The Adept (3 page)

“I’ve circled an article on page two. I’d be obliged if you’d file it for me. We may have occasion to refer to it again.”

“I understand, sir.” Humphrey folded the paper and tucked it neatly under his arm before casting an eye over the table. “Are you quite finished here, sir?”

Adam nodded, rising as he gave a glance to his watch. “Yes, I am. Good Lord, where does the time go? I want to call in at Kintoul House before I head into Edinburgh.”

Humphrey paused in the act of clearing the table, his expression all at once one of concern. “Nothing wrong with Lady Laura, I hope, sir?”

Adam grimaced. “I don’t know yet, Humphrey. I won’t know until I see her. Incidentally, did you remember that I’m dining with the-Bishop, of Saint Andrew’s tonight?”

“Of course, sir. I’ve laid out your dark grey suit, and there’s a fresh shirt in your briefcase.”

“Perfect!” Adam said with a grin, pulling off his tie as he headed for the stairs. “If anyone wants me, then, you know where I’ll be. Oh, and if Inspector McLeod should happen to ring after I’ve left the hospital, tell him where I’m dining, and that I’ll get back with him directly.”

“Very good, sir,” said Humphrey. “I’ll attend to everything.”

Chapter Two

A SCANT
twenty minutes later, freshly showered and shaved, Adam emerged from his private apartments, riding clothes replaced by the crisp white shirt and formal three-piece suit that are the uniform of the medical profession.

The images that kept pace with him in the mirrors that lined the entry hall of Strathmourne House were those of a tall, dark-haired man in his vigorous forties, who moved with the purposeful air of one to whom time is always precious and in all too short supply. He had been a fencer and a promising dressage rider in his younger days, before the allure of medicine and other pursuits turned his energies to different priorities. The grace and suppleness required to excel at either sport persisted in an elegance of carriage that could not be taught, only inborn. The silver at his temples softened a patrician profile that, in other men, might have been regarded as severe.

Yet any severity of temperament was that of a man who expects more of himself than of anyone else around him. And it was compassion that tempered the air of brilliant intensity that Adam Sinclair wore as naturally as he wore his clothes. Even in unguarded moments of relaxation, the dark eyes promised the smoldering potential of a banked peat fire—a glow that could kindle spontaneously into comforting warmth or, more rarely, flare into sudden, formidable anger. The latter instances were rare, indeed, and usually balanced by a dry wit that could defuse nearly any taut situation.

His sense of humor came through now, as he passed from the hall into the vestibule. Outside, Humphrey had brought up the sedate and conservative blue Range Rover that Adam usually took into the city when he drove himself, and was waiting to hand him trench coat, hat, and briefcase; but as the day was promising to be fine, Adam shook his head as he emerged, heading for the garage instead.

“I’ve changed my mind, Humphrey,” he said, bidding him toss case, coat, and hat under the tonneau cover of a dark blue XJ-S convertible, a recent and prized acquisition. “It’s a perfect day for the Jag. If I get out of Jordanburn on time, it should still be light when I drive up to Perth. I don’t believe the bishop’s seen this beauty yet. If he’s very respectful, I may even let him drive her before dinner.” Humphrey chuckled as he helped Adam zip back the tonneau cover on the driver’s side and tuck it behind the leather seat.

“The bishop should enjoy that, sir.”

“Yes, he should. She’s a very fine motorcar.” He grinned as he slid behind the wheel and began pulling on driving gloves.

“Then, after I have eaten his food and drunk his very fine port—and so that he shan’t feel totally deprived—I shall hand him a rather substantial cheque for the cathedral fabric fund. I believe Saint Ninian’s could do with some roof work.”

“Can you name me a cathedral that couldn’t, sir?” Humphrey replied with an answering smile, as Adam turned the key in the ignition and the powerful engine roared to life.

Soon he was easing the big car out the stableyard gate and down the tree-lined avenue, bare-headed “under the sun, enjoying the breeze in his hair. The copper beeches were at their very best on this mid-October day, and as he turned the first curve, the Gothic front of Strathmourne vanished from his rearview mirror in a sea of flame-colored leaves.

