Death of an Adept

McLeod was too preoccupied to do more than shake his head. The density of the surrounding woods, even in winter, seemed to absorb the rumble and crunch of the Land Rover's tires on the icy ground, leaving behind a lurking hush pregnant with hostility. The atmosphere became more oppressive, the further they proceeded. Convinced that more was at work here than the forces of nature, McLeod surreptitiously reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and slipped on his Adept ring.

"How much farther?" he murmured.

"Not far," Davies replied.

The trail carried on in a succession of zigzags, darker and darker as they meandered through increasingly dense stands of bare, ice-laden trees. When they rounded yet another left-hand bend in the track, they emerged without warning into a brighter patch of broad, snow-covered clearing. Only at second glance did McLeod and Harry spot the freestone cottage set far at the other side, overshadowed by a glowering ridge of high ground.

Squat and graceless, the cottage might have been rough-hewn from the rock of the valley wall, even remaining a part of it. Its window recesses were small and skewed, and seemed to brood like so many deep-set eyes from beneath the low slate roof. The chimney canted slightly, suggesting that the house itself had fallen victim to subsidence in the past.

"Not exactly a stately home, is it?" McLeod murmured.

"I certainly wouldn't want to live here," Davies said. "Evans has got his own electrical generator - it's housed in that shed you can see from here - but that would seem to be his sole concession to twentieth-century living. The phone company won't run a line all the way out here, and I'm not even sure he has indoor plumbing."

They parked the Land Rover at the edge of the clearing and got out.

"There's no smoke rising from the chimney," Harry observed, "and no noise coming from the generator. Call me a pessimist, but I don't think there's anybody home."

"Then nobody's going to mind if we take a look around," Davies said, blowing on gloved hands. "We'll announce ourselves first, for the sake of form."

The air seemed unnaturally still as they approached the cottage. Though the cold was bitter, and McLeod was three-quarters convinced that the place was unoccupied, he found himself unbuttoning his overcoat to allow access to the Browning Hi-Power he had clipped inside his waistband before alighting from the plane. Harry kept looking around suspiciously. Davies apparently was experiencing a similar case of nerves, for he gave McLeod a thumbs-up sign as he spotted the butt of the Browning, though he himself appeared to be unarmed.

"Mr. Evans, are you there?" he called, hammering a gloved fist on the door. "Mr. Evans, it's Inspector Davies and Inspector McLeod from the police. We'd like to have a word with you."

There was no response from inside. Davies raised his voice and shouted again, with no better results. Turning to McLeod, he cocked an eyebrow. "Well, what do you think?"

"I think," McLeod said pointedly, "that after coming all this way, I would hate to leave without at least checking to make sure Mr. Evans isn't lying dead of a heart attack on his own kitchen floor. Or he could have perished from the cold.

After all, as Harry pointed out, I don't see any sign of chimney smoke, do you?"

"How very right you are," Davies concurred with aplomb. "I wonder whether he might have left a spare key under the mat."

Chapter Twenty

THERE was no key - not that any of them expected to find one - but with the aid of a bit of wire and a lock-pick Davies produced from his wallet, they managed to get the door open without damaging the lock. Entering, they found themselves in a narrow vestibule flanked by doors to either side, with a cobwebby gasolier hanging from the ceiling. Directly ahead of them, a solidly built flight of stairs led to the floor above.

"Hello?" Davies called, sweeping the beam of a powerful torch around the room. "Police officers, Mr. Evans. Anyone home?''

Still receiving no response, Davies tried the door leading off to the left. The toilet and tiny sink beyond were antiquated, but functional.

"I guess that answers your question about the plumbing, anyway," McLeod said to Davies, producing a smaller torch from a side coat pocket. "Let's see what else we can find."

Davies elected to take a look around upstairs, leaving McLeod and Harry to finish surveying the ground floor. Still not quite convinced that the house was empty, McLeod drew his coat back from the butt of his Browning before cautiously opening the door to the right of the stairs.