Death of an Adept

Chapter Twenty-Three

"I think this is going to be one of the best portraits you've ever done, darling," Julia remarked admiringly as she peered over her husband's shoulder. "I can't wait to see what it will look like when you get the dress fully painted in."

Peregrine smiled and turned his head to plant a kiss on her hand where it rested on his shoulder, pausing to take more paint onto his brush before returning his attention to the canvas. Thereon was limned the first sketchy outline of a bridal portrait of Ximena, only the face approaching completion. The gossamer suggestion of a veil of Spanish lace fell softly about her head and shoulders, supported by a sparkling diamond tiara, as delicate as frost. The dress, as yet, was little more than a sketchy hint of ivory satin and lace, but the face taking shape in the portrait was already a faithful reflection of Ximena herself, dark eyes brimming with warmth and excitement, lips trembling on the brink of a smile.

"Where's that hot chocolate, woman?" Peregrine asked with mock ferocity. "How do you expect a man to paint on a night like this without fuel?"

The Lovats were together in the kitchen of the gate lodge at Strathmourne, where Julia had just set a pan of milk to warm on the top of the Aga. Though Peregrine rarely painted downstairs, preferring his upstairs studio where he could work by natural daylight, the shortness of the Scottish winter day, coupled with a recent increase in commissions, had prompted him to experiment with a new high-intensity light bulb designed to simulate a daylight effect. As luck would have it, the only light fixture able to accommodate the wattage was located in the kitchen, which had recently been rewired. The initial results had proved satisfactory, however, and Peregrine had since discovered that working in the kitchen had compensations other than being able to work on past nightfall.

Laughing, Julia drifted away to add cocoa and sugar to the warming milk, before returning to her husband's side.

"The tiara really is lovely," she commented. "Is it true that it's been in the Sinclair family since the reign of Queen Victoria?"

"So Philippa says," Peregrine returned, with a fleeting smile. "Apparently most of the diamonds were presented to Adam's great-grandfather by an Indian maharajah, in gratitude for military and diplomatic services rendered. He had them made into a tiara for his wife, and since then every Sinclair wife and daughter has worn it to the altar, including Philippa herself."

Julia cocked her head to one side while she studied the overall effect. "Well, it goes remarkably well with the mantilla. You'd almost think the two had been made to go together."

"You would, wouldn't you?" Peregrine agreed, his attention on his work. "I just hope that Ximena doesn't decide to change the hair style you two discussed, between now and the wedding day. It's tricky enough having to do this on the sly, without any major last-minute changes."

The portrait was intended as a surprise wedding gift for the bridal couple. Confident that the painting would be joyfully received, Julia was taking advantage of her new-found friendship with Ximena to gather every possible detail regarding the future Lady Sinclair's bridal ensemble. Her efforts were being ably seconded by Philippa, who had provided a Polaroid snapshot of the Sinclair tiara. Teresa Lockhart had likewise participated in the conspiracy by supplying photographs of the antique lace mantilla which was to be her daughter's bridal veil.

Peregrine added a minute flourish of detail to the veil's diaphanous hem, then set his fine sable brush aside as he contemplated his work with a critical eye, stretching backwards to relieve a crick in his back.

"I think that's going to have to be it for tonight. I can't really carry on without the particulars of the gown. When does Ximena have her next fitting?"

"In a couple of days," Julia said. "I've already volunteered to go along and keep her company. I don't think there are going to be any major changes, but if there are, I'll try to find out in plenty of time for you to incorporate them into the final painting."

Grinning, Peregrine lowered a protective drop-sheet over the half-finished painting, then switched off the bright light overhead, leaving on the work-lights under the hanging cupboards.

"If only the government were half as well-served by its intelligence-gathering services!" he said to his wife. "Have you considered giving up music for a career in international espionage?''

"Certainly not," Julia replied. "I have my hands full enough, just keeping abreast of what's going on in my own household. You haven't exactly been overflowing with information about that house call you made today with Noel McLeod."

She had gone to stir the hot chocolate, but was turned so she could see him. In a slight delaying action, Peregrine set about the cleaning of his brushes. Earlier that afternoon, McLeod had spirited him away for their planned visit to Nether Leckie, Raeburn's former residence. While McLeod had offered a partial truth for Julia's benefit - that he was hoping Peregrine's talents might be put to use in locating a missing person - he had precipitated their departure before she could inquire too closely about the individual they were seeking - for which Peregrine was grateful. The truth about Raeburn was not something he felt ready to share.

Fortunately - or perhaps unfortunately - there was no need to dissemble here and now, regarding at least part of the truth.