He kept his speed down as he threaded past a row of cottages belonging to the estate. Beyond the’ houses, the fields were patchworked brown and gold, dotted with circular bales of new-mown hay. Up on the high ground,
one of Adam’s three tenant farmers was ploughing up the soil in preparation for sowing a winter crop of barley. A cloud of white birds circled in the wake of the plough, screeching and diving for grubs and worms in the newly turned earth.

Nearly a mile from the house, the drive passed through a second set of gates, usually left open, and gave onto a good but narrow secondary road. Adam turned left rather than going right toward Edinburgh, winding along a series of “B” roads until at last he approached the main entrance to the Kintoul estate, marked by the distinctive blue-and-white sign bearing the stylized symbol of a castle.

Gravel hissed under the tires as he nosed the Jag under the arch of the stone-built gate house and on down the long avenue. The autumn color at Kintoul—the fiery shades that were Lady Laura’s favorites—was as spectacular as that at Strathmourne, and as Adam continued toward the house, he found himself wondering again why he had been summoned.

Since he had known Lady Laura since boyhood, there was any number of possibilities, of course, both professional and personal. He had received her brief note just before the weekend, enjoining him to come up to Kintoul on Monday. The tone had been casual and witty, as was Laura’s usual, wont, but Adam had been-left with the lingering impression that the invitation was issued to some unstated purpose besides the mere pleasure of his company. He had phoned Kintoul House the same morning; but Lady Laura firmly declined his offer to come sooner. This strengthened Adam’s suspicion that she had chosen this particular day for a reason.

Beyond the gatehouse, the dense plantation shortly gave way to rolling pastures, finally affording Adam a glimpse of the great, sprawling pile that was Kintoul House. Seen from a distance, it presented a fairy-tale silhouette of towers, turrets, and battlements, the rugged roughness of its ancient stone work overlaid with silver-white harling. The corbels supporting the parapets, like the timbers framing the windows, were painted a smoky shade of grey that matched the slates covering the rooftops. The bright blue and white of
Scotland’s national standard—the Saint Andrew’s flag or, more familiarly, the “blue blanket”—fluttered from a staff atop one of the highest turrets, but the Kintoul banner was not in evidence, indicating that the Earl of Kintoul, Lady Laura’s oldest son, was not at home.

This did not surprise Adam, for Kintoul, like many historic houses in Scotland, had become as much a museum and showplace as it was a residence. In the summertime, the earl opened the grounds and twelve of its twenty-eight rooms to public view. It was a matter of economics. Everything was still well maintained; but picnic tables, a visitor center, and a children’s playground now occupied a stretch of lawn that formerly had been reserved for croquet and badminton. It saddened Adam, in a way, but it was better than having historic properties like Kintoul turned into hotels, or broken up for conversion into flats. He hoped he could spare Strathmourne that fate.

Remembering shuttlecocks and croquet hoops and the summer days of a childhood now long past, Adam carried on past the visitors’ car park, all but deserted now that the tourist season was nearly over. A paved extension to the public drive took him through a gateway and around the eastern end of the house into a smaller parking area adjoining the family’s private entrance.

He parked the Jaguar next to a car he did not remember having seen at Kintoul House before: a Morris Minor Traveller, with dark green paintwork and recently refinished timber on the sides. The backseat had been folded down to accommodate several large canvases, all of them blank so far as Adam could see. As he took off his gloves and briefly ran a comb through his hair, he wondered briefly who the owner might be, but he put the curiosity aside as he mounted the steps to the Kintoul side door.

The bell was answered by a liveried manservant Adam had never seen before. As he conducted Adam into the vestibule, they were joined by Anna Irvine, Lady Laura’s personal maid and sometime secretary.

“Sir Adam, it’s good to see you,” she said, welcoming him with a strong handshake and a smile that was tinged
with worry. “Her ladyship is in the long gallery. I’ll take you to her, if you’ll just follow me.”

