Death of an Adept

Chapter Fourteen

ALAN Lockhart's funeral was held on the day after Christmas, at the small Episcopal church in the Mission District where he and his family had worshipped for more than thirty years. Despite the season, the service was well-attended, with many of the Lockharts' friends and former clients on hand to bid him farewell. Indeed, the church itself was something of a memorial to the deceased, for over the years Alan Lockhart had given generously of his time and professional expertise to restore and maintain the building. In accordance with his wishes, the service was conducted jointly by the local rector and Jenny Carstairs.

Adam and Philippa sat with the Lockharts at the service, lending their prayers and support to all the members of the family. Under the circumstances, it had been decided not to announce Ximena and Adam's marriage until after the formal public ceremony in Scotland; but at the reception which followed the funeral, Adam was introduced as Ximena's fiance, and all interested well-wishers outside the immediate family were given to understand that the couple had become officially engaged on Christmas Eve, with Alan Lockhart's blessing. The news did much to brighten the mood of the occasion.

"At least Alan got to meet your young man," one of Ximena's paternal aunts confided to Ximena, as she was at the point of leaving. "I only wish he could have lived to walk you down the aisle. But your ring is gorgeous, my dear. Diamonds and a sapphire - how very Old World. I'm sure he must have been very proud."

"He was, Aunt Ellie," Ximena whispered, with tears in her eyes as she returned the older woman's embrace.

On the following morning, while Ximena and Adam set about winding up Ximena's affairs in San Francisco, Philippa flew back to her home in New Hampshire - though only for long enough to make arrangements for an indefinite leave of absence before travelling on to Scotland. She set out on the evening of the twenty-eighth, fortified with luggage enough for an extended stay, arriving at Glasgow's Prestwick Airport early on the morning of the twenty-ninth. The redoubtable Humphrey was there to meet her, instantly familiar in his dark suit and black chauffeur's cap.

"Welcome home, Lady Sinclair," he said, as she came through into the arrivals hall, beckoning to the adoring attendant pushing her luggage trolley.

"Hello, Humphrey. What a relief to find you here waiting," she said, extending her hand in greeting. "Whenever I have to travel at short notice, I always worry that there'll be some last-minute glitch. How are you keeping?"

"Very well, indeed, milady," he told her, taking over the trolley and heading toward the exit. "It's good to have you back. Permit me to be the first to congratulate you on the happy turn of recent events."

Philippa acknowledged this oblique comment with a warm smile, for the faithful Humphrey belonged to the select handful of individuals on this side of the Atlantic who had been entrusted with the whole truth. The very soul of discretion, Humphrey had long ago perfected the art of presenting a stolid exterior to the world - though Philippa knew he was not nearly so impassive as he took pains to appear, particularly where his beloved employer's welfare was concerned. On this occasion, there was an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes that belied the sobriety of his outward manner.

"Thank you, Humphrey," she said. "And thank you for your circumspection. I shouldn't want any rumor of our little secret to leak out prematurely. On the contrary, I intend to avail myself of a few days' peace and quiet between now and Hogmanay. With any luck, our two lovebirds will be joining us in time to see in the new year."

Always noticeable by virtue of her willowy elegance and imperious bearing - and visually striking this morning in a crimson coat and hat - Philippa attracted not a few admiring and speculative glances as she and Humphrey sailed out of the terminal building. Adam's blue Bentley was parked just outside, in honor of her arrival. After handing the lady into the roomy comfort of the rear passenger seat, Humphrey proceeded to stow what he could of her luggage in the inadequate boot, stashing the rest in the back beside Philippa and in the front passenger seat.

Amongst those who took notice of this operation was a burly young man seated in one of the vehicles waiting at the adjoining taxi stand. As the Bentley pulled away from the curb, the young man shucked aside the magazine he had been pretending to read and pulled out of the taxi queue, transmitting a brief message over the radio on a frequency that was not normally within the broadcast capabilities of a taxicab operator.