"There really isn't much to tell," he said, chucking the first of the brushes into a jar, bristles up. "For all the good we accomplished, Noel and I might as well have saved ourselves the trip."

Which was true. The house had been shut up tight; and any resonances of Raeburn's presence had dissipated long ago - or else had been selectively erased. What remained was a sullen aura of malevolence, but not enough to provide any leads. Hoping to change the subject, Peregrine asked, "Did you and Ximena manage to get the music sorted out for the reception?"

"I think so - my bit of the programme, anyway," Julia said.

"I'm glad Philippa was there to help. Whenever she's around, things seem to have a way of getting done."

At that moment, a plump black and white ball of fur came shooting around the door frame in hot pursuit of one of Peregrine's art gum erasers. The chase ended abruptly when the eraser rolled out of paw-reach under the refrigerator.

"Hero, you bandit!" Peregrine said, laughing. "No wonder I can never find an art gum when I need one!"

"If you'd keep them in your art satchel where they belong, he wouldn't be able to get at them," Julia pointed out with a chuckle, coming to scoop up kitten and eraser.

Hero promptly transferred his attack to a random lock of his mistress's hair. Disregarding the assault, Julia went back to the Aga to give the saucepan another stir with her free hand.

"The hot chocolate's ready,'' she announced over her shoulder. "Want me to pour you a cup?"

"Not just yet, thanks. The smell of turpentine tends to interfere with the taste. If you leave it standing in the pan, I'll get it myself once I'm done cleaning my brushes."

"Mind if I take mine up to bed with me, then? Ximena's given me some music for a saraband she's picked out, and I want to make some notations before I start practicing it."

"No, go ahead. I'll be up to join you as soon as I've put things to rights down here."

With a companionable nod, Julia picked up her mug and made for the stairs, the now-purring kitten cradled on her shoulder. Outside the house, hostile eyes took note when the light came on in the upstairs bedroom. From far at the back of the garden, the watcher carefully scanned the house and its environs through high-powered infrared binoculars, all but invisible in snow-camouflage coveralls and balaclava helmet. After a moment, he lifted a wrist-mounted comlink to his lips, still watching through the binoculars.

"At least one of the subjects has gone upstairs," he reported in an undertone. "The main light in the kitchen has gone out, and the bedroom light came on a minute or two later. What's left downstairs is probably a night-light. Otherwise the coast is clear."

The message was picked up by two more men sitting in a black panel van parked a hundred yards down from the gateway.

"Acknowledged," returned the driver. "Continue to observe and await further instructions."

He severed communications with a click, glancing at the clock in the dash before folding his arms on his chest and leaning his head against the headrest.

"We'll give them another half-hour," he said.

The man sitting next to him gave a huff of annoyance and shifted restively in his seat.

"This is stupid!" he declared. "It's like the bloody North Pole. What the hell are we hanging around for?"

"You know why," the driver said bluntly. "If we move in prematurely, while the targets are still awake, there may be some resistance. If we hold off until they're asleep, our success is virtually guaranteed."

"They're newly weds; they may not go to sleep for hours. As far as I can see, the longer we sit here, the more likely it is that somebody's going to spot us and give the alarm. This whole damned thing is more complicated anyway than it needs to be. Why the hell can't we simply break in and put the bag on these people, without going through this occult rigmarole?"

"Because the boss wants it done this way," the driver snapped. "He's already had one piece of work go wrong because the offering was blemished. I don't want to be the one on the carpet if things don't go right this time around."

"You whine like an old woman," the man in the passenger seat muttered. "Well, I don't propose to spend the rest of the night freezing my arse off out here on the side of the road. It's quiet as the grave out there. I say let's move now."

Flinging open the passenger door, he slid to the ground and started toward the back of the van.

"Wait, you bloody fool!" the driver snapped. But his companion had already flung open the back hatch and was pulling out something wrapped up in a burlap sack.

"Tell Otto I'm coming," he tossed over his shoulder, "and stand by to pick us up."

Once Julia had gone upstairs, Peregrine's thoughts reverted almost at once to the unwelcome subject of Francis Raeburn, his movements becoming more emphatic as he cleaned another brush against a paint-stained cloth. Only now that the visit to Nether Leckie was behind him did he realize how confident he had been that they surely must find some promising sign of Raeburn's whereabouts.

Dogged by a feeling of anticlimax, he went through the motions of putting his palette and brushes away while he tried to imagine what might be going on in the mind of their adversary. So lost in thought was he that he failed to notice that someone or something outside the kitchen door was scuffling at the cat-flap.

