The Adept Book 3 The Templar Treasure (7 page)

“Yes, Donald’s just gotten back. I took the liberty of having him deliver the packet to Peregrine, with instructions to read it, if he had a chance, and see what kinds of cold impressions he might get. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not. I should have thought of that myself. I have the feeling we’re going to need him on this, before it goes much farther.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Anything else? I ought to head downstairs and be sociable for a little while before Peter runs me to the airport.”

“No. Talk to you when you get home.”

* * *

The Edinburgh flight out of Leeds left at 5:50. This time, as well as his overnight bag, Adam had a leather briefcase crammed full of Nathan’s research notes. He arrived to find no Humphrey waiting at the gate, but as he came out of the terminal building, he spotted his silver-blue Range Rover standing by at the curb with Humphrey at the wheel.

“I’m afraid I misjudged the traffic, sir,” Humphrey said, as he alighted to open the back so Adam could toss in his meagre luggage. “I would have met you at the gate as I usually do, but I only just got here.”

“Not to worry, Humphrey. Let’s swing by police headquarters so I can pick up the Jag.”

“Very good, sir.”

They were home by a little after seven. After putting the Jaguar away and dropping off Nathan’s briefcase in the library, Adam went upstairs for a quick shower while Humphrey took himself off to the kitchen to prepare a quick evening meal. Twenty minutes later, refreshed and relaxed in a clean white shirt and grey slacks under his quilted blue dressing gown, he was heading back down to the library to sort through the mail on his desk before eating.

Most of the mail was not urgent, but one item, in particular, caught his attention—a formal invitation printed on stiff cream card stock, with the shield of the present-day Order of the Temple of Jerusalem emblazoned at its head. He gazed at it for several seconds, absently running a thumb over the raised engraving, then picked up the telephone at his elbow and tapped in the number printed below the line that read,
RSVP Chev. Stuart MacRae
.
He knew MacRae through their mutual interest in restoring castles. MacRae lived in a partially restored castle farther to the east, near Glenrothes, and had been giving Adam ongoing advice on the restoration of Templemor. He was also an expert on Templar history.

“Hello, Stuart, this is Adam Sinclair,” Adam said, when the hearty bass voice of MacRae himself answered the phone. “I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.”

“Not at all!” came MacRae’s genial reply. “I was hoping I’d hear from you soon. Did you receive your invitation to the investiture?”

“I did, indeed,” Adam said. “Forgive me for not getting back to you sooner, but I was called away unexpectedly on Monday, and I’ve only just gotten back. I’ll try to make it on Saturday, but a lot depends on how things have gone at the hospital while I was away. I haven’t even checked in yet. I’m not sure I want to know.”

A hearty chuckle erupted from MacRae’s end of the line. “I can appreciate
that,”
he replied. “But don’t worry about us. Come if you can—and if you can’t, then send your good wishes. I still keep hoping that, since you’re restoring a Templar castle, we’ll eventually be able to persuade you to join the Order.”

“Well, I’m honored that you keep asking, but I already have too many claims on my time,” Adam replied easily. “However, you may certainly count me as a friend of the Order. And I hope to affirm that friendship in person on Saturday.”

“Well, so do I.”

“In the meantime, I’m calling because I’ve got something of a mystery on my hands,” Adam went on. • ‘It has to do with Templar history, and I’m hoping you may be able to give me some information.”

“Ah, well, then,” MacRae said. “That’s something I do know something about. What did you want to know?”

“I need a connection,” Adam said, choosing his next words to be carefully neutral. “Have you ever heard tell of any dangerous Templar secret connected with Dundee?”

“I assume you mean Bonnie Dundee, not the town,” came MacRae’s prompt reply, making the human connection immediately, as Adam had not. “You know, of course, that he was Grand Prior of Scotland at the time of his death?”

“Indeed?” Adam said, jotting down
G.P. Scotland
on the back of an envelope. “Tell me more.”

MacRae gave a knowing chuckle, obviously delighted at the chance to confide his knowledge to a receptive and appreciative listener.