The message, briskly relayed through trusted intermediary channels, was not slow in reaching the ears of its intended recipients.

"Sinclair's mother!" Angela Fitzgerald exclaimed, when she heard the news of Philippa's arrival. "What the devil is she doing back in Scotland?"

This question was addressed to Richter and Mallory. The three of them had been summoned to Raeburn's library for an updated briefing session, but Raeburn himself had not yet made an appearance. In the interim, Richter had provided the others with folders containing annotated reports on the movements of all suspected associates of the Hunting Lodge, including the McLeods, the Lovats, and the members of Adam Sinclair's domestic staff. It had been judged too risky to tap into the telephone system at Strathmourne itself, but Humphrey's early morning departure in the Bentley had alerted Richter's operatives that something of note was afoot; and an intercepted conversation on the car's mobile phone had confirmed Humphrey's intended destination as Prestwick Airport, to meet an incoming flight from Boston. With that information, it had been a simple task to have an operative stake out the airport, confirming the arrival of Philippa Sinclair.

"We don't yet know about the plans of Sinclair himself," Angela reminded her companions, "but doesn't it strike you as a trifle odd that this meddlesome old she-cat should be paying a visit to the family manor while her son is still absent in America? It makes me wonder if McLeod and Lovat might have stumbled onto something up at Callanish to arouse the suspicions of the Hunting Lodge. If Sinclair couldn't come himself, it makes sense that he might send her."

Richter's bland expression remained unchanged. "Then we shall have to watch her as closely as we are watching Sinclair's other associates."

"And just hope to get lucky?" Angela asked.

Mallory had been considering his own reflection, captured at various angles in the mirror-like polished glass of the surrounding bookcases.

"I can't say the surveillance reports have made very interesting reading up to now," he observed over his shoulder. "I certainly haven't seen anything in them worth worrying about."

"Oh, really?" Angela countered scornfully. "And what would you know?"

"I know how to get more fun out of life than these self-sanctified Huntsmen do," Mallory replied. He picked up one of the folders Richter had distributed earlier and threw it open. "Just listen," he said derisively. "This is the entry for Christmas Day."

He struck an attitude and began to read, adopting for the purpose a parody of Richter's clipped German accent.

"At 0942, Mr. and Mrs. Peregrine Lovat were observed leaving Strathmourne Lodge. They got into their car and drove to Kinross, where they attended Christinas Day services at the Episcopal Church of St. Peter and St. Paul. Following the worship service, they repaired to Rose Cottage, the home of the Reverend and Mrs. Christopher Houston. The Lovats lunched at the cottage and stayed to socialize for several hours thereafter. At 1613 they took leave of the Homtons and drove back to Strathmourne Lodge, where they remained for the rest of the day."

He broke off with a gesture of dismissive. "Not my idea of a good time, I can tell you. But I guess that's the best you can do when you won't allow yourself the luxury of a few honest vices. I could almost feel sorry for them, knowing they've got nothing to add spice to their lives. Or almost nothing," he amended as his gaze lighted upon one of the photographs attached to the report.

The photo showed Julia Lovat seated at her harp. She was dressed in an Empire-style gown of white organdy, with a softly flared skirt and leg o'mutton sleeves. Her red-gold hair was caught up into a knot at the back of her head and pinned in place with a spray of white Christmas roses. In the background, slightly out of focus, could be seen the candlelit outline of a stained-glass window.

Mallory ran a caressing forefinger over the image in the photo. "How positively angelic!" he sighed expansively. "She might almost tempt me to set foot in a church myself one day."

Angela snatched the file away, photo and all, and tossed it on the table.

"Save it, Derek. We've more important things to do than listen to you indulge in crude adolescent fantasies."

Mallory bridled at her tone, but before he could reply, a languid voice intruded on the conversation.

"What seems to be the trouble, children?"

