Death of an Adept

Chapter Twenty-Five

DOWN at the gate lodge, the police had completed their survey of the crime scene and were now gathered in the sitting room by the light of candle and lantern, taking stock of their findings over steaming mugs of tea. Across the hall, the kitchen door was standing open to encourage dissipation of the residual fumes from the Hand. Peregrine had explained the lingering smell to the police as being the product of the glue sizing he used to prepare his canvases. He had been relieved when the two policemen appeared to take his word for it.

"I'm afraid your would-be burglars left precious little behind in the way of evidence," said the senior officer, whose name was McLachlan. "When they wear gloves, they don't leave prints. Footprints can be useful, but the snow's been well trampled round about the back door. The few clear footprints we found aren't likely to tell us much."

"Any idea how many intruders there were?" Adam asked.

McLachlan pursed his lips. "I'd say at least two, plus one driving the getaway van. The tracks converge on the house from two different directions. But that's about all I can say for certain."

He transferred his attention to Peregrine. "You don't happen to keep anything of significant worth or value on the premises here, do you, Mr. Lovat? Something that might interest a collector of art or antiquities?''

"No, nothing," Peregrine said with a shake of his head.

"That's strange, then," McLachlan grunted. "Most burglars try to avoid breaking into a house where they know there are people at home - unless they're after something specific, that they know is in the house. Cat burglars will sneak into a house when the occupants are sleeping - they almost regard it as a challenge - but they don't usually cut phone lines."

"What about power lines?" Peregrine demanded. "Was that just to frighten us?"

"And to help them get away," McLachlan replied, "though it sounds like the arrival of Sir Adam and his man was what really scared them off."

"That still doesn't explain what they were after," Adam said, though he had a fair idea it was not what but who.

McLachlan shrugged. "I don't suppose they could have mistakenly thought that you lived here, Sir Adam? After all, you're a physician. Maybe they thought there were drugs in the house."

"If they were sophisticated enough to cut the phone lines - and then the power lines - they'd have known better than that," Adam pointed out.

"Well, whatever the case, you and your wife were damned lucky, Mr. Lovat," McLachlan said, turning to Peregrine. "This far out in the country, you're isolated enough to present an inviting target to anyone looking for trouble, if I were you, I'd maybe reconsider that cat flap. And get secondary locks fitted to your doors and make sure your windows are securely shut after dark."

"For that matter," Adam said, "it's probably time we had the security arrangements upgraded all over the estate. You can be certain I'll start making the necessary phone calls first thing in the morning. In the meantime, thank you both for coming so promptly."

"Glad to be of service, Sir Adam," McLachlan said. "I guess that about wraps things up for tonight. Mr. Lovat, you have my card and telephone number, if anything else crops up that you think we ought to know about. Meanwhile, we'll get an advisory bulletin on the wire and let you know if and when there are any further developments."

Following the departure of the police, Peregrine sank gratefully into the nearest armchair.

"Whew! I'm glad that's over," he muttered fervently. "I feel as if I've been hit by a lorry."

"You do look as if you could use a breather," Adam said. "Just stay put for a few minutes and recollect yourself. I'll tidy up the tea things."

He carried the tea mugs into the kitchen and rinsed them under the hot water tap by candlelight, crouching down to inspect the cat-flap again before closing and locking the kitchen door and then returning to the sitting room. Peregrine had taken off his spectacles and was knuckling his eyes like a tired child. He started at the sound of Adam's footfalls, shaking his head as he put his spectacles back on.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he fretted. "Ever since we came back here, I've been attempting on and off to see if I could pick up some visionary impression of whoever was attempting to gain entry. But it's no use. However hard I try, I just can't seem to get focused."

"That's hardly surprising," Adam said. "The fumes given off by a Hand of Glory are intended to incapacitate the victim not only physically, but psychically as well."

Peregrine's red-rimmed eyes widened slightly. "Really?"

