Katherine Kurtz - Adept 01 - The Adept

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MORE THAN A DOCTOR,

MORE THAN A DETECTIVE…

He is Sir Adam Sinclair: nobleman, physician, scholar - and Adept. A man of learning and power, he

practices ancient arts unknown to the twentieth century.

He has had many names, lived many lives, but his mission remains the same: to protect the Light from those

who would tread the Dark Roads.

Now his beloved Scotland is defiled by an unholy cult of black magicians who will commit any atrocity to

achieve their evil ends-even raise the dead!

Only one man can stand against them…

The Adept!

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors'

imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE ADEPT

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Bill Fawcett and Associates

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace edition / March 1991

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced

in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and

distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without

the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please

purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or

encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the

author's rights is appreciated. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10.014.

ISBN: 0-441-00.343-5

ACE Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10.014.

ACE and the "A" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For

betty ballantine,

who has a special knack

for finding and encouraging new authors.

She bought a first trilogy from each of us,

across a fifteen-year stretch,

and then had the uncommon good sense

to introduce us.

Thanks, Betty!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Sincere thanks are due to the following people who contributed materially to the realization of this book:

Dr. Richard Oram, for his authoritative advice concerning matters of medieval Scottish history and

archaeology, especially with respect to early Scottish cartography;

Mr. Kenneth Fraser of the St. Andrews University Research Library, for his valuable assistance in locating

difficult-to-find research materials;

Dr. William Such, for his help in rendering the Greek terminology used in this book;

Robert Harris, for his help in reviewing the Latin;

Mr. G.H. Forsyth, caretaker at Melrose Abbey, for his useful information on the whereabouts of Michael

Scot's grave;

And finally, the staff of the St. Andrews Tourist Information Bureau, especially Mrs. Maggie Pitkethly and Mr.

Andrew Purvis, for providing a wealth of miscellaneous information not to be found in history books.

prologue

THE autumn night was clear and sharp, with a bite to the still air that promised frost before morning. No moon

eased the darkness, but the starlight cast its own faint luminescence over the Scottish countryside.

Partway up the slope of a wooded hill, a black-clad man waited in the shadow of ancient beech trees,

hugging himself against the cold, now and again flexing black-gloved hands to keep his fingers supple for the

work ahead. Several times in the last half hour, he had peeled back the cuff of his left glove to peer at the face

of a military wristwatch. Now he did so again. The luminous dial read half past two.

The rear windows of Mossiecairn House were blind and dark. Upstairs, the last light had gone out some time

ago. The old caretaker had long ago completed his last rounds, and could be expected not to budge again

from his gate lodge until after daylight. The time would never be better.

Smiling slightly, the man in black zipped his leather jacket closer and pushed a black knitted watch cap up

off his ears for better hearing, flexing his fingers again as he started working his way down the slope. He

covered the distance swiftly, moving with the quiet assurance of a man well-schooled in night maneuvers,

keeping to the shadows. A shallow burn was crossed by leaping lightly across a string of exposed stones.

He paused for a final precautionary survey of the area before darting off across the open lawn, finally gaining

shelter in the shadow of a porch over the kitchen entrance.

Disarming the house's security alarms presented little challenge to the man in black. By American

standards, Mossiecairn's alarm system was woefully unsophisticated. Besides, the man in black had been in

the house earlier in the day as a tourist, making note of everything that was likely to present problems when

he returned.

Now he eased his way carefully across the darkened kitchen, lighting his way with a tiny pocket torch that

cast a pencil-thin beam. He spared not a glance for the shelved candelabra and punch bowls and ice

buckets, or the drawers full of silver flatware, as he passed through the butler's pantry and into the dining

room. Likewise disregarding a valuable tea service displayed on the dining room table, he made his way

swiftly along the inside wall to the double doors at the other end. There a deft twist of a lock pick let him into

the adjoining library, avoiding the outer corridor and the electric eyes guarding the doors into it.

Again he paid little attention to the many valuable items on display as he swept his light around, avoiding the

windows. The portraits were particularly fine, ranging from the Jacobean builder of the house down to the

present owner. The one above the ornate fireplace he had admired earlier in the day: a Cavalier gentleman in

velvets and silks the color of fine port wine, with a froth of lace at his throat and the curls of a long, dark wig

showing under his plumed hat.

Antique weapons and other military accoutrements stud ded the walls between the paintings, and smaller

items were displayed under glass in a series of shallow table cases set along the walls. Rare books occupied

a heavy library table in the center of the room.

The intruder passed them by without a second glance, heading for the cases flanking the fireplace. Most of

the items in the cases were medals and decorations won by previous occupants of the house, or oddments of

domesticity such as watch fobs and ladies' fans and miniatures painted on ivory. A few, however, were bits of

memorabilia associated with notables of Scotland's heroic past: Bonnie Dundee or Mary Queen of Scots or

Bonnie Prince Charlie. Noting one silk-tied lock of hair in passing, cased in a golden locket of breathtaking

workmanship, the man in black wondered how the Stuart pretender had managed to have any hair left at all,

by the time he escaped over the sea of Skye and then took up his sad exile in France. It reminded him of all

the splinters of the true Cross he had seen over the years - which, if put together, would have made enough

crosses to crucify a dozen Kings of the Jews.

So he supposed the Scots could have their relics too. It mattered not to him. And the Scottish relic of

tonight's interest would bring a pretty sum.