“Well, some of this might be considered crypto-history by more conventional scholarship, but there’s a strong tradition that when Grahame of Claverhouse fell at Killiecrankie, he was wearing a Templar cross around his neck. What became of the cross after the battle isn’t certain, but it’s mentioned as being in the possession of a French priest named Dom Calmet some years later. I’d guess that he got it from David Grahame, Dundee’s younger brother. I’d give a lot to know where it finally ended up,” he finished, rather wistfully. “That’s the sort of thing that really ought to be in the custody of the Templars of Scotland.”

Adam was silent a moment, his mind racing. MacRae’s disclosures had thrown a whole new light on the investigation.

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” MacRae asked.

“No, you’ve given me ample food for thought just now,” Adam said. “But tell me, where might I find out more about this Claverhouse/Templar connection?”

“Well, if you’ve been following the books by Michael Baigent and Richard Leigh—I’m sure you’re familiar with their
The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail,
with Henry Lincoln—they talk about a lot of this in a book called
The Temple and the Lodge.
It came out a couple of years ago.”

Adam’s gaze had already shifted upward to scan the bookshelf on his right, and he stood to tip down a book in a black dust jacket, with the square and compass of Freemasonry between the red of its title and the white lettering of the authors’ names on the spine.

“Yes, I have a copy right here,” Adam said, trapping the receiver between shoulder and ear as he sat and flipped back to the book’s index. “Thanks, Stuart. This may be exactly what I needed.”

“Glad to be of service,” MacRae replied. “Do you think you might let me in on what you’re up to?”

“Just a bit of research,” Adam said neutrally. “It may not come to anything. I’m thinking of writing an article,” he added, to allay any further undue curiosity.

“Ah, well, then. Let me know if I can help you with anything else.”

“I certainly will.”

With a final word of thanks and the hope that they would, indeed, see one another on Saturday, Adam rang off, already settling back to devour the material on John Grahame of Claverhouse. He had skimmed through the entire volume when it first came out, but then he had focused on later sections having to do with his own family’s Sinclair connections with the founding of Freemasonry in Scotland, and their role in the building of Rosslyn Chapel, south of Edinburgh. Now, while he ate the light supper Humphrey brought him on a tray, he read the pertinent sections on Claverhouse’s Templar connections.

When he had finished both, he pushed his tray aside and went back to his bookshelves to look for something more specific on the life and times of Bonnie Dundee. Of all the books on his shelves dealing with various aspects of Scottish history, only one was a detailed biography of Dundee. Adam pulled it from its place and went over to his favorite chair by the fireside to have a read of it, grateful for the fire Humphrey had started while he ate.

The book was an old one, as witnessed by the fact that the bookplate on the inside bore the name of Adam’s father. The date of publication was 1937. Making himself a mental note to obtain something more recent, Adam checked the index for any reference to Templars—there were none—then set himself to reading the account of Dundee’s last battle and its aftermath. He was just finishing it when the telephone rang, so he let Humphrey answer it in another room—though he was not surprised when Humphrey buzzed it through. Holding his place with a finger between the pages, Adam went over to the desk and answered.

“It’s Mr. Lovat on the line, sir,” Humphrey said.

“Thank you, Humphrey. Put him through, please.”

He sat as a series of clicks told of the call being transferred.

“Hello, Peregrine,” he said, turning back to the frontispiece of his book—a faded black-and-white photo of a portrait of a handsome young Cavalier. “I was just about to ring you. Did Donald Cochrane drop by this afternoon, with some computer printouts from Noel?”

“As a matter of fact, he did,” came the light, cheerful voice. “It’s fascinating stuff. Makes me want to start painting portraits of John Grahame of Claverhouse. But what’s all this business about a stolen seal?”

“It’s a long story,” Adam said. “If you’d like to run that material up to the house, I’ll tell you all about it. The matter’s likely to require your services anyway, probably sooner rather than later, so I might as well bring you up to speed.”

“Super!” Peregrine replied. “I’ll be right up. I assume this is apt to take a while?”

”I’m afraid so,” Adam replied. “Did you have other plans for the evening?”

“Not at all. I was just confirming that it’ll be worth my while to bring along a suitable libation. I finished that portrait of Janet Fraser over the weekend, and Sir Matthew gave me a bottle of hundred-year-old port that’s just begging to be sampled. Julia doesn’t care for it, and it’s far too nice to drink alone.”