The odor of linseed oil and turpentine was strong in his nostrils as he gathered up his paint-rags and tossed them in the rubbish bin under the kitchen sink. Only belatedly did he become aware that there was another odor creeping into the kitchen under the covering ambience of pine - as if someone had set a match to a tub of rancid lard.

As he turned sharply away from the sink, this new and acrid reek seemed to hit him in the face like a physical blow. The stench made him gag and brought tears to his eyes.

Instinctively clapping a hand over his mouth and nose, he looked around for its source, recoiling as he spied something out of place on the floor just inside the kitchen door, its identity masked under a rising cloud of greasy black smoke. As he tried to see what it might be, all his senses suddenly blurred and he found himself folding helplessly to his knees.

Upstairs in the bedroom, Julia had just finished the last of her hot chocolate when she heard a subdued thump and clatter from the direction of the kitchen. The noise was loud enough to make her lift her head from the music score in front of her.

To her musically trained ear, there was something odd about the silence that followed. Shifting her music to the bed beside her, she slipped to her feet and made for the doorway, tightening the belt of her robe around her waist. In that same instant, Hero, who had been sleeping among the pillows, roused with a sudden hiss and start.

Julia whirled around in time to see the kitten disappear under the bed in a bristling flash. Her own heart beating faster, she grabbed the hockey stick that Peregrine kept behind the bedroom door and tiptoed out onto the landing. At once she became aware of the smell of something burning.

"Peregrine?" she called anxiously.

There was no response from below. Tight-lipped with sudden fright, Julia hurried down the stairs and darted across the hall into the kitchen.

The first sight to meet her eyes was her husband, slumped in a heap on the floor within arm's reach of some strange foreign object that smoked and smoldered like a damp Roman candle. Her second glance registered the fact that there was a gloved hand and arm reaching up through the cat-flap toward the latch on the kitchen door.

Without hesitation, Julia raised the hockey stick and swung it like a cricket bat, landing a heavy blow on the intruder's groping fingers. The resultant dull crack was accompanied by a howl of pain from outside. Before she could strike again, the arm whisked itself back through the cat-flap like a wounded rat.

A breathless string of curses punctuated the hasty rustle of retreating feet. Beating the smoke away with one hand, and staggering a little dizzily, Julia started toward Peregrine, glancing down at the outlandish object left behind. Recognition eluded her for a moment. Then, with a shock of pure horror, she realized it was a severed and mummified human hand, its skeletal fingers clenched around a dirty yellow candle that gave off a stinking flare of sickly yellow flame. The fingertips were also lit, burning with a bluer light.

Her scream pierced through the heavy fog that was smothering Peregrine's mind and senses. The realization that Julia must be in danger roused him as little else could have done. Clawing his way back to consciousness, he heaved himself up onto his elbows and forced his eyes to open. Through a stupefying haze, he glimpsed Julia pressed flat against the adjacent wall, her face blanched white with revulsion.

Her dilated eyes were fixed on the noisome object that lay burning on the floor between them. Dragging himself to his feet with the help of a chair, Peregrine nearly recoiled himself when he saw what it was. Even semi-drugged, he could have little doubt that the mummified hand was an occult weapon of attack.

"Go phone Adam!" he rasped hoarsely. "I'll try to neutralize this thing."

Julia fled to the sitting room. Fighting the sickening drag on his senses, trying not to breathe any more than he had to, Peregrine lurched over to the sink and drenched a tea towel under the tap. As he flung it over the gruesome object on the floor, it began smoking even more, but he also heard the hiss of flames hopefully being quenched.

Julia thrust her head through the doorway that connected with the hall, hanging onto the jamb, her eyes wide with fright. She was swaying on her feet, as if she was having trouble keeping her balance.

"The phone's dead," she gasped. "I can't get a dial tone."

"They must have cut the line," Peregrine muttered, backing out into the hall.

Julia bit back a sob and knuckled her eyes as she fought off the soporific effects of the fumes.

"We've got to get out!" she managed to whisper.

"No! That's what they want!"

"Then what'll we do?" she wailed.

Peregrine was cudgeling his own befogged brain, and dimly seized upon their only hope.

"The cell phone!" he mumbled thickly. "It's in my art case."

Clamping his lips firmly closed, and holding his breath, he went back into the kitchen, advancing only far enough to grab the handle of the black leather satchel lying on the floor by the kitchen table. Dragging it into the sitting room, he threw it open and rummaged inside until he located the object he was looking for. His fingers felt thick and clumsy. Concentrating hard, he began to punch in Adam's number.