He smiled as he approached its case and shone his light through the glass, heedless of the Cavalier

watching from above the mantel. The swept-hilt rapier and its scabbard lay on a bed of dark blue velvet,

elegant tributes to the ornate style favored by Italian armorers of the late sixteenth century. The gold of the

hilt and guard was deeply chased, and gold-washed etching glittered on the blued blade.

The scabbard was a more modest item, executed in Moroccan leather, but several semiprecious gems

flashed discreetly along its length and at the throat. Between blade and scabbard, creamy white against the

dark blue velvet, a small card carried a terse three-line inscription in an elegant copperplate hand:

The Hepburn Sword

once owned by Sir Francis Hepburn

the "Wizard Earl" of Bothwell, d. 1624

The man in black breathed a small grunt of satisfaction. Taking the tiny flashlight in his teeth, he extracted a

delicate lock pick from an inner pocket and probed briefly at the case's lock. When it yielded, he raised the

lid and engaged its stops. The hilt of the sword fit his gloved hand as if made for it, and he felt a thrill of

imagination as he drew the weapon from the case and tried its balance, sighting along its blade where the

etching caught the torchlight. Why, oh, why had he not been born a Cavalier?

Only briefly savoring the rush of excitement he felt as he picked up the sword, the man in black flourished the

sword in ironic salute to the portrait above the marble mantelpiece, then pulled the scabbard out of the case

and sheathed the weapon with brisk efficiency.

The sword of the Wizard Earl, indeed! Games were well and good, but he had not been born a Cavalier; and if

he lingered long, he might begin to regret he had ever been born at all. His employer was said to be a most

exacting man, if eccentric in his tastes.

All business again now, the man in black reached inside his jacket and pulled out a much-folded black nylon

duffel bag, long and narrow to suit his needs. Into its open end he slipped the sheathed sword, pausing to tie

it firmly closed before slinging it over his back.

Then, before closing the case and locking it again, he produced from yet another pocket a small card similar

to the one already there. This one read: Display Removed for Conservation.

After that, it was simply a matter of retracing his steps. On his way out, he showed no more interest in any of

the other contents of the museum than he had shown on the way in. Once outside the kitchen door, he

paused briefly to re-arm the security system, but then he faded back into the shadows up the hill, silent as a

whisper, heading for the shelter of the woods and a service lane behind the house.

His transport was waiting - not the charger that would have been a Cavalier's steed, but a powerful

Japanese-built motorcycle that had seen him through many an escapade since being assigned to overseas

duty. His imagination transformed the black crash helmet into a tilting helm as he donned it and wheeled the

machine out of the underbrush, giving a strong push with his weight behind it. As the motorcycle rolled

forward, gathering momentum on the downhill slope, he mounted on the run, letting the machine coast down

the zigzag trail. Only at the foot of the hill, well out of earshot of the house, did he kick in the engine - and

within minutes was roaring westward up a two-lane country road, into the frosty Scottish night.

An hour later, after an exhilarating run along the M8 Motorway, the rider was threading a more sedate course

through the sleeping streets of Glasgow. Following precise instructions, he headed away from the city-center

on a route that eventually brought him into a wilderness of abandoned buildings in the heart of the docklands

of Clydebank. The low rumble of the engine echoed dully off the cobbles as he drew up outside the gates of a

disused shipyard, going suddenly silent as he cut the ignition.

The man in black removed his helmet. Five minutes passed. The man glanced at his watch, got off his

machine, and began slowly pacing back and forth, keeping to the shadows. His breath plumed on the frosty,

salt-tinged air, and he stifled a sneeze.

Finally, as he turned in his tracks for the fourth time, his straining ears picked up the quiet murmur of a

powerful car approaching. He returned to his machine. A moment later, a sleek, dark-colored Mercedes

emerged from a side-alley and came to a smooth halt on the opposite side of the street.

As the headlamps were extinguished, the dark-tinted windows on the right side of the car glided down in

automated unison. Pale face-blurs of a driver and a rear passenger showed in the darkness.

Relieved, the motorcyclist set his helmet on the saddle of his bike and sauntered over to the side of the car.

Bending from the waist, he favored the passenger in the backseat with an ironic salute and drawled,

"Morning, Mr. Raeburn."

The backseat's occupant acknowledged the greeting with a cool nod. "Good morning, Sergeant. I believe you

have something for me?"

The sergeant pulled a cocky smile, exposing strong white teeth in a face weathered by years under Texas

suns.

"Christmas gets earlier every year," he replied. "Just call me Santa Claus."

With an exaggerated flourish he unslung the duffel bag he still carried over his shoulder. The Mercedes'

passenger elevated an eyebrow.

"Did you encounter any difficulties?"

The American gave a derisive snort. "Are you kiddin' me? I'd have had more trouble taking candy from a baby.

What folks your side of the Atlantic don't know about security must cost your insurance people a mint."

As he began methodically unlacing the neck of the duffel bag, the man in the backseat of the Mercedes

watched his every move.

"I trust," said the man, "that you were not tempted to exploit the situation beyond the terms of our contract?"

His tone was conversational, but there was more than a hint of steel beneath the silken inquiry. It elicited a

sharp glance from the sergeant, and an almost petulant disclaimer.

"Hey, I got a reputation to maintain!"

The man in the car smiled in chilly satisfaction. "You reassure me. Reliable help is not always easy to find

nowadays."