“Hundred-year-old port?” Adam said with an appreciative chuckle. “Would you like me to send Humphrey down in the Bentley to collect you and it? I shouldn’t want to even
think
of it being jostled or disturbed.”

Peregrine laughed. “It’s well packed in straw, but I promise I’ll drive very slowly. Anything else you need?”

“As a matter of fact, there is one thing you could bring,” Adam said, glancing again at the book in his lap. “Have a look at your art books and see if you have any of the Dundee portraits. I’ve got one here, but it’s the Melville one, done when he was in his early twenties. A charming portrait, but I’m looking for a later one, that will show him more the way he would have looked about the time of his death.”

“You’d want the Glamis Portrait, then,” Peregrine said. “That’s the one you usually see. I’m sure I’ve got a print of it around here somewhere. I’ll see what else I can find. See you in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

Chapter Six

IT WAS
more like
half an hour before Peregrine arrived, with an oversized art book and large manila envelope cradled in one arm and a look of eager anticipation on his face. Humphrey followed him with the dark green bottle of vintage port in its straw basket, bearing it with a stately reverence usually reserved for holy relics.

“Ah, there you are,” Adam said, smiling as he rose to shake the younger man’s hand. “And I see that Humphrey has been entrusted with the grave responsibility of carrying the port. Shall we allow him to do the honors?”

“By all means,” Peregrine said with a grin, depositing his own burden on the table before the fire, where Adam was clearing a space. “And pour one for yourself as well, Humphrey.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” Humphrey replied, a pleased smile touching his usually impassive features.

As the butler retired to deposit the port on a Jacobean sideboard and began assembling the necessary requisites of corkscrew and crystal glasses, Peregrine settled in the chair opposite Adam and set aside the manila envelope and a slender booklet on paintings housed in properties owned by the National Trust for Scotland. Taking up the large art book, he ducked his head to search for the place he had marked.

Peregrine Lovat was a slender, fair-haired young man of middling height and graceful carriage. At just thirty, he had already carved out a niche for himself as one of Scotland’s most important young portrait artists, with increasingly prestigious commissions coming his way. His attire reflected an artist’s instinct for color and texture—a nubby Fair Isle sweater in muted greys and creams over a cream silk shirt and tan slacks, subtle foil for the pale hair worn longish in the front. The hazel eyes behind gold wire-rimmed spectacles shone with a joy and sense of purpose that had grown and emerged steadily in the year since he and Adam first had met.

For Peregrine Lovat also possessed the gift of Sight, the ability to focus his artist’s eye on a scene of past psychic intensity and bring images to mind—and to sketch or paint those images while in trance. Such visions had been disturbing enough, before he learned to control them; but far more devastating had been the emergence of a parallel talent for sometimes seeing into the future—a shattering experience when it involved glimpsing the deaths of some of his sitters.

Despondency over one such death was what had driven him to seek Adam’s help in a professional capacity, almost a year ago. Since then Adam had helped him learn to channel his gifts, so that they now emerged only on command, and mainly when working with Adam and McLeod as a very special kind of forensic artist. The ability to catch glimpses of prior events at the scene of a crime was of inestimable value when teamed with the unique sort of law enforcement in which Adam and McLeod—and now Peregrine—were so often engaged.

“Here we go,” Peregrine said, opening the book to a full-page color plate and turning it for Adam’s inspection. “I think that’s the one you’ll want.”

Adam nodded and pulled the book onto his lap, studying the man who gazed back at him from the page. The face in the picture, somewhat stylized in the manner of all late seventeenth-century portraits, was that of a dashing cavalier gentleman swathed in brunette silk-velvet, with full white shirt sleeves, a bunch of lace at his chin, and the gleam of an armor breastplate just visible at his waist. The oval face, handsome and refined, was framed in lustrous auburn curls, the sensitivity of the finely modeled mouth effectively countered by the challenge lurking in the heavy-lidded dark eyes. The legend beneath the plate identified the subject as John Grahame of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, by Sir Godfrey Kneller.