The three of them turned to see Raeburn lounging in the doorway, hands in the pockets of a navy blazer, looking somewhat underslept. Barclay shadowed him half a pace behind, mostly restored to his normal resiliency by a week's rest and recuperation, though dark smudges still stained the hollows of his eyes, giving him a haunted look. He followed as Raeburn made his way over to the desk and unhurriedly took his seat.

Mallory gave a Byronic toss of his head and moved a straight chair closer to the desk. "Our dear Angela has been expressing some concern over the news that Philippa Sinclair was seen arriving at Prestwick Airport less than two hours ago," he announced.

Raeburn raised a blond eyebrow, apparently no more troubled than a senior financial officer advised of some trivial bookkeeping problem.

"Indeed," he said mildly. "And why should that necessarily cause us concern? Sir Iain Sinclair's widow still has friends and family living over here. It is possible that this could be nothing more than a social call."

"With Adam Sinclair out of the country, and Christmas already past?" Angela retorted. "I think it far more likely that she's here at the behest of the other members of the Hunting Lodge, to help them look into the Callanish affair."

Mallory directed an arch glance in Angela's direction.

"They must be in bad form, if they need assistance from a woman old enough to be my grandmother."

"That old woman," Angela said evenly, "is as much a Huntsman as any of them. And all of us would do well not to forget that."

"No one is forgetting," Raeburn said patiently, "but it seems I must keep reminding you that the Hunting Lodge have nothing of substance to go on. Such evidence as does exist points only to Taliere - and as long as we have him under wraps, that evidence won't get them very far. So let them keep spinning their wheels by attempting to track him down. By the time we're finished with him, he'll be of no further use to anybody. Do I make myself understood? Good. Then let's get down to the business at hand."

The others had moved closer while Barclay arranged more chairs in a semicircle in front of the desk, and Raeburn gestured for them to be seated.

"Now," he began, "the operation at Callanish was always a calculated gamble. Though that gamble failed to pay off, we have by no means exhausted our potential for success. On the contrary, Callanish was only the opening gambit of the game. I have been reviewing our position, and have come up with an alternative strategy which promises to yield even higher returns than our original plan."

"It had better," Richter said. "We are playing for very high stakes."

"I'm well aware of that," Raeburn agreed. "But we've come too long a way to waste our energies thus far - and I believe we can build on what we have achieved.

"Our error at Callanish was in trying to make direct contact with the lord Taranis. Taliere was not equal to the challenge, and the intermediary he brought through was less than helpful - which is no fault of Mr. Barclay's," he added, with a nod at the pilot. "The problem was compounded by the fact that Taliere and I differed from the outset in our notions of how the procedure should be approached; and the compromise we reached proved less than satisfactory. I will not compromise again."

"Can you explain how the Head-Master came to be involved in the operation?" Richter asked neutrally.

"No, I cannot. He'd become very unbalanced just before his death, but he was the last person to harness the power of the Soulis tore - and the last wielder of the dagger before myself. I would venture to guess that the dagger drew him to our working - which tends to confirm that it can be made to function as the tore did. As to his tirade during our ritual, I can only attribute it to the demented ravings of a tormented soul. He was quite mad by the time Taranis took him to his own."

"Mad or not," Richter replied, "he still possessed the ability to focus the power of the tore - and presumably the dagger. How do you propose to gain his cooperation?"

"I don't," Raeburn said simply. "I know of another who was able to do what the Head-Master was able to do, and that is the same Lord Soulis whose name came to be associated with both the dagger and the destroyed tore. Indeed, the Head-Master claimed to have derived his knowledge from Soulis."

"Ah." Richter's eyes had narrowed as Raeburn spoke. "Perhaps you should further acquaint us with this Lord Soulis."