The American did not bother to acknowledge the comment. As he jerked open the mouth of the duffel bag

and drew forth the sword by its hilt, a map light came on inside the car. The light glinted off the gold and

cut-steel as he passed it through the open window, point first.

"It's a pretty enough toy, I'll grant you," he remarked, "but I guess you know you could've had half a dozen

fancy swords made for half what you're paying me to steal this one."

His employer took the Hepburn Sword in both gloved hands, briefly drawing the blade partway from the

scabbard, then sheathed it with a sigh and laid it carefully across his knees.

"An object's worth is not always to be measured in terms of money," the man murmured.

The sergeant shrugged. "Whatever you say, Mr. Raeburn. You're a collector, and you know what you want.

Me, I'm a - an acquisitions agent." He savored the sound of the title on his tongue. "And us agents do what

we do for the money."

"Of course," said his employer coolly. "You've fulfilled your part of the agreement. I am now prepared to fulfill

mine."

He nodded to his driver in the rearview mirror. The man in the front of the Mercedes wordlessly reached into

the breast of his coat and drew out a fat leather wallet, handing it through the open window without comment.

The recipient opened it casually and riffled through the thick sheaf of American currency inside, one eyebrow

raising in pleased surprise.

"As you see, I have included a small bonus," the man in the backseat said.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Raeburn," the American said with a broad grin. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."

"I think I may safely say the same."

The man in the backseat drew the glove from his right hand. A signet ring set with a blood-red carnelian seal

glittered richly on the third finger as he extended his hand through the open window.

The American accepted the proffered handshake. His employer's clasp was surprisingly hard. The man in the

car gave a savage downward jerk, and the thief found himself staring into the muzzle of a silencer - one of the

sleek West German ones.

This alone the American had time to grasp, even as the man in the car pulled the trigger at point-blank range.

He never heard the quiet cough of the first shot, much less the second or third.

His body crumpled to the pavement with a loose-limbed thud as his hand was released. When he did not

move, his killer slipped the silenced automatic carefully under the seat and signalled his driver to go on. The

sound of the Mercedes' engine turning over was far louder than the shots had been, but neither raised any

ripple of curiosity as the car crept almost soundlessly out of the Glasgow docklands.

chapter one

IT was not until the following Monday, while waiting for his breakfast, that Sir Adam Sinclair became aware of

the incident in Glasgow. He was still in riding clothes, having just come in from a brisk, early morning canter

over the grounds of his country estate, not far from Edinburgh. Sunlight was pouring into the little parlor

always called the "honey-bee room," because of the pale gold pattern of bees and flowers on the wallpaper,

so he shrugged out of his hacking jacket and tossed it over the back of a nearby settee before pulling out the

chair set before the little table in the wide window bay.

On the table, centered on a snowy tablecloth of fine Irish linen, a crystal vase of cut chrysanthemums reigned

over a single place setting of antique silver and fine delft breakfast china. On top of his leather-bound

appointment book, the morning edition of The Scotsman lay neatly folded in its customary place to the right

of the china and cutlery. Adam unfolded it with a sharp flick of the wrist and scanned the main headlines as

he sat down, absently loosening the knot of his tie.

Nothing of major interest had happened over the weekend. The European Parliament was poised to ratify a

new set of air pollution control standards; a Japanese electronics firm had announced its intention to open up

a manufacturing plant in Dundee; members of the Scottish Nationalist Party had staged another protest

against the poll tax. He almost missed the item tucked away in the paper's lower lefthand comer: Body of

Alleged Drug Dealer to Be Returned to U.S.

Raising an eyebrow, Adam folded down the top half of the paper and continued reading. As a physician and

sometime police consultant, he tried to keep up with progress - or lack thereof - in the ongoing war against

illegal drugs, but-this seemed to be a follow-up to a story he somehow had missed, toward the end of last

week. According to the article, the body of an American serviceman had been found in a derelict area of

Glasgow's docklands - probably the victim of a drug deal gone wrong, judging by the execution-style shooting

and the amount of money found on the body.

Given only what was in the article, Adam allowed that the police theory probably was correct, for drug

trafficking, unfortunately, was becoming more and more a fixture in Scotland's largest city. Still, the thought

crossed his mind, for no rational reason he could fathom, that the case might not be as open-and-shut as the

Glasgow police seemed to think it was.

Further speculation was diverted by the arrival of Humphrey, his butler and valet of some twenty years'

service, bearing a laden silver breakfast tray.

"Good morning, Humphrey," Adam said easily, lowering the paper as the butler set down a rack of buttered

toast and a steaming porcelain teapot beside the immaculate breakfast service.

"Good morning, sir. I trust you had a pleasant ride." "Yes, Humphrey, I did. I rode up by the castle ruins. I

was appalled to discover that there are several small trees growing out of the debris on top of the first floor

vaulting. And the ivy doesn't bear thinking about."

Humphrey gave a subdued chuckle as he poured his master a cup of tea.

"I understand that even the Queen Mother wages a constant war against ivy, sir," he murmured. "Absolutely

hates the stuff. It's said that weekend guests are apt to be drafted to help pull it down. Perhaps we might

consider the same tactic, here at Strathmourne."

"Hmmm, yes," Adam replied, with a twitch of his newspaper. "Well, I didn't realize ours had gotten so bad

over the summer. I left a message for MacDonald to get a crew up there today, if possible, and start clearing

it away. If he should call, you can confirm that for me. We can't have the thing collapsing any more, just when

I'm intending to start restoring it next spring."

