Death of an Adept

Chapter Eight

THE Lothian and Borders branch of the Scottish police had its Edinburgh headquarters in a large office block on Fet-tes Avenue. Despite the seasonal garnishes of tinsel and holly scattered throughout the building, Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod was not in a particularly festive mood, thanks to an eight-hour shift spent trying to reduce an accumulated backlog of paperwork. He had nearly cleared his desk and was thinking fondly of going home when there was a sudden, unwelcome knock at his office door. Stifling an inward groan of misgiving, he barked, "Come!"

The door opened, admitting Sergeant Donald Cochrane, one of McLeod's most promising investigative aides. The younger man was brandishing a piece of fax flimsy in one hand.

"Glad I caught you before you left, sir," he said. "You remember that tarted-up pink piano that went missing last week?"

Cochrane's expression indicated that he might just have found it.

"Aye," McLeod said apprehensively.

"Well, I've just taken a call from Sergeant McGuinness over in North Berwick. He thinks he's found it."

"He thinks'?' McLeod muttered testily. "Hell's teeth, Donald, there couldn't be two like that! Where is the damned thing?"

"The van turned up in a derelict warehouse," Cochrane said. "A watchman stumbled on it more or less by accident, and notified the police. When they went to check it out, they found the piano in the back. McGuinness just faxed through the report."

Rolling his eyes heavenward, McLeod put out his hand.

"I know - crime of the century," Cochrane said, as McLeod skimmed the details. "But McGuinness thinks it might tie in with some heavy-duty burglaries in another part of his patch, and he and his lads have locked down the warehouse until the lab can get someone over there to dust for prints. I can handle it, if you want to get on home," he added, noting his superior's sour grimace.

Shaking his head, McLeod rose and retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair.

"No, I'll go. I've been cooped up here all day. Besides, you have a pretty young wife at home, and a baby daughter about to experience her first Christmas. You shouldn't miss that."

"You're sure?"

"Aye, off with you. I'll scare up a print man and get over there as soon as I can - and call Jane to let her know I'll be late for dinner. Just ring McGuinness before you leave, and tell him he'd better be at the warehouse when we arrive, or I'll sign it off and he can whistle for his prints. That club owner has been on my back three times a day since the blessed thing was stolen. With any luck, he may just be able to have it ready for his Christmas Eve opening after all."

"Will do, Inspector. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

It was after eight o'clock by the time McLeod returned from North Berwick. Back in his office, he was just putting the finishing touches on his report when the telephone rang. This time McLeod did not scruple to curse out loud as he reached for the receiver. But his initial irritation soon lost its edge when the caller introduced himself.

"Inspector McLeod? This is Detective Sergeant Hugh Chis-holm, ringing from Stornoway, Isle of Lewis." Chisholm's voice held the soft lilt of the Western Isles. "We've not had occasion to speak before, but I believe you've worked with my wife's nephew, Sergeant Callum Kirkpatrick, who works out of Blairgowrie."

McLeod's stomach did a slow, queasy turn, for Blairgowrie recalled the ritualistic murder of a member of the Hunting Lodge - though that connection had never come to light during the investigation following its discovery. What had emerged was a well-orchestrated campaign to destroy prominent Freemasons, masterminded by a cult of black magicians operating from a secret base in the Cairngorm Mountains. Though Kirk-patrick, himself a Mason, had never learned the full truth behind the murders, he remained high on McLeod's list of approved contacts. Which meant that Chisholm also was likely to be more than a casual contact.

"Callum Kirkpatrick," McLeod repeated slowly. "Yes, indeed. I remember him well. He's a good man, and a fine police officer. I was impressed with his handling of that Blairgowrie case." He paused a beat. "I hope you aren't ringing to tell me you've got another one like it?"

"Not exactly," Chisholm allowed. "But there are some creepy similarities."

"Are we talking about a murder, Mr. Chisholm?"

"No, no - or at least I don't think so, though we're still checking on the human angle. But there certainly appears to have been some kind of ritual sacrifice involving a bull."

"I think you'd better give me all the details," McLeod said, reaching for a pen and notepad.

"Right. I don't suppose you know the stone circle at Callanish?"

McLeod had never been to Lewis, but he had read about the Callanish Ring and seen photos.

"Not directly," he replied, "though it strikes me as a hell of a place for nasty doings."

"Well, your instincts are dead accurate where that's concerned."

Quickly Chisholm outlined the case, stressing his own inexperience with such matters.

