The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (4 page)

“So, where do
I
come in?” Peregrine asked.

“Well, when Christopher and I first discussed the case,” Adam continued casually, “I mentioned you as someone possessed of unusual artistic insight. Christopher was very interested to hear about your gifts, and expressed a strong desire to see some of your work. It occurred to me that this might provide an opportunity not only for me to introduce you to someone I value as a friend, but also for you to exercise your talents to good purpose.”

“You want me to draw what’s in the flat?”

Adam nodded. “Assuming that there’s anything to draw.” Both men knew they were not talking about furniture or decor.

“Fair enough.” Peregrine grinned. “Just tell me when you want me ready to go.”

“Well, Christopher lives in Kinross,” said Adam. “He’s expecting us round about ten.”

Peregrine glanced first at his watch and then at his clothes.”Good God, Adam, you keep the tightest schedule of anybody I know! Have I got time to take a shower and change?”

“If you’re quick about it” Adam said with a chuckle.
“I
intend to.”

Peregrine tossed off the last of his tea and began hurriedly bundling his watercolor studies back into his portfolio.

“I don’t know how you do it!” he muttered. “What’s the uniform of the day, for meeting vicars and exploring haunted flats?”

“Oh, casual—but do wear a tie,” Adam replied, as the young artist made for the door. “I’ll collect you at the lodge in half an hour,” he called laughingly to Peregrine’s back. “And don’t forget to bring your sketchbox!”

Chapter Two

THE RHYTHMIC THUMP
of helicopter rotors reverberated across the granite summits of the Cairngorms, little muffled by the dusting of snow on the peaks. A trio of white-tailed deer started up from their browsing and took to their heels, bolting off across the frost-burned heather and bracken as a sleek private chopper swooped over the top of a ridge and skimmed along the floor of the valley below. At the far end of the valley, at the edge of a bleak escarpment, the glancing rays of the morning sun picked out the bluish roof slates and Gothic-arched windows of a Victorian manor house poised breathlessly above a rushing cataract of white water.

The chopper followed the contour of the river as it made for the house, its shadow ghosting along the valley floor. It surged upward just before the cataract, circling once around the great central tower before settling like
a
wasp on the grass of the walled forecourt.

The pilot cut the rotors and got out of the chopper, rangy and economic of movement, barely ducking under the decelerating sweep of the blades
as
he came around to open the door for his passenger. He wore the brown leather flying jacket and scruffy peaked cap affected by military pilots half a century before, but sunlight flashed briefly off thoroughly modern, mirrored sun glasses.

The man who alighted from the passenger seat was pale and slender by comparison, with silky fair hair going thin at the top and brushed back at the sides. By his dress, he might have been anything from a successful barrister to a university professor. The well-cut topcoat suggested the former, though it
might
have been within the budget of a very senior university lecturer; the suit beneath it spoke more of Saville Row than the halls of academia.

In fact, Francis Raeburn dabbled
in
both areas of enterprise, and had made his fortune in neither. When pressed as to the source of his not inconsiderable wealth, it was his wont merely to smile and look inscrutable, murmuring vaguely about prudent investments, an indulgent bank manager, and the hint of family money.

The light grey eyes were even more inscrutable than usual as he stood motionless on the lawn, silently contemplating the Gothic grandeur of the house. Behind
him,
the pilot stretched back into the cockpit to retrieve an expensive leather document case, which he handed over to his employer with a deferential nod.

“Anything else, Mr. Raeburn?”

The man called Raeburn shook his head distractedly and tucked the case under his arm, his attention now focused on the upper reaches of the tower.

“Not for now, Mr. Barclay. Consider yourself at liberty for the next hour or so, but don’t wander too far. In fact, you might head down to the kitchen and see if Cook can provide something for that insatiable sweet tooth of yours.”

At his glance and bemused half-smile, the pilot grinned and sketched his employer an appreciative salute.

“Yes,
sir,
Mr.
Raeburn!”

As the man leaned back into the chopper to make certain everything was properly switched off, Raeburn set off briskly across the lawn toward the house. The front door opened as he approached, a man in what looked like a white monk’s robe greeting him with a nod that was almost a bow. Without speaking, the man ushered him respectfully through the entrance lobby and into a long corridor panelled in oak. Off the corridor to the left, an interior door gave access to a small cloakroom, where another open-fronted robe of white wool was banging next to a full-length mirror.