"Indeed not, sir," Humphrey agreed. "I'll see to it." As the butler retreated to the kitchen, Adam helped himself

to toast and opened the paper to pages two and three. He skimmed over the first few headlines on the

left-hand page, not paying particularly close attention, until his gaze was arrested by another item, tucked

away in the lower right-hand column: Antique Sword Goes Missing.

The dark brows raised slightly as Adam bent for a closer look. As a connoisseur and sometime collector of

edged weaponry himself, such an article never failed to pique his interest. He scanned it once through,

quickly, then turned the paper inside-out and folded it in half to read the article again, while he sipped his tea,

trying to supply what the article did not say.

Lothian and Borders Police are investigating the disappearance of a historic sword from the museum in

Mossiecairn House, outside Edinburgh. The sixteenth-century Italian rapier, known as the "Hepburn Sword,"

has long been associated with Sir Francis Hepburn, the fifth Earl of Bothwell, who died in 1624. The sword is

presumed stolen, but the actual date of the theft is uncertain. Its disappearance was not noticed for several

days, owing to confusion on the part of museum staff, who were under the impression that the weapon had

been removed from its case for cleaning. The sword is valued at approximately £2000. A reward is offered for

information leading to its recovery….

Adam sat back in his chair, lips pursed, dark brows drawn together in a deep frown. Though he told himself

that his interest came of the subject matter in general, some sixth sense insisted that this story almost

certainly reflected more than met the eye. Taking a pen from beside his appointment book, he drew a circle

around the entire article. Then he reached around behind him and leaned back in his chair to snare the

telephone off a side-table next to the settee.

The number of the Lothian and Borders Police in Edinburgh was a familiar one. He dialled swiftly, identified

himself, and asked to speak with Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod. There was a short delay while the

police operator transferred the call to Press Liaison. Then a familiar, bass voice rumbled in his ear.

"Is that you, Sir Adam? Good morning. What can I do for you?"

"Good morning, Noel. I've just been casting my eye over the morning paper. If you've got a moment, I'd like a

word with you concerning one of the items on page two of The Scotsman."

"Oh, aye?" The voice on the other end of the line sounded anything but surprised. "I suppose that'll be the

piece about the Hepburn Sword."

"You seem quite certain it wasn't the report on the latest sighting of the Loch Ness Monster," Adam said,

smiling. "Monster sightings," said McLeod, "are five pence a dozen. And you wouldn't be phoning me, you'd

be phoning the constabulary up at Inverness. On the other hand, the theft of a sword that once belonged to

Sir Francis Hepburn might well be of interest to you - given the good earl's reputation."

"As a wizard?" Adam replied, careful to phrase his next words with suitable ambiguity, just in case anyone

should chance to listen in. "I know of no reason," he said ingenuously, "to dispute with tradition on that

account."

There was just the slightest of hesitations on the other end of the line, before McLeod replied, "I see."

"As a collector of edged weaponry myself," Adam went on, "I was disappointed that the newspaper account

was so thin on detail. It's a beautiful sword. Can you supply any additional information?"

McLeod made a noise between a growl and a snort, back now on more neutral ground.

"I wish I could," he said. "We've got two good men assigned to the case, but they've not got much to show for

their pains. One thing's for certain: it wasn't a conventional theft. Nothing else in the place was lifted - not so

much as a silver spoon."

"Which means," Adam replied, "that the thief was after the sword, and that alone. Was it an amateur job?"

"Most definitely not," McLeod said emphatically. "Quite the reverse. Our jolly thief disarmed the security

alarms at the back of the house and then avoided the hall sensors by going through the dining room and

picking the lock on the connecting doors. We figure he must have visited the house at least once to case it,

so we're following that lead, to see if any of the staff remembers anyone suspicious."

His sigh conveyed a world of exasperation.

"Unfortunately, I doubt any of this will come to anything. We're not even certain when the theft occurred,

because our boy left a sign in the case: Display Removed for Conservation. Oh, he was clever, this one.

Needless to say, we didn't find any prints."

"In other words," said Adam, "you haven't any leads."

"Not one worth a wooden ha'penny," came the tart reply. "We'll just have to keep our eyes open, and hope for

a break. It's possible the sword will turn up eventually in one of the auction rooms or arms fairs - though I

doubt it. The case has all the earmarks of a contract acquisition for some collector who fancies items with

odd provenances."

"Hmmm, as a collector with similar proclivities, I would tend to agree," Adam said, " - though you can rest

easy, Noel," he hastened to add, smiling. "I haven't got your sword!"

McLeod's easy chuckle left no doubt that the inspector had never even considered such a notion.

"It would help if we had some idea what kind of person might go after an item like the Hepburn Sword,"

McLeod said. "As a psychiatrist as well as a collector, would you care to speculate?"

It was an unofficial way of inviting Adam to tender an opinion - and to articulate an idea that probably had

already occurred to the canny McLeod, though he would never dare to admit it in any official capacity.

"Well," Adam said, again choosing his words carefully, "I believe we can rule out a simple profit motive. A

£2000 sword simply isn't worth the effort and expertise it took to evade the security system and steal it. The

fact that nothing else is missing would tend to support that theory. This means that the thief was after this

specific sword."

"Aye," McLeod agreed.

"So we must ask ourselves, what sort of a person would want this particular sword?" Adam went on. "It isn't

especially unique for its kind; I have several similar blades in my collection, some of them previously owned

by men far more historically important than the Earl of Bothwell.