“That one’s more commonly known as the Glamis Portrait,” Peregrine said, “on account of it being part of the collection housed at Glamis Castle. It was painted in London, only two years before his death. I found a print of another one that’s kept at Fyvie Castle,” he went on, opening the smaller booklet and laying it atop the first book. “This is a pretty small photo, and it’s in black and white, but you get the general idea. I’ve seen the original. It’s by a relatively obscure Scottish artist named John Alexander, who copied it from an original by Sir Peter Lillie. I couldn’t find any further mention of the Lillie portrait in what I’ve got at home, but if it’s important, I can always go into Edinburgh tomorrow and take a poke about in the arts section of the university library.”

Adam turned the second reproduction to a better angle in the light. It showed a slightly younger version of the same face surmounted by a painted wreath in the shape of an oval. Of the two versions, the second was less polished in terms of technique, but more human in its limning of the features.

“No, these are sufficient, I think,” he murmured, sitting back in his chair as Humphrey came bearing a silver tray with three ruby-filled glasses shaped like crystal thistles. “Neither shows what I was really looking for. And the Melville portrait, which I’ve already seen, is far too young. Ah, thank you, Humphrey,” he added, as the butler offered the tray first to Peregrine, then to Adam, himself taking the third and tucking the tray under his other arm as Adam raised his glass.

“May I offer a toast?” Adam asked Peregrine.

“Please do.”

“To Sir Matthew Fraser, then—the giver of the gift,” he said with a smile, “and to Peregrine, whose artistry undoubtedly deserved it, and whose generosity prompted him to share it.”

“And don’t forget Janet, Lady Fraser, whose beauty inspired the art,” Peregrine added gallantly.

“Hear, hear,” Adam agreed. “To everyone who had a hand in bringing us this excellent wine—even Humphrey, who poured it.
Slainte mhor!
To your very good health, gentlemen!”

All three of them sipped it appraisingly, contented expressions telling of their pleasure, after which Humphrey glanced at Adam and raised his glass in query.

“If there’s nothing further, sir, I’ll leave you and Mr. Lovat to your work. And may I add, sir, to your very good hunting?”

“You may, indeed, Humphrey. Thank you,” Adam said.

They drank to that; and when Humphrey had gone, leaving the bottle on the tray at Adam’s elbow, Peregrine glanced at his mentor expectantly, taking another sip of his port.

“So, what’s Dundee’s connection with this missing Seal?” the young artist asked. “And is it true that the Seal realized enough in pawn to finance the entire Peasants’ Revolt?”

Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Does Nathan connect the Seal with the Peasants’ Revolt?”

“He certainly does.” Peregrine tapped the manila envelope. “That’s what part of this document is about. Didn’t Noel tell you?”

Adam shook his head. “I don’t think he’d had a chance to really read any of it in depth yet. Tell me more.”

“Well. Your friend Nathan talks about a theory that secret survivors of the Templar dissolution had formed an underground of some kind, and were the driving force behind the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381. There’s evidence to suggest that the revolt was not at all spontaneous, and that many aspects were well planned in advance.”

“What makes him say that?” Adam asked, setting his glass aside and drawing the manila envelope toward him.

“Apparently, a number of things. As just one example, many of the rebels wore livery, almost a uniform of sorts—a white hooded shawl with a red tassel. In one town alone—Beverly, I think it was—he mentions
five hundred men
wearing these. Think about what that alone would involve, even today. And six centuries ago, when all cloth had to be made from scratch, first spinning the yarn, then weaving the cloth, then assembling the things, sewing them by hand. And he points out the interesting similarity between these ‘hooded shawls’ and the white mantles with red crosses worn by the Templars.”

Adam had been opening the manila envelope as Peregrine spoke, and now he held up a hand for the artist to pause a moment while he pulled out the printout and began to leaf through it. He was reasonably familiar with the general background of the Peasants’ Revolt. In June of 1381, overburdened by high taxes and unjust labor restrictions, the peasantry of England had risen up against their oppressive government and set the countryside ablaze with rebellion, led by a dissident priest named John Ball and another man of uncertain origins known only as Wat the Tyler. The peasant army had marched on London and taken it by storm, and might well have gone on to overthrow the English monarchy had Tyler not been treacherously slain during a parley with the young King Richard II and his ministers.