"We figure it must have happened late last night," he said thoughtfully. "We can account for at least three vehicles, plus a trailer or horse-box to transport the bull, and maybe six or eight perpetrators. You'd think someone in the village would've seen or heard something, but no one's talking, if they did. You know how local superstition can run in a place like this - and apparently for good reason, in this case. Besides, folk aren't apt to poke their noses out of doors much past about seven o'clock, this time of year - and the snow and wind would have muffled most sound anyway. The perps sure left an unholy mess, though. There was blood everywhere."

"Yes, you mentioned something about a ritual sacrifice," McLeod said, trying to shake off mental images of another secluded, snow-shrouded location drenched in blood, two years before, and a friend and colleague lying dead in the snow. "Mind telling me exactly what you found?"

A heavy sigh issued from the receiver. "Well, the bull had had its throat cut and its entrails pulled out, and then someone had flayed off the hide, quite expertly. We also found remnants of what looks like a crown of mistletoe and holly. And like I said, there was blood everywhere: daubed on the stones, painted on the ground - "

"Sounds like some kind of divination ceremony," McLeod said, praying that was all it had been. "What makes you think there might be a murder involved, as well?"

"Well, we found a sleeping bag near the scene, literally saturated with blood," Chisholm replied. "When we examined the bull hide, it showed signs of somebody maybe having been sewn up inside it, so we're hoping it's bull's blood on the sleeping bag, but we just don't know yet. We had a man fly the bag over to Grampian Labs in Aberdeen this afternoon, but we won't have the results until sometime tomorrow. It'd be just our luck to find that some wretched camper has been done in."

McLeod had been busy jotting down the details as Chisholm relayed them. Now he paused, pen in hand, and scowled at the page before him.

"We'll hope it doesn't come to that," he observed. "Who made the initial discovery?"

"A young chap, name of lolo MacFarlane. He's a bit of an eccentric, but reliable enough. I've known him since he was a wee tad. He's got a New Age sort of group who style themselves latter-day Druids, and they occasionally stage ceremonies up at the circle - all quite harmless, we thought, at least until now."

"Any chance he could have reported the incident to cover his own group's activities?" McLeod asked.

"lolo? Not a chance. Like I said, I know him; hell, I know most of his lot. They were slated to do a Winter Solstice ceremony at noon today. Needless to say, that had to be cancelled. No, he went up to the site just after sunrise, planning to start setting up, and immediately roused one of the neighboring villagers - who phoned the station officer up at Carloway, who phoned me in Stornoway when he'd had a look. The rest you know."

Chisholm sounded anything but happy about it, and the inspector couldn't blame him.

"How are the press reacting?" McLeod asked. "I assume that's at least part of the reason you called me."

"Aye, they've been sniffing around all day. The Solstice 'do' would've brought them out in any case, and this was just an added bonus, where they were concerned. It's hard to keep something like this under wraps on an island this small. I've got a man out at the site tonight, but I didn't want to dismantle too much until I'd talked to you."

McLeod could sense the incipient request to come in person, but he decided to forestall it for as long as possible.

"How about your neo-Druids?" he asked. "Are they apt to talk, if some reporter buttonholes one of them?"

"I doubt it," Chisholm replied. "Any publicity connected with this case is apt to be bad, so they'll want no part of it. They've worked hard to keep up a a good public image. I can't guarantee their silence, of course, but I expect they'll have the sense to keep their mouths shut."

McLeod shunted aside the question of press curiosity for the moment in order to focus on more practical matters. "How about the bull?" he asked. "Have you been able to find out where it came from?"

"Not yet," Chisholm replied, "though I've got a man checking that angle. We've mostly sheep here on the island, but there are a few farmers who raise cattle, mostly for dairy herds. They'd know who has bulls, but someone could easily have brought one in for last night's piece of work. Horse-boxes come and go all the time, and no one would notice if a bull was in one."

"And no one's reported a stolen bull?"

"Not on the island - though it's early on. Farmers don't always check their fields every day. I'd hate to think any of our local men might be mixed up in something like this, but the evidence - or rather the lack of evidence - seems to be pointing that way. Unless you have a better suggestion, I intend to press on with this line of inquiry until I get an answer.''

The only alternatives McLeod could think of demanded the exercise of talents beyond the scope of an otherwise competent investigator. Chisholm, meanwhile, was worrying out loud.

"Legally, we're on uncertain ground here, even if we do find the perps," he went on. "Unless that turns out to be human blood on the sleeping bag, we've only got offenses relating to the defacement of a public monument and violations of various public health statutes. You should have seen the carrion crows flocking around the site by the time we got there.

"At the same time, I don't like to think of some weird cult setting up operations here in my patch. There's a degree of depravity at the back of this affair that really puts my hackles up. I know it's a long way from Edinburgh up to the Hebrides," Chisholm finished, "and I know it's a terrible time of year to ask this, but I'd really feel easier in my mind if you could manage to fly up here and examine the site for yourself - and maybe help me deal with the press."