"So it has to be something else about the sword's past. What else do we know? It belonged to the Wizard

Earl of Bothwell. I shouldn't want this to be taken wrong, Noel, but it is not inconceivable that the thief - or

someone for whom he is acting - is someone who believes that the sword is imbued with some measure of

the powers ascribed to its former owner."

"Now there's an interesting thought," McLeod said. The tone of this noncommittal reply made it quite clear to

Adam that the other man was well aware of the Wizard Earl's legendary fame as a necromancer.

"Assuming less esoteric motives, however," McLeod continued blandly, "I think I'll still have my chaps keep

an eye on the auction rooms and arms fairs."

"That's what I would do," Adam agreed.

McLeod snorted. "Somehow I figured you would! Meanwhile, if some poor sod turns up impaled on Francis

Hepburn's blade, in culmination of some satanic rite, I'll be sure to let you know before the press get wind of

it."

"Thank you," Adam said drily. "I'd appreciate that." He pushed the newspaper aside thoughtfully. "Oh, there

was one other item I wanted to ask you about, since I've got you on the line. I don't suppose you've

formulated any personal theories concerning that American serviceman who turned up dead in Glasgow?"

"No. I was just relieved that he didn't turn up dead in my jurisdiction," McLeod said baldly. "The Glasgow

police have been getting a hell of a row from the people at the Home Office, who have been getting a hell of a

row from the American embassy - " He broke off abruptly. "Do you think there might be some connection

between the two cases?"

"I don't know," said Adam. "I was merely wondering."

"That," said McLeod, "is anything but reassuring.

Whenever you start wondering, I know it's only a matter of time before something happens that I'm going to

have trouble explaining to the satisfaction of the media."

Adam allowed himself a companionable chuckle. "I am sorry, Noel. If this case produces any unusual

complications, you know you can count on my help."

"Oh, aye," came the gruff reply. "But as they say somewhere or other: I knew the job was dangerous.

Anyway, I've got another bloody phone ringing. Call me if anything else occurs to you, all right?" "You know I

will."

With this assurance, Adam rang off and resumed his breakfast, thinking about the Hepburn Sword. He was

just finishing his second cup of tea, and thumbing through his day's appointments, when Humphrey

reappeared with the morning's post on a silver tray.

Adam accepted the stack of mail with a murmur of thanks and gave it a cursory riffle, then set it aside and

handed Humphrey the front section of The Scotsman.

"I've circled an article on page two. I'd be obliged if you'd file it for me. We may have occasion to refer to it

again."

"I understand, sir." Humphrey folded the paper and tucked it neatly under his arm before casting an eye over

the table. "Are you quite finished here, sir?"

Adam nodded, rising as he gave a glance to his watch. "Yes, I am. Good Lord, where does the time go? I

want to call in at Kintoul House before I head into Edinburgh."

Humphrey paused in the act of clearing the table, his expression all at once one of concern. "Nothing wrong

with Lady Laura, I hope, sir?"

Adam grimaced. "I don't know yet, Humphrey. I won't know until I see her. Incidentally, did you remember

that I'm dining with the Bishop of Saint Andrew's tonight?"

"Of course, sir. I've laid out your dark grey suit, and there's a fresh shirt in your briefcase."

"Perfect!" Adam said with a grin, pulling off his tie as he headed for the stairs. "If anyone wants me, then, you

know where I'll be. Oh, and if Inspector McLeod should happen to ring after I've left the hospital, tell him where

I'm dining, and that I'll get back with him directly."

"Very good, sir," said Humphrey. "I'll attend to everything."

chapter Two

A SCANT twenty minutes later, freshly showered and shaved, Adam emerged from his private apartments,

riding clothes replaced by the crisp white shirt and formal three-piece suit that are the uniform of the medical

profession.

The images that kept pace with him in the mirrors that lined the entry hall of Strathmourne House were those

of a tall, dark-haired man in his vigorous forties, who moved with the purposeful air of one to whom time is

always precious and in all too short supply. He had been a fencer and a promising dressage rider in his

younger days, before the allure of medicine and other pursuits turned his energies to different priorities. The

grace and suppleness required to excel at either sport persisted in an elegance of carriage that could not be

taught, only inborn. The silver at his temples softened a patrician profile that, in other men, might have been

regarded as severe.

Yet any severity of temperament was that of a man who expects more of himself than of anyone else around

him. And it was compassion that tempered the air of brilliant intensity that Adam Sinclair wore as naturally as

he wore his clothes. Even in unguarded moments of relaxation, the dark eyes promised the smouldering

potential of a banked peat fire - a glow that could kindle spontaneously into comforting warmth or, more

rarely, flare into sudden, formidable anger. The latter instances were rare, indeed, and usually balanced by a

dry wit that could defuse nearly any taut situation.

His sense of humor came through now, as he passed from the hall into the vestibule. Outside, Humphrey had

brought up the sedate and conservative blue Range Rover that Adam usually took into the city when he drove

himself, and was waiting to hand him trenchcoat, hat, and briefcase; but as the day was promising to be fine,

Adam shook his head as he emerged, heading for the garage instead.

"I've changed my mind, Humphrey," he said, bidding him toss case, coat, and hat under the tonneau cover of

a dark blue XJ-S convertible, a recent and prized acquisition. "It's a perfect day for the Jag. If I get out of

Jordanburn on time, it should still be light when I drive up to Perth. I don't believe the bishop's seen this

beauty yet. If he's very respectful, I may even let him drive her before dinner."