Raeburn inclined his head in assent. "Certainly. I should tell you, first of all, that in his day, William Lord Soulis was known as 'the wickedest man in all Scotland' - though that sobriquet was bestowed by his enemies, who did not understand his work. He had his seat at Hermitage Castle, down in Liddesdale, and accounts surviving from his own lifetime relate how he used the cellars of the castle as a temple to his magical arts. Personally, I would draw the line at sacrificing young children - or at least torturing them - but Soulis apparently exercised no such restraint. Or perhaps his demon familiars demanded such oblations, and Soulis was willing to pay that price for their favors.

"One of his familiars is said to have used its powers to render Soulis invulnerable to the weapons of his enemies, who otherwise would have brought him to justice. It was known as Redcap Sly or Robin Redcap, so-called from its practice of dyeing its cap in the blood of its victims."

"What does this have to do with the tore and the dagger?'' Mallory asked. "Calling on familiars is all very well and good - I can do that - but Taranis is no mere familiar like Redcap; he's an elemental lord."

"And Soulis was a sorcerer of immense power," Raeburn replied. "It is a matter of record that he was able to bind and control a number of infernal spirits, and we know that he had control of the tore and the dagger. Since we also know that Soulis was the source of the Head-Master's knowledge of how to invoke Taranis, it occurred to me to wonder whether Soulis himself might have been able to go that one step further."

Angela stiffened - apparently first to seize upon the significance of what Raeburn was implying.

"Are you saying," she said, "that you think Soulis might have found a way not simply to invoke Taranis, but to bind him?"

"I think there's a fair chance of that," Raeburn replied. "And at very least, Soulis was able to invoke Taranis in the same way the Head-Master did, and induce him to channel his power through the tore. I know that power, Angela; I've tasted it. And oh, it is sweet}"

"Power is always sweet," Richter murmured. "What if it cannot be channelled through the dagger?"

"I feel confident that it can," Raeburn replied. "We have already begun potentializing the dagger by using it in the bull sacrifice. I remind you that the tore was activated by the life-blood of human sacrifice. If anything, the dagger should prove an even more potent focus, since it is the direct instrument of sacrifice."

"That assumes that we can contact Soulis," Angela said. "And that he will agree to share his knowledge."

"We can contact him," Raeburn said confidently. "Our Derek is acquainted with the basic methodology."

Mallory went a little pale. "I only assisted," he whispered. "It was Geddes who summoned Michael Scot."

"I'm quite aware of that," Raeburn replied. "And I shall require your assistance in a like manner for this operation. I mention the incident only to underline that we do have experience in summoning the dead. In the case of Soulis, we shall use a wizard to summon a wizard. Master Taliere will serve very well in that capacity, and you, my dear Derek, will ensure that he cooperates."

Mallory breathed out a relieved sigh and nodded slowly.

"Suppose Soulis is currently incarnate?" Angela asked. "You can't have forgotten the problems with Scot."

"No, and it wouldn't have been a problem, if not for Sinclair's meddling," Raeburn snapped. "In fact, Michael Scot would have been my first choice for this operation, but Sinclair put him beyond our reach by placing his protection on Scot's current incarnation."

"Was ist das?" Richter murmured, raising a startled eyebrow in inquiry.

"A schoolgirl named Gillian Talbot," Raeburn murmured, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "She'd be about fourteen by now. We'll retrieve her one day. But for now, we'll have to settle for Soulis."

"What about Soulis?" Angela said. "You never answered my question fully. Even if we can contact him, what makes you think he'd agree to help us?"

"Because I can offer him the one thing he desires more than any other thing," Raeburn said, smiling thinly. "I can offer him his liberty."

"His liberty?" Richter repeated. "Are we to understand that this Soulis is somehow a prisoner?"

"In a manner of speaking," Raeburn said somewhat smugly. "In the past few days I've engaged in some covert investigation of my own. It seems that Soulis' spirit presently languishes in a state of limbo, to which he was exiled at the time of his death by an edict of banishment which prevents him from ever again reincarnating."