It was the appeal McLeod had known would be forthcoming - and if the Stornoway officer's instincts were correct, then the sooner a full investigation could be implemented - McLeod mentally emphasized "full" - the better the chances for arresting the evil before it could spread. Chisholm, meanwhile, was still talking.

"I know you can't get up here tonight," he said, "but how about tomorrow? I feel really out of my depth, Inspector."

"I'll see what I can do," McLeod told Chisholm. "Leave me a phone number where you can be reached, and I'll get back to you as soon as I've managed to sort out the necessary travel arrangements. I'm going to have to call in a few favors."

"I do appreciate this, Inspector," Chisholm said, sounding greatly relieved. "I'll wait to hear from you."

The Stornoway policeman rang off with a promise to fax McLeod a copy of the incident report. Returning his telephone receiver to its cradle, McLeod mentally reviewed his assignments for the following day and decided there was nothing on his agenda so urgent that it couldn't be either delegated or left to lie fallow for a day or two.

Chisholm's report was waiting for him out in the fax room by the time he finished jotting off a note to Cochrane to cover for him the next day. He read it through once, clipped it to Cochrane's memo, then ran a finger down his address file to check a number. If Harry Nimmo was available, he was the perfect man for the job. And Peregrine Lovat's talents would be useful, as well.

The harp notes drifting in from the adjoining room had the light, bell-like clarity of music-box chimes. Pausing to listen, Peregrine recognized the hauntingly beautiful melody of the Hebridean carol known in English as "The Christ Child's Cradle Song."

It was one of several pieces Julia had been practicing all week in preparation for her Christmas Eve concert, now only two days away. Peregrine was privately of the opinion that his wife could hardly hope to improve her already-perfect performance, but he was always happy to listen whenever she played.

Shortly after coming to live at the gate lodge, he had converted the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms into a studio. It was here that he still did most of his painting in the daytime. Whenever he had any additional work to do in the evening, however, especially research, he preferred to do it downstairs in the sitting room, where he could enjoy simultaneously the glowing warmth of an old-fashioned fireplace and the pleasure of his wife's company.

Just now he was ensconced in one of the armchairs by the hearth with a notebook on his knee and a stack of art history books on the table at his elbow. The local chapter of the Saltire Society had invited him to give a lecture on the history of Scottish portraiture, and having agreed to do it, he was now reviewing the subject by way of advance preparation. His efforts at note-taking were being somewhat hampered by the latest addition to the household, a roly-poly black and white kitten whom Julia had christened Hero. Having had his pencil knocked twice from his hand, Peregrine was attempting to fend off yet another spirited mock attack when the telephone rang.

"I'll get it!" he called through to Julia.

Surrendering his pencil to Hero, he reached for the receiver. The caller was McLeod.

"What's your schedule like tomorrow?" the inspector wanted to know.

Peregrine's intuition went instantly on the alert. "I've heard that line before," he said. "What's up?"

"Something that warrants our attention," came the gruff response from the other end of the line. "There's been an incident up at the Callanish Ring on the Isle of Lewis. A police colleague has paid me the dubious compliment of asking my opinion - at the scene. He's related by marriage to Callum Kirkpatrick, up at Blairgowrie."

The mention of Kirkpatrick and Blairgowrie instantly brought back to Peregrine chill recall of the horror they had discovered when called out on another cold winter night to investigate a case. He was already familiar with the stone circle at Callanish, having sketched it during his university days in conjunction with a survey course on Scottish archaeology. When McLeod related how the site had been desecrated, the young artist experienced a mingled pang of distaste and foreboding.

"If you think I can be of service, of course I'll come," he told the inspector. "What are the arrangements?"

"I've got some pull with a chap who's got a private plane," McLeod replied. "Weather permitting, he's agreed to fly us up at first light."

"Well, fortunately, that isn't nearly as early as it might be, other times of the year," Peregrine said, retrieving his pencil from Hero to jot down notes. "About half past eight, then?"

"Aye. Meet us at the airport, and don't forget your kit."

"Will do. Have you any idea when we'll be getting back?"

"None," McLeod said succinctly.

"That's what I like about working with you, Noel: everything's always so well-planned," Peregrine said drily. "Anything else?"

"Nothing I can think of. See you tomorrow morning. Cheery-bye."

The inspector rang off. Peregrine cradled the receiver, grimacing at McLeod's ironic farewell, then realized that Julia was standing in the doorway.