Humphrey chuckled as he helped Adam zip back the tonneau cover on the driver's side and tuck it behind the

leather seat.

"The bishop should enjoy that, sir." "Yes, he should. She's a very fine motorcar." He grinned as he slid

behind the wheel and began pulling on driving gloves.

"Then, after I have eaten his food and drunk his very fine port - and so that he shan't feel totally deprived - I

shall hand him a rather substantial cheque for the cathedral fabric fund. I believe Saint Ninian's could do with

some roof work."

"Can you name me a cathedral that couldn't, sir?" Humphrey replied with an answering smile, as Adam

turned the key in the ignition and the powerful engine roared to life.

Soon he was easing the big car out the stableyard gate and down the tree-lined avenue, bare-headed under

the sun, enjoying the breeze in his hair. The copper beeches were at their very best on this mid-October day,

and as he turned the first curve, the gothic front of Strathmoume vanished from his rearview mirror in a sea of

flame-colored leaves.

He kept his speed down as he threaded past a row of cottages belonging to the estate. Beyond the houses,

the fields were patchworked brown and gold, dotted with circular bales of new-mown hay. Up on the high

ground, one of Adam's three tenant farmers was ploughing up the soil in preparation for sowing a winter crop

of barley. A cloud of white birds circled in the wake of the plough, screeching and diving for grubs and worms

in the newly turned earth.

Nearly a mile from the house, the drive passed through a second set of gates, usually left open, and gave

onto a good but narrow secondary road. Adam turned left rather than going right toward Edinburgh, winding

along a series of "B" roads until at last he approached the main entrance to the Kintoul estate, marked by the

distinctive blue-and-white sign bearing the stylized symbol of a castle.

Gravel hissed under the tires as he nosed the Jag under the arch of the stone-built gate house and on down

the long avenue. The autumn color at Kintoul - the fiery shades that were Lady Laura's favorites - was as

spectacular as that at Strathmoume, and as Adam continued toward the house, he found himself wondering

again why he had been summoned.

Since he had known Lady Laura since boyhood, there were any number of possibilities, of course, both

professional and personal. He had received her brief note just before the weekend, enjoining him to come up

to Kintoul on Monday. The tone had been casual and witty, as was Laura's usual wont, but Adam had been

left with the lingering impression that the invitation was issued to some unstated purpose besides the mere

pleasure of his company. He had phoned Kintoul House the same morning, but Lady Laura firmly declined his

offer to come sooner. This strengthened Adam's suspicion that she had chosen this particular day for a

reason.

Beyond the gatehouse, the dense plantation shortly gave way to rolling pastures, finally affording Adam a

glimpse of the great, sprawling pile that was Kintoul House. Seen from a distance, it presented a fairy-tale

silhouette of towers, turrets, and battlements, the rugged roughness of its ancient stone work overlaid with

silver-white harling. The corbels supporting the parapets, like the timbers framing the windows , were painted

a smoky shade of grey that matched the slates covering the rooftops. The bright blue and white of Scotland's

national standard - the Saint Andrew's flag or, more familiarly, the "blue blanket" - fluttered from a staff atop

one of the highest turrets, but the Kintoul banner was not in evidence, indicating that the Earl of Kintoul, Lady

Laura's oldest son, was not at home.

This did not surprise Adam, for Kintoul, like many historic houses in Scotland, had become as much a

museum and showplace as it was a residence. In the summertime, the earl opened the grounds and twelve of

its twenty-eight rooms to public view. It was a matter of economics. Everything was still well maintained; but

picnic tables, a visitor center, and a children's playground now occupied a stretch of lawn that formerly had

been reserved for croquet and badminton. It saddened Adam, in a way, but it was better than having historic

properties like Kintoul turned into hotels, or broken up for conversion into flats. He hoped he could spare

Strathmourne that fate.

Remembering shuttlecocks and croquet hoops and the summer days of a childhood now long past, Adam

carried on past the visitors' car park, all but deserted now that the tourist season was nearly over. A paved

extension to the public drive took him through a gateway and around the eastern end of the house into a

smaller parking area adjoining the family's private entrance.

He parked the Jaguar next to a car he did not remember having seen at Kintoul House before: a Morris Minor

Traveller, with dark green paintwork and recently refmished timber on the sides. The backseat had been

folded down to accommodate several large canvases, all of them blank so far as Adam could see. As he took

off his gloves and briefly ran a comb through his hair, he wondered briefly who the owner might be, but he put

the curiosity aside as he mounted the steps to the Kintoul side door.

The bell was answered by a liveried manservant Adam had never seen before. As he conducted Adam into

the vestibule, they were joined by Anna Irvine, Lady Laura's personal maid and sometime secretary.

"Sir Adam, it's good to see you," she said, welcoming him with a strong handshake and a smile that was

tinged with worry. "Her ladyship is in the long gallery. I'll take you to her, if you'll just follow me."

The gallery ran the full length of the north wing - a narrow, chilly chamber, more like a hallway than a room. A

handsome Persian carpet stretched along its length, boldly patterned in rose and peacock blue, but because

it was little used as a living area, the furniture consisted mainly of a row of delicate, spindle-legged chairs

arranged along the interior wall, interrupted by the occasional sideboard or hall table. In its heyday, the

gallery had been intended to provide the occupants of the house with space for indoor exercise during times

of inclement weather. Nowadays, it served mainly as a corridor connecting the other reception rooms on the

ground floor, except when summer visitors came to view the Kintoul collection of family portraits.

