Death of an Adept

Chapter Ten

IN Francis Raeburn's library, Angela Fitzgerald cradled the telephone receiver with a brittle click, then turned to Rae-burn with a peevish grimace that contained no mirth whatsoever.

"That was one of my people checking in," she informed him tartly.

Raeburn was ensconced in a chair by the library hearth, feet on a footstool, meditatively nursing a measure of fine brandy. Pausing to take a sip, he eyed Angela over the crystalline rim of his snifter. "And?"

"And it seems your little piece of playacting up at Callanish has already drawn some of the very attention we hoped to avoid. The cops on Lewis are more savvy than you gave them credit for. They called in McLeod."

Raeburn's lip curled in slight vexation at the news, but his Second's sarcasm left him unmoved. "I would have been surprised if he hadn't shown up," he observed with a shrug. "Let him snoop all he wants. He won't find anything worth his time."

"I wish I could be so confident," Angela said. "Or don't you care that McLeod had his little pet artist in tow? I think we can safely assume they didn't leave entirely empty-handed."

Raeburn looked mildly pained. "Do try to have a little faith," he admonished. "Klaus and I took every precaution to ensure that we were shielded throughout. Talented as Lovat is, he won't have been able to penetrate any of Klaus's bulwarks."

"You've been wrong before," Angela reminded him. "You were wrong about Taliere. You might be wrong about Lovat, too."

"Taliere was equal to the task as we originally envisioned it," Raeburn said patiently. "Who could have foreseen the intervention of the Head-Master?"

"That's precisely my point," Angela said. "You don't know what other tricks the Hunting Lodge may have in reserve."

Raeburn sighed, setting aside his drink. "What would you have me do? Sit on my hands and do nothing, simply out of fear that the Hunting Lodge may have acquired a new secret weapon? Since when did cowardice ever achieve anything? If it's safety you want, Angela dear, perhaps you ought to get out of this business."

"Don't lecture me about the virtue of taking risks," she snapped. "It's your penchant for adventuring that's largely to blame for our present predicament."

She darted a look across the room at Barclay, who was sitting huddled beside a radiator in an overstuffed chair, an afghan around his shoulders and both hands shakily wrapped around a mug of hot soup. The pilot had slept around the clock following his Callanish ordeal, but he was still ashen and hollow-eyed from the aftereffects.

"Look at him!" she whispered fiercely. "You're lucky he isn't dead, after the way you let Mallory push him to the brink the other night!"

"I didn't know you cared," Raeburn remarked drily.

Angela just missed stamping her foot. "I hate to see a good tool misused, that's all! If I were you, I'd keep a closer eye on our young doctor. He's too ambitious by far. He wants results, and he doesn't care how he gets them."

Raeburn shrugged. "A streak of ruthlessness is, on the whole, no bad thing in our vocation."

"He'll turn it against you, if you don't watch out," Angela warned, and gave a fastidious shiver. "Nasty little toad, he makes my skin creep. He probably started out by pulling the wings off flies when he was a boy! I hate to think what he gets up to on his own, in the middle of the night."

"He can do what he likes, as long as he continues to obey my orders," Raeburn said mildly.

Angela gave an unlady-like snort. "Some day you may rue that remark. What happens now?"

Before Raeburn could answer, there was a knock at the door. At Raeburn's query, Mallory entered, looking irritable.

Raeburn arched an eyebrow. "Why, Derek, what is the matter?"

The young physician made a petulant gesture of disclaimer. "It's Taliere. He came round about half an hour ago, and he's been making a right nuisance of himself ever since. He's demanding to be allowed to speak with you, and says if you don't consent to see him, he'll start sending up fireworks on the astral."

"Is that a fact?" Raeburn smothered a heavy-lidded yawn. "Then I suggest you put him back under sedation. And keep him that way until I tell you to do otherwise."

"I'll need some help."

"Then go borrow two of Mr. Richter's men. Restraining people is part of their vocation."

Raeburn went back to contemplating the fire on the hearth, retrieving his brandy with a gesture on the edge of boredom. Realizing that he had been dismissed, Mallory turned on his heel and strode out. As the door shut behind him, Angela directed a glare at the back of Raeburn's head.