"That was Noel McLeod, wasn't it?" she observed. "Is there some kind of trouble afoot?"

"I don't know yet," Peregrine said. "Hopefully, just a bit of a mystery."

Julia scooped up the kitten. Cradling the purring bundle on her shoulder as she sat, she asked, "Are you allowed to tell me about it? Or does this fall under the Unofficial Secrets Act?"

Peregrine gave his wife a sharp look. "The Unofficial Secrets Act?"

"That's what I call it, anyway," Julia said with a smile. "You know what I'm talking about: the Statute of Confidentiality. The Code of Professional Conduct for Psychic Investigators. Whatever system of ethics sets the rules of the game when you and Noel and Adam have an investigation under way. The sort of thing you do on the quiet so the newspapers won't find out about it."

Julia's manner was composed, her blue eyes disconcertingly bright as she waited for his response. Peregrine shifted uncomfortably, toying with his pencil.

"You make it sound very hole-in-the-corner," he protested.

"That's what makes it so exciting," she said. "Are you going to tell me about it or not? I know you may not be able to tell me everything, but - "

It was not the first time Peregrine had found himself caught out by his wife's discernment. With an inward sigh, he asked, "How much have you heard already?"

"Your half of the conversation," Julia said. "Which was, shall we say, less than complete."

Peregrine hesitated, not quite certain how to begin. "The facts aren't very savory," he warned.

His wife arched an eyebrow. "Worse than finding a body on our honeymoon?"

"No. Not nearly as bad as that, thank God."

The body had been that of an Irish Fisheries officer washed up on the west coast of Scotland, initially believed merely to have been lost at sea. But eventually the body had tied in with a far more sinister set of circumstances that had taken the resources of both the Scottish and Irish Hunting Lodges to resolve. As at Blairgowrie, the trail had led back to one Francis Raeburn, a powerful black magician as dedicated to the pursuit of illegitimate power as the members of the Hunting Lodge were dedicated to the service of the Light. Though Raeburn again had managed to elude justice, at least his intentions had been thwarted - but not before Peregrine had been obliged to make some telling disclosures to his new wife about his secondary line of work as a psychic investigator.

"Are you going to tell me nor not?" Julia said quietly, still stroking the kitten. "You needn't be coy. If you can take it, so can I."

Still prey to some misgivings, Peregrine repeated the broad facts of the case as McLeod had reported it to him.

"This may turn out to be nothing more than a crass and ugly prank," he told her at the end of his recital. "On the other hand, there might be something far more serious at stake. Either way, since Adam's in America, it's up to Noel and me to look into the matter."

Julia absent-mindedly scratched the kitten's furry ears as she mulled over what Peregrine had told her.

"What exactly are you going to be looking for?" she asked. "I mean, I know you don't see things as other people do - or rather, that you see things that aren't apparent to the rest of us. But since psychic impressions aren't exactly admissible as evidence in a court of law, I'm not sure what practical purpose your efforts serve."

"It all depends on what area of jurisdiction you're talking about," Peregrine replied. "I'm less concerned about satisfying the requirements of the law than I am with upholding Justice."

"It sounds like you're talking about some kind of justice on a higher plane," she ventured.

He paused a moment, nodding as he continued. "I suppose I am. But actually, you might think of Noel and me - and Adam - as being the psychic equivalents of government health inspectors. Where conventional public health officials are charged with the task of identifying environmental health hazards, we look for evidence of psychic pollution."

"Psychic pollution?"

"Precisely," Peregrine went on more eagerly. "You see, evil, like goodness, is an active force in the world. It involves traceable expenditures of energy - psychic energy as well as physical exertion. That expenditure of psychic energy leaves behind residual evidence in the form of psychic resonances. Those resonances can be as tangible in their own way as a bad smell or a dissonant jangle of noise - or images, in my case. If you're psychically attuned to the right frequency, you can sense what is wholesome and what isn't."

Julia considered this explanation, finally nodding comprehension. "I see. And if you and Noel find something unwholesome in this instance, what will you do about it?"

"Extend the investigation, and hope it will get us to the root of the problem, so we can resolve it."

"But health inspectors don't have enforcement authority," Julia pointed out. "What if the problem turns out to be more than you can handle?"

"Then we call in more help," Peregrine said. "And we do have enforcement authority." He smiled at his wife reassuringly.

"Noel and Adam and I aren't alone in this venture, Julia. I don't know all the other people involved in our vocation, but I do know this: We stand united in opposing evil wherever it rears its head. It isn't easy work - and I won't lie to you and tell you it's always safe. But if one of us should ever be seriously in need of help, there are no lengths the rest wouldn't go to in order to render aid."