Today, however, the far end of the gallery had been transformed into something resembling a stage set. As

they approached it, Adam recognized several pieces of furniture from other parts of the house - a settee, a

wing-backed chair, an ornamental screen - brought together to create the illusion of a much smaller room.

Set in profile in the midst of this artificial setting, regal as a porcelain costume doll, stood a pert, elderly

woman in a floor-length white ballgown. A length of tartan sash was brooched to one shoulder and across her

breast, its silken fringes bright against the gown's brocade, and a diamond tiara glittered like a crown of ice

crystals on her soft, upswept white hair.

As the maid led Adam nearer, he saw that a large canvas had been mounted on a tall standing easel

positioned a few yards back from the composed little scene. He caught the piney smell of turpentine, and

then just a glimpse of someone moving behind the easel. Before he could gain any clear impression of the

artist, the woman in the tiara turned her head and saw him, her face lighting in a delighted smile. "Adam! My

dear!" she called. "Stay where you are, and I'll be right with you."

With an apologetic wave in the direction of the artist, she abandoned her pose in front of the screen and came

eagerly down the gallery to meet him. Watching her with the critical eye of a physician, Adam was reassured

to see no signs of weakness or hesitation in her bearing. She held out two thin, blue-veined hands to him as

the distance between them closed. Adam bent down as he took them, and received a swift, motherly kiss on

one cheek.

"Adam, I can't tell you how delighted I am to see you," Lady Laura said, as he, in turn, kissed both her

hands. "It was so good of you to come."

"Did you really think I could ignore an invitation from my favorite lady?" he said with a smile. Then his

expression sobered. "How are you, my dear?"

Lady Laura dismissed the question with a small shrug, also waving dismissal to the maid.

"I'm as well as can possibly be expected, given the conditions of my age," she said easily. "Never mind me.

How are you getting on, with your latest covey of student-doctors?"

"Not too badly - though life would be much simpler if I could persuade them not to go baring off after every

new theory that comes along, with nary a second thought for common sense." He gave her a rueful grin.

"There are days when I feel strongly akin to a sheepdog."

"Ah, and you know you love it!" she scoffed, with a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

"Yes, I suppose I do, or I wouldn't keep at it." Adam stood back and surveyed his hostess appraisingly. "But

you - Laura, you look positively splendid in all your regalia! You really ought to have your portrait painted more

often."

"Perish the thought!" The Dowager Countess of Kintoul rolled her china blue eyes in mild dismay. "This is

only my second sitting - or standing, as I suppose I should say - and I assure you that the novelty of the

whole experience is already beginning to wear quite thin. I can only hope that Peregrine won't insist on too

many refinements."

"Peregrine?" Adam cocked his head in new interest. "That wouldn't be Peregrine Lovat, would it?"

"Why, yes," Lady Laura replied, looking quite pleased with herself. "May I take it that you've seen his work?"

"Indeed, I have," Adam said. "Some of his portraits were hanging at the Royal Scottish Academy, the last

time I went. I was quite impressed. There was a luminance to his style, an artistic insight - one almost had

the impression that he was painting more about his subject than would be visible to the naked eye. I should

very much like to meet the man himself."

"I'm very pleased to hear you say that," she said, "because I should very much like him to meet you, too."

This candid disclosure earned her a penetrating look from her visitor.

"I don't suppose that would be the reason you asked me here today?"

Biting at her lower lip, Lady Laura breathed a long sigh and averted her eyes.

"I think he needs your help, Adam," she said quietly, linking her arm in his and leading him farther out of

possible earshot of their subject. "Perhaps I've no business meddling, but - Peregrine is more than a casual

acquaintance. You probably don't remember, but he was a friend of Alasdair's. They met at Cambridge.

Alasdair used to bring him up to the lodge at Ballater for the salmon fishing - before the accident."

Encouraged by Adam's attentive silence, Lady Laura continued. Alasdair had been her youngest and favorite

son. "Peregrine was away painting in Vienna when it happened," she went on a bit more strongly, "but he

came home for the funeral. That was the last I saw of him for quite some time, though he wrote regularly to let

me know where he was and how he was doing. At times, I almost felt I had a replacement son.

"So you can imagine my delight when I learned he'd rented a studio in Edinburgh," she went on brightly. "I

immediately invited him to come up and paint the children. He drove up the following week to do the

preliminary sketches. If I - hadn't arranged the meeting in the first place, I hardly would have recognized him."

She made a show of studying one of the tassels on the front edge of her plaid. "He was always rather a quiet

boy," she went on more slowly, "with more reserve, perhaps, than was strictly good for him. But he had quite

a charming smile when he forgot to be serious. And now - now he hardly seems to have any life in him at all.

It's almost as if he - wants to cut himself off from the rest of the world. And if someone doesn't come to his

rescue soon," she finished bleakly, "I'm afraid he might very well succeed."

As she raised her eyes to meet Adam's at last, her expression was one of mute appeal. Adam gave her frail

hand a comforting squeeze.

"Whatever else may be said about this young man of yours," he said with a gentle smile, "he is fortunate in

his friends. Why don't you come and help us make one another's acquaintance?"