"That's another point where we differ," she said. "The old man is becoming an increasing liability. Why don't you do us all a favor and get rid of him?"

"Because," Raeburn responded, ''he's our shield."

"Our shield?"

"Indeed. Why else do you suppose I ordered the Callanish site to be left as it was, rather than cleaning it up? Why else would I allow Taliere to play the dominant role in the ritual itself, if not to ensure that it was his presence, not mine, which was stamped on every blade of grass within the inner circle. Who among our enemies is likely to waste valuable time looking for us when there's so clear and obvious a trail leading off in another direction entirely?''

"I wish I had your confidence in this enterprise," Angela remarked. "Has it occurred to you that this new alliance you contemplate may not be any more successful than the last?"

"Are you questioning my decisions?" Raeburn showed his teeth. "The party in question is hardly likely to take umbrage at being offered a chance to escape from limbo. I anticipate no difficulty in reaching an accommodation."

As he spoke, the fax machine on a table in the corner came suddenly to life. As the message came chittering through, Rae-burn left his chair and crossed the room to retrieve it.

"It's from Klaus," he reported over his shoulder. "I hope you'll be pleased to hear that he has managed to assemble all the properties necessary for us to go ahead with our plans for the thirty-first."

Later that afternoon, the winter dusk was settling in by the time Harry Nimmo brought the Cessna in for a landing at Edinburgh Airport. McLeod had made a brief telephone call before leaving Stornoway, and would have taken Harry along to the meeting he had just arranged, but the counsellor was already late to pick up his son at the train station. Young Rory was at Eton; and since Harry was a widower, he and the boy usually spent the Christmas holidays with Harry's parents in Perth.

"Fair enough, then," McLeod said, as the three men headed for their respective cars, back in the airport car park adjoining general aviation. "Have a happy Christmas, Harry. We'll try not to need you in the next few days."

"No problem," Harry returned cheerily.

Accordingly, only Peregrine followed McLeod as he led the way back to Edinburgh and an Edwardian town house in the New Town district. There, over hot coffee and sandwiches, the two of them shared the day's findings with Lady Julian Brodie, the oldest member of the Hunting Lodge, and Senior in Adam's absence.

"Have a piece of fruitcake," she urged, as Peregrine hesitated over a stacked plate. "It sounds like the pair of you have earned your treats for the day."

Though over seventy, and physically so frail that she had been confined to a wheelchair for nearly a decade, Julian retained her full vigor of spirit and intellect, as well as a penetrating curiosity. An accomplished amateur goldsmith, she still turned out the occasional special commission for friends. Several members of the Hunting Lodge wore rings of her crafting; and Peregrine's had belonged to her late husband.

Wrapped tonight in a festive shawl of silk paisley, her silver hair soft around her face, she followed McLeod's report with unwavering attention before shifting her regard to the sketches Peregrine dealt out like oversized cards on the table they had cleared of the remains of their meal. The bit of bull's hide wrapped in Harry Nimmo's handkerchief also came under her careful scrutiny. Only after she had examined each item did Julian at last venture an opinion.

"An interesting proposition," she said thoughtfully. "On the surface, at least, this does appear to be a classic Druid divination ritual of the old school. All the elements are there, as Peregrine's drawings clearly show. The bull was crowned with mistletoe and then sacrificed by having its throat cut, after which the auguries would have been read from its death struggles and the flow of blood and examination of the entrails. The Romans called the practice 'haruspicy,' from the Etruscan ha-ruspex, which was the name given to priests who performed this kind of divination; and in earlier times, the sacrificial victim would have been a man.

"Fortunately, our unknown perpetrators proceeded along less drastic and probably more efficient lines. The bull was flayed and a designated subject bound up in the animal's hide, probably with ligatures tied at wrists and ankles and upper arms, as Noel has suggested, to restrict blood flow and facilitate an altered state of consciousness. From what you say Harry reported, it appears that the subject was also given some hallucinogenic substance - probably something containing mistletoe, if they continued to follow traditional procedures. The man supervising all of this would appear to be wearing the accoutrements of an arch-Druid."