The cavernous pause elicited by this revelation was at last broken by Richter's perplexed sigh.

"If Soulis was as powerful as you claim," he said tentatively, "how could he have allowed himself to be bound in that way?"

A pained smile flickered across Raeburn's face, almost a grimace.

"Perhaps I should acquaint you with the manner of his passing. As the years went by and his excesses became more outrageous and more blatant, Soulis apparently became overconfident in his own abilities and allowed his defenses to slip. Outrage and anger had been growing among the folk around Liddesdale, and he also appears to have come to the notice of a Hunting Lodge of the time.

"I have no details on what they did," Raeburn went on, amid looks of indignation from his listeners, "but I can tell you that his tenants eventually rose up in a body, attacked the castle, and took him prisoner. Somehow his occult powers were nullified, or at least suppressed. Laden with iron chains, and wrapped in a sheet of lead, he was taken from Hermitage Castle to a site now known as the Nine Stane Rig and there boiled alive in oil in his own brazen cauldron. His body was burned thereafter and his ashes scattered on the wind. His soul…"

"Bound by a Hunting Lodge," Mallory muttered through clenched teeth.

Raeburn shrugged. "Save your indignation for the Hunting Lodge we must deal with, Derek. Suffice it to say that I've analyzed the spell that bars Soulis from the Wheel of Reincarnation. For all its potency, it appears none too complicated. He can't unlock it - but I can."

"Oh?" Angela said, a note of challenge in her tone.

"The real challenge will be in locating Soulis," Raeburn continued, ignoring the jibe. "Since he is presently adrift among the Inner Planes, it will be necessary to conjure him back to the material world in such a manner as will allow us to acquaint him with our proposal. It will not be pleasant for him, since I plan to use the circumstances of his death to structure our summoning.

"Given his situation, I would be very surprised if he declined to cooperate with us. After all, what other prospect has he got? It may be centuries before anyone else is inclined to make him a better offer."

"You make it sound so straightforward," Angela said. "Has it occurred to you that, given the chance to speak, Soulis might try to take advantage of the moment by calling one or more of his erstwhile familiars to his aid?"

"It did occur to me," Raeburn said drily. "That's why the ritual I've devised will have some very specific controls built into it from the outset. Since the turning of the year is an auspicious time for beginning new endeavors, I propose that we summon Soulis to his old haunt of Hermitage Castle in two days' time. I fancy it will be a fitting way to usher out the dying year."

A hundred miles away, just north of Edinburgh, Philippa Sinclair was inspecting an invitation to quite another kind of affair to mark the turning of the year.

"As you requested, milady, I telephoned Sir Matthew and Lady Fraser as soon as you informed me you were coming," Humphrey said, as he poured her tea in the library, "so they sent along an invitation to their annual Hogmanay party. Of course I made no mention of Sir Adam's news."

"No, that's to be a delicious surprise," Philippa said, helping herself to sugar and milk. "I'm not certain whether Janet will be delighted to find that Adam is about to lose his bachelor status or annoyed that she didn't make the match. She does like Ximena, though - everyone does. I can't tell you how happy I am that he's finally found the right woman, Humphrey. If things take their natural course, you'll soon be serving your third generation of Sinclairs."

"It will be my privilege and pleasure, milady," Humphrey said with an uncharacteristic smile. "Will there be anything else, or shall I see to your luggage? I had Mrs. Gilchrist prepare your room."

"No, go ahead, Humphrey. I want to make a few telephone calls before I head upstairs for a nap. I don't handle jet lag as well as I used to." "Very good, milady."

Sighing, Philippa settled herself comfortably into one of the wing chairs by the fireside, clasping the warmth of her teacup between both hands as she gave herself over to the nostalgic comfort of coming home. By habit, her gaze reverted to the framed photograph on the mantelpiece, showing her late husband in his regimental uniform, and she rendered his likeness a fond salute with her teacup.