"Really," Adam said. "And that's one of the things about this incident that gives me serious cause for concern. If the intruders had simply wanted you unconscious, they could have used any one of a number of knockout gases available to the medical profession. The fact that they resorted to using a Hand of Glory argues that they know something of your talents and wanted to put you out of action on more than one level."

"Well, they succeeded in that," Peregrine muttered, briefly pushing his spectacles up to rub at the bridge of his nose. "I've still got a thumping headache."

"Fortunately, the headache and the nullifying effects are only temporary," Adam said. "Once you've had a chance to get some sleep, you should be back in full possession of your faculties. But, for the moment, I'm afraid you'll have to resign yourself to sitting on the sidelines while the rest of us try to piece the facts together."

"I'd certainly be grateful for an explanation," Peregrine said. "From what you've told me, the Hand of Glory is not an easy charm to manufacture. What were these people after, that they were prepared to go to such extravagant lengths to procure it?"

"I've been thinking about that," Adam said grimly, "and I don't like the answer that keeps turning up. This was never intended as a burglary; it was meant to be a kidnapping."

"A kidnapping?" Peregrine blanched. "Good God! Why would anyone want to kidnap Julia and me?"

"I don't know the why," Adam said, "and I would rather not speculate too closely. Especially since the most likely who is Francis Raeburn."

"Surely not!" Peregrine blurted. When Adam merely gazed at him in silence, he said protestingly, "But that would mean that he's been keeping us under surveillance at the same time we've been out looking for him."

Adam nodded. "Not a very reassuring thought, is it? I think we're going to have to tread very carefully from here on out."

When they returned to the main house, Humphrey met them with the news that Julia was resting comfortably in her room.

"And where is my mother?" Adam asked, as he and Peregrine shrugged out of their coats.

"She's in the library, sir."

Nodding his thanks, Adam led the way to the library, and was somewhat taken aback to discover that his wife was there ahead of him. But if Philippa was in any way perturbed, she gave no sign of it.

"I'm glad you're back," she told the two men. "Julia's in bed and should sleep through till morning. In the interim, Xim-ena and I have just been discussing how best to dispose of this repellent object."

She indicated the tin on the desktop, the lid now replaced. Swift to take in the situation, Adam inferred that Ximena had been given at least a partial briefing with respect to the Hand.

"I'm not sure we're ready to dispose of it just yet," he said cautiously, uncertain how much or how little Philippa had been moved to say in his absence. "The police didn't find much evidence to go on during their part of the investigation. That means that, as loathsome as it is, the Hand is our only tangible link with the perpetrators. It's probably in our best interest to keep it intact - at least until we've had a chance to examine it more carefully."

He went over to the desk and started riffling through his desktop Rdodex.

"Who are you thinking of phoning at this hour?" Peregrine asked.

"The estimable Harry Nimmo," Adam replied. "With you temporarily hors de combat, it occurs to me that we could do with some reinforcements - and Noel is out of town until tomorrow. Actually, perhaps you'd care to do the honors. Since I know him mainly by reputation, a request for assistance is bound to seem less of an imposition, coming from you."

With a nod, Peregrine came and took the phone, then hesitated with his finger poised above the keypad. "How soon were you thinking of asking him to join us?''

"Tonight, if he can possibly manage it," Adam said. "I know it's late, but the sooner we get our investigation under way, the sooner we'll have the answers we need."

While Peregrine was making the call, Ximena looked to her husband for enlightenment. "Who is this Harry Nimmo?''

"A friend of Noel McLeod's," Adam replied, "who's helped us out in the past. His gifts are not unlike Peregrine's, but he's only beginning to explore his potential. This would seem to be a good time for him to get some experience in the field."

Peregrine rejoined them a moment later, looking somewhat relieved.

"Harry's agreed to lend a hand," he informed Adam. "He was a little anxious when he heard that Noel isn't available, but he's on his way."

"Did he give you an ETA?" Adam asked.

"About half an hour."

Nodding, Adam glanced at his watch, then turned to the two women with an air of apology.