Peregrine Lovat was standing behind the easel as they approached, nervously dabbing at a palette with a

brush whose end was well chewed. Every line of his body suggested tension. Seen at close range, he was a

classically attractive.young man of middling height, apparently in his late twenties or early thirties, with fine

bones and shapely, strong-fingered hands. Fair-skinned and fair-haired, he was meticulously attired in

light-weight wool trousers and a vee-neck cashmere sweater, both in muted shades of grey. The sleeves of

the sweater had been pushed up, the cuffs of the ivory shirt turned back neatly. The silk tie knotted precisely

at his throat proclaimed his Oxford connection, and permitted no allowance for relaxation, even when he was

working. His oval face and symmetrical features might have provided a study for da Vinci, except for the gold

wire-framed spectacles riding on the bridge of his nose. The large lenses made it difficult to read the color of

his eyes.

As Lady Laura embarked on the necessary introductions, Adam set himself to refining his initial impression,

going beyond mere physical appearance. What he saw at a second, more searching glance lent substance

to the fears the countess had expressed on Lovat's behalf.

Everything about the younger man suggested a state of acute emotional repression. The thick, bronze-pale

hair had been barbered to the point of ruthlessness at sides and back, and the chilly monochrome of his

attire only served to leach any remaining color from a face already pale and drawn, thinner than it should have

been. The line of the tight-lipped mouth was strained and unsmiling.

Lady Laura's voice recalled Adam from his impromptu assessment. She was speaking, he realized, to the

artist.

"Adam's a psychiatrist, Peregrine, but don't let that put you off," she was saying. "He's also an old and dear

friend - and an admirer of your work."

"I am, indeed, Mr. Lovat," Adam said, smoothly picking up his cue. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

He smiled and offered a handshake, but he was not surprised when Peregrine found a way to avoid it.

"Forgive me, Sir Adam," the younger man murmured, nervously displaying a set of paint-smudged fingers.

"I'm afraid I'm in no fit state to return your courtesy."

With this tight-lipped apology, he retreated to the work-table next to the easel and began wiping his hands on

a linen paint-rag. His fingers were not entirely steady. When Adam moved a step closer, as though to view

the work in progress on the easel, Peregrine reached out and hastily flicked a flap of cream-colored hessian

over the partly-finished canvas.

"No matter, Mr. Lovat," Adam said, affecting not to notice. "I apologize if I've interrupted your work. Judging by

what I've been privileged to see in the past, you have a rare talent for portraiture. I was particularly taken by

your study of Lady Douglas-McKay and her two children. In my opinion, it was one of the finest pieces in this

year's RSA exhibition."

Peregrine shot Adam a fleeting, almost furtive glance from under lowered lids, then pointedly returned his

attention to the brush he had started cleaning.

"I'm obliged to you for the compliment, sir," he mumbled stiffly.

"Your handling of children as subjects is particularly masterful," Adam continued calmly. "I was visiting the

Gordon-Scotts only last week, and couldn't help but notice your recent portrait of their son and daughter. I

knew it for your work even without seeing the signature. Your gift for capturing the spirit behind each face you

paint is really quite distinctive."

The younger man murmured an incoherent phrase that might have been self-deprecation and put aside his

paint rag. He glanced at Adam again, then abruptly took off his glasses and scowled at them as though

dissatisfied. Out from behind the glasses, his eyes were a'dull shade of hazel, with dark hollows underscoring

them.

"Now, Adam," Lady Laura said abruptly, from behind them, "if you and Peregrine are going to debate the

relative merits of artistic technique, I'm sure we can do it far more comfortably somewhere other than this

draughty hall. If the pair of you will excuse me, I'll go tell Anna to have coffee sent up to the morning room."

She was gone before Peregrine could raise an objection - and Adam was not about to lose the opportunity

she had created. The artist hastily put his glasses back on and followed the countess' departure with eyes

that held an expression akin to numb desperation. Adam wondered why.

"Well, as ever, Lady Laura is a very perceptive and practical woman," Adam said amiably, affecting to rub his

hands together against the chill. "Coffee would be most welcome, just about now. I'm surprised your fingers

aren't too stiff to paint. May I?"

Before Peregrine could prevent him, Adam crossed to the easel in two easy strides and was reaching for the

hessian drop-curtain. The smoothness of the sudden movement caught Peregrine completely off guard, and

he instinctively reached out a hand as if to grasp at Adam's sleeve, only recollecting himself at the last

moment.

"No - please!" he protested, his hand fluttering helplessly to his side as Adam started to lift an edge of the

cloth. "I'd - really rather that you didn't - I mean, I don't like anyone to see my work before it's properly finished

- "

Adam gave the younger man a sudden, piercing look. It stopped Peregrine in his tracks, his voice subsiding

abruptly into silence. Adam returned his gaze to the canvas. With studied deliberation, he lifted aside the

hessian drop so that the painting beneath was exposed to full view.

The canvas was an almost surreal fusion of scenes that might have been taken from two totally different

pictures. Adam knew the three Kintoul grandchildren. In the foreground, Walter, Marjory, and Peter Michael

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MORETHANADOCTOR,MORETHANADETECTIVE…HeisSirAdamSinclair:nobleman,physician,scholar-andAdept.Amanoflearningandpower,hepracticesancientartsunknowntothetwentiethcentury.Hehashadmanynames,livedmanylives,buthismissionremainsthesame:toprotecttheLightfromthosewhowouldtreadtheDarkRoads.NowhisbelovedScotlandi...

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