The gallery ran the full length of the north wing—a narrow, chilly chamber, more like a hallway than a room. A handsome Persian carpet stretched along its length, boldly patterned in rose and peacock blue, but because it was little used as a living area, the furniture consisted mainly of a row of delicate, spindle-legged chairs arranged along the interior wall, interrupted by the occasional sideboard or hall table. In its heyday, the gallery had been intended to provide the occupants of the house with space for indoor exercise during times of inclement weather. Nowadays, it served mainly as a corridor connecting the other reception rooms on the ground floor, except when summer visitors came to view the Kintoul collection of family portraits.

Today, however, the far end of the gallery had been transformed into something resembling a stage set. As they approached it, Adam recognized several pieces of furniture from other parts of the house—a settee, a wing-backed chair, an ornamental screen—brought together to create the illusion of a much smaller room. Set in profile in the midst of this artificial setting, regal as a porcelain costume doll, stood a pert, elderly woman in a floor-length white ball gown. A length of tartan sash was brooched to one shoulder and across her breast, its silken fringes bright against the gown’s brocade, and a diamond tiara glittered like a crown of ice crystals on her soft, upswept white hair.

As the maid led Adam nearer, he saw that a large canvas had been mounted on a tall standing easel positioned a few yards back from the composed little scene. He caught the piney smell of turpentine, and then just a glimpse of someone moving behind the easel. Before he could gain any clear impression of the artist, the woman in the tiara turned her head and saw him, her face lighting in a delighted smile.

“Adam! My dear!” she called. “Stay where you are, and I’ll be right with you.”

With an apologetic wave in the direction of the artist, she abandoned her pose in front of the screen and came eagerly down the gallery to meet him. Watching her with the critical eye of a physician, Adam was reassured to see no signs of
weakness or hesitation in her bearing. She held out two thin, blue-veined hands to him as the distance between them closed. Adam bent down as he took them, and received a swift, motherly kiss on one cheek.

“Adam, I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you,” Lady Laura said, as he, in turn, kissed both her hands. “It was so good of you to come.”

“Did you really think I could ignore an invitation from my favorite lady?” he said with a smile. Then his expression sobered. “How are you, my dear?”

Lady Laura dismissed the question with a small shrug, also waving dismissal to the maid.

“I’m as well as can possibly be expected, given the conditions of my age,” she said easily. “Never mind me. How are you getting on, with your latest covey of student doctors?”

“Not too badly—though life would be much simpler if I could persuade them not to go haring off after every new theory that comes along, with nary a second thought for common sense.” He gave her a rueful grin. “There are days when I feel strongly akin to a sheepdog.”

“Ah, and you know you love it!” she scoffed, with a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

“Yes, I suppose I do, or I wouldn’t keep at it.” Adam stood back and surveyed his hostess appraisingly. “But you—Laura, you look positively
splendid
in all your regalia! You really ought to have your portrait painted more often.”

“Perish the thought!” The Dowager Countess of Kintoul rolled her china blue eyes in mild dismay. “This is only my second sitting—or
standing,
as I suppose I should say—and I assure you that the novelty of the whole experience is already beginning to wear quite thin. I can only hope that Peregrine won’t insist on too many refinements.”

“Peregrine?” Adam cocked his head in new interest. “That wouldn’t be Peregrine Lovat, would it?”

“Why, yes,” Lady Laura replied, looking quite pleased with herself. “May I take it that you’ve seen his work?”

“Indeed, I have,” Adam said. “Some of his portraits were hanging at the Royal Scottish Academy, the last time
I went. I was quite impressed. There was a luminance to his style, an artistic insight—one almost had the impression that he was painting more about his subject than would be visible to the naked eye. I should very much like to meet the man himself.”

“I’m very pleased to hear you say that,” she said, “because I should very much like him to meet you, too.”

This candid disclosure earned her a penetrating look from her visitor.

“I don’t suppose that would be the reason you asked me here today?”

Biting at her lower lip, Lady Laura breathed a long sigh and averted her eyes.

“I think he needs your help, Adam,” she said quietly, linking her arm in his and leading him farther out of possible earshot of their subject. “Perhaps I’ve no business meddling, but—Peregrine is more than a casual acquaintance. You probably don’t remember, but he was a friend of Alasdair’s. They met at Cambridge. Alasdair used to bring him up to the lodge at Ballater for the salmon fishing—before the accident.”