Dagger Magic

"Your impressions notwithstanding," he said, "there doesn't appear to be anything about this case that an ordinary police investigation wouldn't be able to handle - not on the surface, at least. If you're concerned, though, I can have Noel check into it further. Kintyre is outside his official jurisdiction, of course, as you've noted, but his reputation is such that I doubt your local police there will object to sharing information with him. You've already said that invoking his name elicited recognition. If the victim's death does turn out to have esoteric implications, Noel will be in a position to evaluate the police findings and decide whether or not we ought to consider getting involved."

"That sounds fair enough to me," Peregrine said. "I'm not really eager to interrupt my honeymoon, but if I'm needed - "

"I understand," Adam said, smiling to himself. "I certainly can't fault you on your sense of duty. Where are you staying, on the off chance I should need to get back to you this evening?"

"Right. It's called Glenbarr Abbey - a sort of castle, actually, but they take paying guests. Let me give you the telephone number."

He reeled off a set of digits.

"I've got it, thanks," said Adam. "In the meantime, why don't you see if you can arrange to take Julia a bottle of champagne in her bath? From what you've told me, she's richly earned it."

"I couldn't agree with you more," Peregrine said fervently. "Good night, Adam. And thank you."

In the ensuing quiet after Peregrine rang off, Adam weighed up the possible import of everything the young artist had said. Despite his own professed reassurances over the telephone, he had an uncomfortable feeling that neither he nor Peregrine had heard the last of this case. He toyed briefly with the idea of telephoning McLeod to discuss the matter then and there, but a glance at the clock on the mantel made him think better of it; the matter would keep safely until morning.

Thus satisfied, he returned his attention to the enigma of Lennox's phantom lady. Setting his notes aside, he opened his briefcase and took out the sheaf of photos he had borrowed from the photographer's personal files, setting one of the clearest enlargements on the desktop before him.

' 'Who are you?'' he murmured aloud, as he contemplated the pale face. "What is it that draws you back time and time again to these scenes of destruction?''

After a moment, he found himself recalling Donald Cochrane's comment of earlier in the day, and wondered whether perhaps the young detective had hit closer to home than he realized.

If I were a superstitious man, Donald had said, I'd be starting to wonder if maybe the driver of the crashed car might have seen a ghost….

It was possible, of course - and if they were dealing with an emanation of some spent life, the reason was likely to prove elusive, at least so far as conventional methods of investigation were concerned. Fortunately, however, Adam and his colleagues had access to unconventional sources of information, not normally available to more orthodox investigators.

Gazing at the haggard face of the woman in the photograph, he decided that it would be worth an excursion onto the astral to try to discover the underlying cause of her suffering. Such profound tension should not and could not be allowed to continue, if a means could be found to alleviate it.

This conviction crystallized rapidly into a resolve. Contacting Humphrey on the house telephone, he issued instructions that he was not to be disturbed for any reason until otherwise notified. Then he cleared the top of his desk of everything but the photograph of his nameless subject, which he propped up on a carved wooden bookrest directly in front of him. Having done as much, he fetched a candlestick from the mantelpiece and positioned it carefully to the right of the picture, lighting the candle from a book of matches resident in the center desk drawer. Dimming the room lights then, and before he sat back down in his chair, he reached into his trouser pocket and drew out a handsome gold ring set with a large oval sapphire.

Considered purely as an example of masculine jewelry, it was as fine a piece of work as could be found in any craftsman's studio. As far as Adam was concerned, however, the ring was beyond price - not only a symbol of his authority as a member of the Hunting Lodge but also one of the most important working tools of his vocation as Master of the Hunt. Slipping the ring onto the third finger of his right hand, he folded his hands on the desktop before him, the ring-hand uppermost. Then, following the dictates of a discipline he had practiced since his youth, he took a measured succession of slow, deep breaths to compose and center himself for the work he had set himself to do.