"I hope he'll be happy, Iain," she said with a wistful smile. "He deserves to be happy. It isn't an easy life he's chosen for himself."

By the time she had finished her tea, Philippa was feeling sufficiently restored to repair to Adam's desk and make her phone calls. The first was to her clinic back in New Hampshire, where she left a message notifying the staff of her safe arrival. The second was to Lady Julian Brodie.

"Pippa, dear, I can't tell you how glad I am to hear your voice!" Julian exclaimed by way of greeting. "How did it go, on Christmas Eve? I've only told Noel and Peregrine and the Houstons, but we're all so delighted!"

"Well, it won't be official until after the public wedding," Philippa reminded her with a laugh. "For now, they're simply engaged. I'll tell you about it when I see you. In the meantime, before I sally forth into my new role as mother of the groom, I thought I'd better apply to you for an update on local current events."

The request carried several levels of meaning, and Philippa was somewhat surprised at the slight pause on the other end of the line before Julian replied.

"Yes, indeed. Always happy to oblige. Perhaps you'd like to come and join me for tea tomorrow - say, between three and four? I'll invite a few other friends as well."

Philippa was quick to catch what was not said in Julian's seemingly innocent comment - and the meaning implicit in her inclusion of "a few other friends."

"I can come sooner, if you like," she said.

"No, no, tomorrow will be fine," Julian replied. "I'm eager to see you, but there's no urgency until you've recovered from your travels. We're neither of us getting any younger."

With this reassurance - and increasingly aware of her jet lag - Philippa rang off with the promise to join Julian on the morrow. She spent the remainder of the day napping and unpacking, and retired early after a light supper.

The next day dawned windy and changeable, with patches of brilliant sunshine interspersed with fragmentary bands of snow cloud. Philippa breakfasted in the front parlor, then puttered the morning away. The house seemed very empty with Adam absent. Shortly after two, out of deference to the uncertainty of the weather, she had Humphrey bring the Range Rover around instead of the Bentley. Soon they were cruising southward toward Edinburgh, Philippa contentedly ensconced in the back seat with a tartan rug tucked over the lap of her emerald-green suit.

Already alerted by the tone of Julian's invitation, she was not surprised to find Peregrine Lovat's familiar green Morris Minor parked at the curb a few yards down from the front gate of Bonnybank House. Nor was she surprised, upon being shown into Julian's cozy sitting room, to discover that Noel McLeod and Father Christopher Houston had been included in the invitation.

"How wonderful to see you all!" she exclaimed, as she exchanged hugs all around. "A belated happy Christmas to you. I can't tell you how good it is to be back, and with such news!"

Initial conversation revolved entirely around the subject of Adam's marriage, as Julian presided over a silver tea service and Peregrine helped distribute plates of cakes and scones. Prompted by their eager questions, Philippa took the opportunity to furnish the other members of the Hunting Lodge with a full report of the wedding at the hospital.

"It was so moving, on so many levels," she finished wistfully. "The timing of Alan's passing was a little difficult, of course, but I think it was a relatively easy transition for him, especially after being in so much pain for so long. I know it meant a lot to him to see Ximena married; and the people he loved most were there with him, at the end. Adam had done an incredible job of preparing the way, so there was no question that everyone was ready to let Alan go."

Julian dashed tears from her cheek with the back of one frail hand, and Christopher bowed his head. Philippa sniffled back her own tears and put on a fragile smile.

"In any case," she went on, "I have no doubt that it's a marriage of hearts and souls. Christopher, I'm sure I can trust you to help Adam sort out the appropriate legalities at this end. He's very keen to have you perform the formal ceremony here, and apologizes for jumping the gun without you, as it were. But I see nothing to prevent us from throwing our hearts into a wedding celebration worthy of them both - and a splendid reception at Strathmourne, though it will be difficult to top yours and Julia's, Peregrine."