Raeburn shrugged himself out of his topcoat and suit-jacket, handing them into the care of the waiting acolyte before sitting briefly on a small stool to remove his shoes and socks. He donned the white robe over his shirt and trousers, retrieved his document case, then allowed the acolyte to lead him back out into
the
main corridor.

A steep turnpike stair at the far end took them up to a circular landing with doors on two sides. The acolyte knocked at the south door, waited for a word of acknowledgement from within, then admitted Raeburn to the opulent confines of a Victorian library.

The south wall of the library was dominated by a great bay window, its upper panels worked in stained glass and grey patterned grisaille. Sunlight spilling in from outside laid jewel-like splashes of color on the floor across a rich array of Oriental rugs. Where the walls were not lined with bookshelves, a patterned paper of crimson and gold echoed drapes of a heavy, antique damask swagged to either side of the bay.

At the center of the room, silhouetted dark against the bright window, stood a broad mahogany library table, its scrolled legs decorated in ornamental boulIe-work. Seated at the head of the table, in the deep velvet comfort of a heavily-padded wing-back armchair, was the old man Raeburn had come to see.

“Head-Master,” Raeburn murmured, inclining his head briefly but never taking his eyes from the other man’s.

After a moment’s penetrating scrutiny, the old man lifted a gnarled finger and beckoned the newcomer nearer, indicating the chair at his right hand.

“Sit down,” he rasped, in a voice that was thin and rough with age. “Sit down and let me hear your report.”

Raeburn lowered himself into the chair, pausing only to settle the folds of his robe and lean the document case against the chair leg to one side.

“You will not welcome what I have to say,” he warned. “Our worst fears concerning Geddes and the others stand confirmed. All of them are dead, and the treasures lost.”

When the other’s stern expression did not change, Raeburn went on.

“Barclay, you will recall, was in the van on the further side of the loch that night, waiting to receive Michael Scot’s gold, along with his book of spells. From all the evidence I’ve since been able to piece together, it now seems certain that the storm of lights he reported seeing can only have been a Hosting of the Sidhe. I must conclude that
they
were responsible for the loss of those concerned.”

The old man gave a contemptuous snort. “It would appear, then, that Geddes fatally overestimated the virtue of the Fairy Flag of the MacLeods.”

“Perhaps,’ said Raeburn, “but I think not. If the Flag failed to protect our men, I would guess that it was because of a change in the Flag’s status. Our agent in the Edinburgh constabulary tells me that the Fairy Flag—
minus its frame
—was handed back to the Chief of the MacLeods at Urquhart Castle by another member of the Edinburgh police force, an Inspector Noel McLeod. This means that the frame and glass containing the Flag must somehow have gotten damaged before Geddes and the others could make good their escape. And once the Flag was no longer encased, it became a danger rather than a protection.”

“Explain.”

There is a legend,” Raeburn went on, “that if anyone not of the Clan MacLeod should lay hands on the Flag, that individual will suffer instant immolation. The police are saying there may have been a bomb, but I suspect that, in fact, the legend is true. The glass-and frame somehow got broken—perhaps through the agency of this Inspector McLeod—but our man forgot the legend, in his panic. He tried to take it up again and, not being a MacLeod, paid the ultimate price. And once it was clear that to touch the Flag was certain death, the survivors had no choice but to take their chances among the Faerie Host—who tore them to shreds.”

The Head-Master pondered this conjecture in silence for a long moment, then fixed the younger man with a sharp eye. “You’re sure that Geddes was among the victims?” he said.

“Oh, yes,” said Raeburn. “I’m quite sure.”

He slipped a graceful hand into his trouser pocket and drew out a handsome gold ring set with a blood-red carnelian, mate to one he wore on his own right hand. When he held it up for the other man to see, the sunlight flashed on the device incised in the face of the gemstone: the snarling head of a stylized lynx.

“This was Geddes’ ring,” he informed the Master curtly. “It was still encircling a severed finger when the busy Inspector McLeod booked it into evidence, along with other shreds of human flesh and bits of clothing, pieces of the boat, and the Hepburn Sword. Our Edinburgh police agent was able to check the print taken from the severed finger against the set of Geddes’ prints on record in our own membership files. The match was conclusive. “

The Head-Master reached out a bony, blue-veined hand. When Raeburn laid the ring in the open palm, the old man curled his fingers tightly over it and closed his eyes. For a long moment he sat motionless, as if lost in deep thought. Then he opened his eyes with a grim nod of confirmation.