She singled out a detailed study of a hale, elderly man with luxuriant moustaches, a winged headdress in the form of a speckled bird, set above a high, domed forehead, and craggy features fixed in an expression of austere exultation. Peregrine's skill had endowed the portrait with the clarity of a photograph.

"That's the chap Harry called Taliere - if that's his real name," McLeod said. "His looks are distinctive enough. If he's got a police record, we shouldn't have much trouble coming up with a match."

Peregrine picked up a wider-angled drawing showing several white-robed and hooded figures crouched around a circle traced on the ground. The elderly Druid had his arms upraised in a posture of invocation above an anonymous form lying swaddled in bull hide on the ground at his feet, within the circle. The figure's head was turned away from the artist's point of view, but even if it hadn't been, that area of the sketch had the appearance of being somehow unfinished.

"Let's get back to the man in the bull skin," Peregrine said, tapping his finger on the figure. "He was Harry's contact, apparently through this piece of bull skin." He indicated the scrap of dried hide in the handkerchief. "If it is part of a ligature such as you've both described - and Harry's talent is triggered by physical contact - I suppose it's no wonder he got such a psychic jolt when he touched it.

"Unfortunately, this one sketch is the only view I was able to get of this man," Peregrine went on. "And even this one didn't show me his face. I kept trying, but something seemed to be obscuring it - almost like a veil being lowered between me and what I was trying to see."

"Probably some shadowy emanation of whatever was speaking through him," Julian observed. "And from Harry's impression, it would appear that the possession was rather more forceful than the subject was expecting."

"Aye, 'terrified' was the word Harry used to describe the feeling," McLeod said.

"There was probably good reason," Julian replied. "I would venture to guess, from the reaction, that the contact may not even have been human - or at least no longer human."

Peregrine shivered, and McLeod pulled a scowl.

"But there are several other points about what we've pieced together that give me cause for concern," Julian went on, moving several of Peregrine's drawings side by side, depicting successive stages in the ritual. "First is the use of a black bull instead of a white one. As Noel rightly noted, this may simply reflect the unavailability of a white bull; but it could also indicate an intention to connect with the darker aspects of one of the old gods."

"That symbolism seems a little obvious to me," McLeod muttered. "These people clearly had a pretty good idea what they were doing, and why they were doing it. I keep wondering why they took themselves off without making any effort to tidy up after themselves. It's almost as if they were inviting an inquiry."

"Why would they want to do that?" Peregrine asked.

"Maybe for the chance to make a statement of some kind," McLeod replied. "If some sort of cult is behind this, they may be out to glorify themselves in the eyes of the world - rather like some terrorist organizations who revel in media coverage because it highlights the importance of their activities. The phenomenon is well known in criminal psychology. Maybe this bunch is drumming up publicity in preparation for promoting their own particular political agenda. Modern Druidism has given rise to its share of schisms and fringe organizations, both here and in America."

"Somehow I don't think it's that prosaic," Peregrine murmured, almost to himself. He paused, recollected himself, and started again. "Noel, could we perhaps be dealing with a group of copycats?" he asked. "You know, like one criminal using another criminal's methods as camouflage for his own activities? I'm thinking of Randall Stewart's murder, two years ago," he added. "Every time I look over these drawings, I get a sense of deja vu - and it isn't just that both incidents happened in the snow."

Julian went a little taut, and McLeod looked at her sharply before picking up one of Peregrine's sketches.

"There are surface similarities," the inspector conceded, not really wanting to consider a closer connection. "The white robes, the careful adherence to known Druidical practices, the confinement of the sacrifice in a magic circle of blood. But there are also notable differences, not the least of which is the sacrifice of a bull rather than a human being."

"How do we know they didn't also sacrifice the man in the bull skin?" Peregrine asked. "Just because it wasn't human blood on the sleeping bag doesn't mean he didn't die."

"I think it's far more likely that his role was that of a medium, rather than a sacrifice," Julian said fairly confidently. "And to function as a medium, he was almost certainly a willing subject. As Noel can tell you, it takes years for a good medium to come to his or her full potential; one doesn't lightly throw away such talents."