"It appears we will be working further tonight. I wonder if I might beg your indulgence and ask you both to leave us? Harry is Noel McLeod's student, not mine. I've met him once before, but only superficially. Given the fact that he's still very new at this kind of thing, it's going to be difficult enough for us to work together without the added complication of an audience."

"Too true!" Philippa agreed briskly. "Come along, Ximena. Let's take ourselves off and spare the poor man the discomfort of being asked to perform in front of a roomful of strangers."

"Thank you," Adam said, accompanying them to the door. "I'm sorry if this seems a bit cavalier," he said to Ximena as he kissed her good night, "but it really wouldn't be practical for you to stay. I'll let you know how we've made out in the morning. In the meantime, try and get some sleep. I'll join you as soon as I can."

In preparation for what lay ahead, he locked the Hand away in the safe again and called Humphrey into the library to build up the fire while he and Peregrine made a quick trip back to the gate lodge to collect Peregrine's sketch box. En route he had Peregrine brief him regarding everything he could remember about working with Harry over the last month. Upon returning to the main house, they had settled into two chairs before a now respectable fire, the biscuit tin containing the Hand now set on a small table beside Adam's chair, when the sound of a car approaching up the drive made them prick up their ears. Very shortly after, there came a deferential knock at the door.

"Mr. Nimmo has arrived, sir," Humphrey said.

As he ushered the newcomer into the room, Peregrine sprang to his feet, followed by Adam.

"Harry!" Peregrine said, coming to shake the counsellor's hand. "You must have flown, instead of driving."

"You did say it was urgent," Harry replied. "Sir Adam, I'm pleased to meet you again."

"And I, you," Adam said, shaking the other man's hand. "Thank you for coming, so late and on such short notice. And please call me Adam. I've already put you in an awkward position by going over Noel's head to ask for you."

Harry shrugged, pulling an unexpectedly boyish grin. "Well, I certainly never expected that he wouldn't be here, the first time I worked with you, but Peregrine seems to think I might be able to help. This is all still pretty new to me, but I'll certainly give it my best shot. I never could resist the lure of a good mystery."

"Well, we certainly have that," Adam said with an answering smile. "Please, come and sit down. I'm afraid it may well seem like jumping right in at the deep end - but Peregrine has had a little - ah - setback this evening, and I'd rather not wait until he's recovered."

He left it to Peregrine to render an account of the evening's events, watching Harry's reactions as the counsellor listened closely, his initial bewilderment abating as his interest grew.

"You say this thing is made out of a human hand!" he asked at the conclusion of the artist's narrative.

Adam nodded.

"And you want me to touch it?"

Again Adam nodded.

"And did Peregrine tell you what happened when I only touched a scrap of bull hide?''

"Yes, he did," Adam said. "And given the impressions you got from that, I have hopes that you might pick up similar impressions from the Hand. It would be extremely useful if we could find out who prepared the thing."

Harry pulled a wry face. "I can't say this is my first choice in late-night entertainment."

"I can appreciate that," Adam said on a note of sincere regret. "If we had any other immediate recourse, I wouldn't be asking you to do this. But anyone capable of making and using as grisly a weapon as a Hand of Glory is not someone to be trifled with. No lasting harm was done tonight, but future victims might not be so lucky."

"Put like that, it makes a pretty incontestable argument," Harry said drily. "Aye, I'll do it - God knows I've seen worse things than dead hands in my soldiering days. I'd better warn you, though, that I don't have much control over these psychometric flashes I've been having."

"Experience may well change that," Adam said with a faint smile. "And Peregrine will tell you that I do have experience helping people learn control over such abilities. Just now, anything you can come up with is likely to be helpful. Even if you don't pick up on any names, a visual impression of one or more of the perpetrators would give us something to start on."

"If images are all I get," Harry said, "how are you going to know what I see?"

"That's easy," Peregrine said. "Just describe it, and I'll draw it."