“Yes, this is Geddes’ ring,” he said. “With regard to the fingerprint, I trust that the police will not be able to repeat your comparison of prints and identify him?”

“Impossible,” Raeburn said with cool certainty. “Geddes had no police record. We’re quite safe there.”

“What about his medallion?”

“It wasn’t recovered,” said Raeburn. “It must have been lost in the loch.”

“And the others?”

Raeburn inclined his head. “Barclay claims that two members of the party started to make an escape in the boat. They even had the chest aboard. He caught a glimpse of the boat heading away from the beach below the castle, but it apparently hit something in the water. Barclay didn’t want to tell me at first what he thought he saw, but I gather that it was what one might expect, stirred up by magic from the depths of Loch Ness. In any case, the boat broke up and sank, and the men themselves must have drowned; no bodies have been recovered. That would account for all of our operatives.”

The Head-Master’s expression was veiled. “Where does that leave us?”

Raeburn shrugged. “The police have put forward a rather muddled official theory concerning explosives gone wrong, with possible terrorist associations. As to the boat, they’re postulating the presence of a submerged log. Far-fetched as these explanations may seem, no one has ventured any others, at least officially. At this remove, and with no one to raise the hue and cry over our missing men, no one is likely to. After all, who would guess the truth?”

“Your Inspector McLeod?” the Head-Master suggested. Raeburn’s fair face registered a flicker of dislike. “Possibly. I haven’t forgotten about him. Right now, he’s doing us a service by diverting attention away from the supernatural elements in the incident, but his motives in doing so are far from clear. He will bear watching.”

“I should think so.” The old man’s hooded eyes held a dark gleam of malice. “He has been far too closely involved for my liking—first at Melrose, then at Dunvegan, and finally at Urquhart. And always with the same two men in attendance—Sinclair and that young artist.”

Raeburn elevated a flaxen eyebrow. “It
could
be argued that McLeod’s presence has been largely coincidental. He apparently
is
the accepted police authority on matters that smack of the occult, and Melrose is certainly within his jurisdiction. As for Dunvegan it might be judged sufficient that the inspector bears the clan name, and probably had the authority of his Chief. Urquhart, however, is another matter, and our man in Edinburgh has his orders to keep McLeod under surveillance.”

“And Sinclair?”

“His true role is also open to conjecture. I’ve had some inquiries made, and it seems that he’s a fairly eminent psychiatric physician who occasionally gets called in by the police as a consultant. It would be worth some trouble to learn whether his interest in the occult is limited to professional curiosity.”

“What about the artist?”

Raeburn nodded. “In a way, he strikes me as possibly the most dangerous of the three, precisely because he’s so different from McLeod and Sinclair. His name is Peregrine Lovat, and apart from the fact that he seems to be Sinclair’s protégé, he’s the one whose presence is most difficult to explain. Were he twice the age he is, I might suspect him of being the leader of a Hunting Party. As it is, he’s little more than a boy.”

“Is he a
pretty
boy?” the Master asked, with a contemptuous curl of his lip. “If the answer is yes, then perhaps you need look no further for reasons why Sinclair is his patron.”

Raeburn snorted. “That might explain some of it, but I don’t think it’s the case. The titled Dr. Sinclair has a tiresomely consistent reputation for prowess where women are concerned. I think we must look elsewhere for the Lovat connection. I intend to do so.”

“Lovat is not worth your personal attention,” the Head-Master said. “If you want him watched, put someone else on him someone you can easily spare. If our plans are to proceed on schedule, you have far more important things to do.”

“I wonder.” A slight frown pleated the smooth skin between Raeburn’s blond eyebrows. “What if the presence of these three men was
not
coincidental? If, in fact, they
are
adepts of some kind, then they could represent a very real threat. They’ll have seen the sigil on Geddes’ ring. If they knew enough to recognize—”

The old man snorted. “If they knew enough to recognize it, we would know by now. Still, if it pleases you, keep them under surveillance. If they become a further nuisance, we shall deal with that when it occurs.”