This was the gist of the usual history of the rebellion. But as Adam skimmed over what Nathan had written, making a mental note to check Nathan’s source, a book called
Born in Blood,
by one John J. Robinson, a further interpretation began to emerge—that Templar technical advice and guidance had backed the rebellion, and Templar funds had bought equipment and information. The theory of intervention by successors of the Templars made sense, for no former Templar establishments had tasted the wrath of the marching peasants—though the men had gone out of their way to bum and loot holdings of the Knights Hospitaller, who had profited by the Templar dissolution and acquired many former Templar properties. And as for Nathan’s Seal providing the funding—”

“It does make sense,” Adam murmured, lowering the pages. “We already know that Graeme of Templegrange, who pawned the Seal, held land that formerly had belonged to the Temple. If there
was
still an underground organization of former Templars and their descendants, and Graeme of Templegrange was part of it, it follows that he might have had orders from his superiors to pawn the Seal in order to raise the cash for a last attempt by the Templars to regain their former prominence.”

Peregrine nodded. “Nathan seems convinced that was why the Seal was pawned—and why it was never redeemed, since the Peasants’ Revolt failed. Our Graeme of Templegrange may have been killed, and no one else knew where the Seal had been pawned. Or they might not have been able to raise the money. And that’s how it came to be in the keeping of Nathan’s family all these years.” He sighed. “But that still doesn’t explain why the Seal should be so valuable, then or now. What
is
it? And what does it have to do with Grahame of Claverhouse?”

Adam settled himself more comfortably in his chair and laced his long fingers together, choosing his words with some care, for he was still working out much of it in his own mind.

“That last, I can’t answer,” he said. “Claverhouse apparently was a Templar, but I can’t yet make any connection between him and the Seal. As for the Seal itself—” He glanced thoughtfully at the young artist.

“I gather that Noel filled you in on some of the story regarding the death of Nathan Fiennes. What he may not have told you—and what apparently didn’t come through in what you read—is that the Seal of which we’re speaking is no ordinary archaeological artifact. Nathan seemed convinced that it is the very Seal of Solomon himself.”

Peregrine blinked and gave a low whistle. “Good Lord, do you think it really is?”

“That remains to be seen,” Adam said grimly. “Nathan spoke of a great power and a great danger, and described the Seal as,
‘A key to keep a deadly evil locked away from the world’.
He also intimated that the Seal is somehow bound up with a secret responsibility that, at one time, was the burden of the Knights Templar. He believed that the Seal possesses certain arcane powers.”

“What—kind of powers?” Peregrine asked hesitantly.

“That also remains to be seen. Nathan was killed before he could find out. Based on a dream I had last night, little would surprise me. Esoterically speaking, however, I can tell you that there has always been a tradition that King Solomon had authority and control over evil spirits. If that’s true, and Nathan’s Seal
is
literally the Seal of Solomon, I hesitate even to think what it might have been made to bind, that its keeping should have been guarded through so many centuries—and what might be lurking, ready to wreak havoc, if someone were to loose what it binds. I simply have no idea.”

“And the guardianship of the Seal and its secret was given to the Templars?’ Peregrine asked after a few seconds.

“So it would appear. Let me read you a short passage from one of Nathan’s diaries.” Nathan’s briefcase was sitting on the floor beside his chair, and he pulled out one of the volumes and opened it to a place marked by a slip of paper.

“This is a reference to a document purported to be part of a deposition by one Renault le Clerque, a witness for the French Crown testifying against the preceptors of the Knights Templar in Paris. Nathan got it from someone with the initials ‘H.G.’, whom Noel and I believe is Henri Gerard, one of Nathan’s researchers. The police are trying to locate him for questioning. Anyway—” He turned his gaze to the text before him.

“
‘H.G. arrived this morning,’
“ he read, “
‘bringing with him a copy of the promised manuscript fragment relating to the Renault le Clerque deposition. In the main, Renault merely gives evidence in support of those oft-repeated allegations that the Templars practiced the usual vices of idolatry, the Osculum Infame, sodomy, devil-worship, and the all-encompassing sin of heresy. But there is one tantalizing piece of new information—to wit, an assertion that the preceptor general of the Order had made contracts in writing with evil spirits, formalizing those contracts with a bronze seal of great antiquity, bearing an arcane symbol’.