Harry frowned. "I thought you said this Hand knocked you out of action."

"So it did," Adam agreed, "but only with respect to the psychic aspects of his talent. He's still one of the best forensic artists I've ever worked with. If you can provide him with a description, I promise you he'll turn it into an accurate likeness."

Harry made a gesture of mock surrender. "I can see you've thought this whole thing through pretty thoroughly. Well, I did come here to try to help. AH right, let's get on with it."

While Peregrine retrieved pencils and a pad from his sketch box, Adam moved the tin from the table beside him to a smaller one he set in front of Harry. As he took off the lid and set it aside, Harry leaned closer to take a cautious look inside, recoiling briefly from the smell.

"Whew! But I guess it Li a dead hand, isn't it?" he remarked with a grimace. He looked at it again, but his reluctance to touch the Hand was manifest.

"Take all the time you want," Adam said quietly. "Peregrine and I will be ready when you are."

"Easy for you to say," Harry muttered darkly. "Very well, here goes."

He drew a deep breath and extended his right hand over the tin, flexing his fingers and then reaching downward. The instant of contact brought a gasp to his lips as his hand jerked back almost of its own volition. With a muttered imprecation, he gave it a violent shake, as if he'd been stung by a scorpion.

"Did you see anything?" Adam asked.

Harry shook his head.

"But you felt something," Adam said.

"Aye, but I may just have been scaring myself," Harry allowed. "I'll try again."

While Adam and Peregrine looked on, he reached into the tin a second time, only to recoil even more violently. A third attempt provoked an equally strong reaction, and left him trembling.

"If you aren't seeing anything, what are you feeling?" Adam prompted quietly. "Focus on it, Harry. Tell me what you feel."

The response from Harry was a shiver, and his eyes had gone a little glazed.

"C-cold… icy cold…" he mumbled thickly. "Can't… seem… to breathe - ''

As Harry gasped - a choked, strangled sound - Adam suddenly realized that he must be fastening on some residual resonance, not from those who had prepared the Hand but from the hand's owner, who would have died by hanging. Swiftly he reached out and gripped the counsellor firmly by the arm.

"Stop, Harry! Let it go!" he ordered.

Harry breathed out explosively and shuddered, then looked up shakily at Adam. Sucking in a lungful of air, he passed his free hand across his eyes.

"Whew. Thanks. I - ah - don't know what that was all about, but it doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere. Any suggestions?"

"Yes," Adam said thoughtfully. It had not occurred to him that Harry's sensibilities would be acute enough to penetrate past the veil of dark empowerments which had been used to make the Hand what it was. Impressed by this evidence of Harry's potential, he said, "I think we might get better results if you'll consent to let me put you into a trance."

Harry blinked. "That's right, you're a shrink. You want to hypnotize me?"

"I do," Adam said. "Does that prospect frighten you?"

"No, no," Harry murmured, stabbing a finger at the Hand. "That frightens me. I know Noel was using a bit of hypnosis when he worked with me - and it did help." He managed a pallid grin. "I suppose he learned it from you."

"I suppose he did," Adam agreed, smiling faintly.

"Let's do it, then," Harry said. "We sure aren't getting anywhere with what we've been doing so far."

"Very well," Adam replied. "Then, suppose you close your eyes and settle back. Make yourself comfortable. Let yourself relax, and take a deep breath…."

The counsellor proved an apt subject, sinking into trance with the ease of a child falling asleep. Adam spent a few minutes deepening the trance, observing his subject's reactions and reinforcing a series of suggestions he layered into place, then set fingertips to the pulse in Harry's wrist.

"I think he's probably already captured what he needs," Adam murmured aside to Peregrine. "It may be that all we need to do now is help him get at it and sort the imagery. Harry, you're doing very well indeed. Do you feel ready for another go?"

Harry's head bobbed up and down.