Peregrine nodded, but he was still unconvinced.

"Maybe it was something besides murder, then," he muttered. "Maybe something worse than murder. It was certainly more than mere theatrical posturing to re-enact a historical procedure. There was - betrayal here. Of whom, I have no idea."

"Perhaps there was," McLeod allowed. "But it takes time, resources, and energy to conduct a ritual as complex as this one. Anyone knowledgeable enough to organize the ceremony in the first place would know better than to perform it under false pretenses - or should know better."

"Indeed," Julian agreed, and added grimly, "If the events surrounding Randall's death proved nothing else, they served to demonstrate that the old elemental powers are still a force to be reckoned with, and are ill-disposed to being exploited."

Peregrine nodded, slowly beginning to gather up his sketches.

"I suppose you're right," he said. "All the same, I feel that there's something here we're overlooking - something right under our noses." He shook his head as he continued. "It connects with my sketches somehow. It's funny, but all the while I was drawing, I had the feeling that I wasn't Seeing the whole company."

McLeod picked up two of the sketches and looked at them more closely, then held them out to Julian.

"You know, I think he's onto something," he said. "Look at these two. Notice anything unusual about them?"

Julian cast her eyes over the two pages, and nodded. "I do believe you're right. He's drawn almost every figure so that you can't see the face. The only exceptions are these two men holding the bull - and the Taliere figure."

As Peregrine himself came around to look at the sketches again, an odd expression stole over his face. "Now that you mention it, there's something else odd. That Taliere fellow may have been running the ceremony, but I had the sense that there was someone else present who never appeared in my Sight, someone shadowy and aloof. I made several attempts to focus in on him, but nothing ever came of it. Each time I tried, some other person or thing always seemed to get in my way."

McLeod eyed him up and down. "You never mentioned this before."

Peregrine grimaced. "I'm not sure I even really noticed until I started trying to pin down why I'm still so uneasy about this whole thing. I'm still not sure whether it was worth mentioning."

His elders traded glances. "It's still possible that the fogginess can be ascribed to whatever entity they were trying to contact," Julian suggested.

"Aye, or it could have been someone's attempt to set us up for a wild goose chase," McLeod said grimly. "God, I don't want to even think about possibilities like that, especially with Adam away!"

"Do you think we ought to give him a call?" Peregrine asked, owl-eyed behind his spectacles.

An odd smile quirked at the corners of Julian's mouth.

"Actually, no," she said. "He's otherwise engaged."

McLeod glanced at her sharply.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," she said, "that Adam is engaged. He's going to marry Ximena tomorrow night. Philippa rang me a few hours before you arrived."

"But, why didn't you tell us?" Peregrine blurted, a huge grin creasing his face as McLeod's stunned first reaction gave way to a similarly delighted smile.

"I am telling you - and I didn't want your analysis of the situation at Callanish to be clouded by distractions. Since we're all agreed that we don't really know anything yet, I think it's safe to delay bothering Adam until we do know something."

"That rascal!" McLeod muttered, still smiling. "He couldn't wait to do it here, in proper style - "

"Oh, they're still going to do it here," Julian assured him. "Christopher would never speak to him again if they didn't. Tomorrow night's ceremony will be a very small, private one - and there's no time for licenses and the like, so it won't even be legal - but Alan Lockhart's dying wish is to see his daughter married. Apparently Adam doesn't expect him to last much beyond the ceremony."

Sorrow shadowed Peregrine's sensitive face.

"That's going to be hard," he murmured. "I know it's for the best, but - "

"I don't think there's any question of intruding at a time like this," McLeod said quietly. "We can handle this for now - and we'll certainly keep alert for traps and red herrings. Meanwhile, I'll start running inquiries first thing in the morning about our mysterious Taliere - though getting the results back may take a bit longer than usual. Most of the relevant agencies will be shutting down early for the holiday weekend. I don't think we can expect to hear anything before Tuesday." "Then we'll definitely wait before worrying Adam," Julian replied with a smile. "And mum's the word, until you're told otherwise. Let him enjoy his Christmas while he can."