Though Philippa's shift back to the more pleasurable prospect of Adam's wedding had somewhat banished the sobriety surrounding the account of Alan Lockhart's death, the company's mingled looks of pleasure and uneasiness caused her to set aside her cup and cast her gaze over the lot of them ap-praisingly.

"Very well," she said briskly. "It's clear there's more on the agenda than what happened in San Francisco. But you did indicate that it wasn't urgent, Julian."

"Not - urgent," Julian allowed. "But a bit worrisome, nonetheless." She glanced appraisingly at McLeod. "Noel, perhaps you'd care to do the honors?"

McLeod nodded and set aside his teacup. "Just about a week ago I got a call from a fellow copper up in Stornoway, name of Chisholm. There'd been a ritual bull-slaying up at at the Callanish stone circle, and he wanted to ask my advice."

In as few words as possible he went on to render an account of the investigation.

"Since Adam was off on his first holiday in some time," McLeod concluded, "there didn't seem any point in reporting the incident to him right away - especially when there was nothing any of us could do that couldn't be done equally well by the Island police.

"Since then, however, further information has come to light that suggests the Hunting Lodge ought to become more actively involved in the case. Peregrine and I were just getting ready to leave the crime scene at Callanish when Chisholm got called away to investigate a seemingly unrelated incident - a car gone off the road, with two dead.

"Chisholm got back to me the next day with further details. That was Christmas Eve - which is why this information didn't figure in our decision not to bother you or Adam when we'd evaluated the case the night before. Chisholm had assumed, as did the first officers on the scene, that the incident was drink-related. Empty whisky bottles were found in the wreckage of the car with the bodies of two dead men, and the medical examiner's report confirmed that both victims had high levels of alcohol in their blood.

"Problem is that Chisholm knows most of the regulars on the island, and the driver was practically a teetotaller - name of Macaulay. The barman at his local had never served him anything stronger than a shandy, and then never more than one. Chisholm checked with the victim's GP, who confirmed that Macaulay had a chronic liver ailment that effectively deterred him from heavy drinking."

"A holiday lapse?" Christopher queried.

McLeod shook his head. "I doubt it. The other man in the car was Macaulay's nephew, a chap named Treen. When Chisholm checked into his background, he found out that some years ago, Treen had been a student of veterinary medicine at the University of Aberdeen before getting thrown out for poor performance. No one seemed to know much about his drinking habits, but when Chisholm's men paid a visit to his farm, one of the things they found was an old horse-box with cattle droppings scattered all over the floor. More to the point, amongst the livestock papers stuffed away in Treen's desk were the registration documents and vaccination certificates for a two-year-old Black Angus bull. The animal in question was nowhere to be found on the premises, and in the absence of any bill of sale, it seemed reasonable to suspect that this was the beast slaughtered at Callanish.

"All of which circumstantial evidence," he went on, "prompted Chisholm to order some forensic work done on the bodies. When traces of bull's blood turned up on the men's shoes and under their fingernails, no one was much surprised. It f.eems pretty obvious now that these two individuals were directly involved in the Callanish incident. It seems equally obvious that somebody else wanted to ensure they didn't talk about it afterwards."

"Which suggests very strongly that the situation warrants our looking into it," Julian said.

Philippa nodded thoughtfully. "Let's go back to that name your Mr. Nimmo picked up," she suggested. "What was it again - Taliere?"

"Aye," said McLeod. "I ran the name through our files and came up empty. Whoever this Taliere may be, he doesn't seem to have a police record - at least not in Lothian and Borders or Strathclyde Departments, and not under that name. Of course, we've got six other jurisdictions in Scotland, and I've started inquiries in all of them; but without a central database to work from, it could be weeks before we get any useful results. That's assuming, of course, that Taliere is a real name, and not a pseudonym, and that he's come to police attention in the past."

"It sounds like we wait, then, and see what further you can turn up," Philippa said. "Adam will be back in two days' time. Maybe by then, we'll know something more."