"Very good. Now, listen closely to my voice and do exactly as I tell you to do. Visualize the Hand. See it in your mind's eye. If you think back, you'll remember that I asked you earlier to touch it. I won't ask you to do that again, but I want you to call to mind the impressions you experienced during those brief moments of contact. Cast your mind back, and feel yourself touching the Hand again. Hold those impressions in your mind's eye and tell me what you see."

Harry's face tightened. "Shadows," he mumbled. "I see a dirty ball of shadows."

"That's a good image," Adam said. "Think of that ball as an onion. Think of the shadows as layers of onion skin. Imagine yourself peeling away the outermost layer. If you hold that layer up to the light, you'll find that you can look through it like a windowpane. On the other side of the pane are the ones who made the shadows, the ones you're trying to discern."

For a long moment, Harry did not respond. Watching him closely, Adam could see rapid eye movements beneath the veil of his closed eyelids. Then his lips twitched.

"I see them!" he breathed.

"That's good, Harry. How many are there?"

"Three."

"We'll start with the one who's clearest," Adam said quietly. "I want you to describe each one in turn, as fully and accurately as you can manage."

Peregrine was already leaning forward, his pencil poised at the ready. For the next half hour he hung on Harry's every word, laboring to translate the counsellor's words into images, perfecting the images that were taking shape on the paper in front of him. It was harder work than when he could rely on his own psychic talents to help fill in the gaps, especially with a headache, but by the time Harry had wound down, Peregrine had managed to capture three distinct likenesses. At his nod to Adam that he had finished, Adam reached over and lightly clasped Harry's wrist.

"You've done very well, Harry," he told him softly. "Now I want you to rest for a while. You'll hear nothing until I touch your wrist again and call you by name. Just rest and float. Will that be all right?"

Harry's head bobbed in assent.

"Good man," Adam whispered. "Rest now. I'll touch your wrist when it's time to awaken."

As Adam withdrew his hand, Harry's head lolled back against the headrest and he exhaled with a sigh. Adam watched him for a moment, and softly whispered his name, but Harry made no response. Satisfied, Adam turned his attention to Peregrine, who was leafing through the drawings he had just done.

"All right, let's see what you've got," Adam murmured, scooting his chair closer.

The first sketch was of a middle-aged man with the disproportionately muscular build of a weight-lifter.

"I don't recognize that man at all," Peregrine observed, turning to the next sketch. "I was beginning to think I'd lost my touch, or that Harry was way off base. This second fellow, on the other hand, seems vaguely familiar - though that might only be because he looks like a Nazi. I kept wanting to sketch him in a Luftwaffe uniform, complete with a Blue Max at his throat."

Adam studied the second drawing, of a compact blond man with a military crewcut and steel-rimmed aviator spectacles.

"I see what you mean," he said, "but I've seen this man before!" He tapped lightly on the drawing with a fingernail while he concentrated a moment, mentally reviewing the gallery of faces he recalled from prior encounters with the Lodge of the Lynx - and came up with a match.

"I have him," he said, on a grim note of triumph. "You and I have both seen him before. That's the man in the dinghy, who came off the seaplane that snatched away Raeburn and his Nazi diamonds. He must be more highly placed in the Lynx organization than we realized at the time."

"And the best is yet to come," Peregrine said archly, revealing the third drawing.

Grimly intent, Adam cast his gaze over the next page Peregrine presented. Of the three drawings, this was by far the most nebulous - little more than a suggestion of fair hair and slender height.

Even so, there could be no doubt about the subject's identity - especially in light of all the other evidence he and his fellow Huntsmen had so far been able to assemble. The ghostly image looking out at them from the page could only be Francis Raeburn himself.

"Yes, indeed," Adam murmured, raising his eyes to meet Peregrine's. "An old adversary. I don't suppose you have any doubts on that account?"

The artist only shook his head wordlessly.

"Right, then," Adam said. "It seems our Mr. Nimmo has come through for us yet again. And whether or not he's aware of it, he's done this plenty of times before. I think, before we bring him back, it's high time his contributions were brought to the attention of a higher authority."