering the, unasked question. “It was compiled in Latin by Bartholomaeus Anglicus—Bartholomew the Englishman—and later translated by one John of Trevisa. It’s a repository of a wealth of knowledge, as it was understood by the readers of the day, and therefore of considerable interest to anyone interested in the evolution of ideas.”

He smiled over at Randall Stewart as he closed the book, cradling it against his chest with pleased possessiveness.

“Thank you for finding this for me, Randall. I know it was no easy task, and I hope you’ll not undervalue your own efforts in setting the price. Don’t give me any numbers now!” he warned, holding up a hand and shaking his head emphatically. “I insist that you come up to Strathmourne in the next week or so, and we’ll discuss it over drinks.”

“I’d like that,” Randall said, smiling. “As it happens, I’ve got to make a trip up to Stirling tomorrow to do an estate appraisal. It’s supposed to be a large collection, so it may take me several days. Why don’t I give you a ring when I’m finished? If it turns out that you’re planning to be in, I’ll make a slight detour on my way back home.”

“That should mesh nicely with my plans,” Adam said. “I’ll look forward to your call.”

Downstairs, Adam and Peregrine tarried long enough for Miranda to wrap up the book, then bade her and Randall a cordial good-bye. Back outside amid the rainy bustle of the Royal Mile, the Range Rover had disappeared. Mildly dismayed, Peregrine turned up his collar and cast a searching glance over the moving lines of traffic. Just then, the hoot of a familiar car-horn caught Adam’s attention.

“There’s Christopher now,” he said, pointing. “Run for it, before we both get utterly drenched!”

They arrived back at the rectory closer to two o’clock than to one. Victoria met them at the door and hustled them into the shelter of the hall.

“Lord, it’s turned perishing cold, hasn’t it?” Christopher observed, as the three of them shook themselves out of their dripping coats. “Sorry we’re late, Vicky. If this keeps up, I think we’ll see snow before dark.”

“Never mind,” said Victoria. “The kettle’s on the boil, and so is the soup. Come along through to the dining room and I’ll start serving up.”

Shortly thereafter, the four of them sat down to steaming bowls of Scotch broth, with omelettes and hot buttered toast to follow. In the course of the meal, Christopher and Adam related what had occurred at the flat. At length, prompted by Adam, Peregrine brought out the sketch he had made on the premises. Victoria studied it gravely for a long, thoughtful moment before handing it back. He noticed, hardly even surprised now, that the center stone in her engagement ring was a sapphire.

“I suspect we should count ourselves lucky to have stumbled across what might turn out to be an important lead,” she observed. “Do you think there’s any chance that Noel will be able to find the young man in the picture?”