Death of an Adept

Chisholm shrugged, but he looked unconvinced. "I suppose it's possible," he allowed. "Dispatch said it's a Land Rover - which is certainly capable of pulling a horse-box with a bull in it. But it's far more likely that the two incidents are unrelated. This time of year, people drink far more than they should and then try to drive. It's probably just poor judgement and bad luck."

"But you'll let me know if you find anything to change your mind," McLeod insisted.

Chisholm cocked his head quizzically. "Do you know something you're not telling me?"

"No. Just ring me if anything seems odd. I tend to mistrust coincidences, when dealing with something like this."

"All right. And ring me if you come to any conclusions about all of this."

"I will, that."

After Chisholm had taken his leave, McLeod and his companions walked the outside boundary of the circle a final time before seeking out PC McIver for the promised lift back to Stornoway. Their departure was noted with what appeared to be only casual interest by a man loading photo equipment into the passenger seat of a grey Toyota, but he lifted a long tele-photo lens to observe as the police car pulled away and disappeared down the single track leading back to the main road.

When he had stowed the camera in a fitted case and closed the passenger door, he produced a small cellular phone from a breast pocket of his anorak and, as he walked around to the driver's side, punched in a Glasgow telephone number.

Chapter Ten

IN Francis Raeburn's library, Angela Fitzgerald cradled the telephone receiver with a brittle click, then turned to Rae-burn with a peevish grimace that contained no mirth whatsoever.

"That was one of my people checking in," she informed him tartly.

Raeburn was ensconced in a chair by the library hearth, feet on a footstool, meditatively nursing a measure of fine brandy. Pausing to take a sip, he eyed Angela over the crystalline rim of his snifter. "And?"

"And it seems your little piece of playacting up at Callanish has already drawn some of the very attention we hoped to avoid. The cops on Lewis are more savvy than you gave them credit for. They called in McLeod."

Raeburn's lip curled in slight vexation at the news, but his Second's sarcasm left him unmoved. "I would have been surprised if he hadn't shown up," he observed with a shrug. "Let him snoop all he wants. He won't find anything worth his time."

"I wish I could be so confident," Angela said. "Or don't you care that McLeod had his little pet artist in tow? I think we can safely assume they didn't leave entirely empty-handed."

Raeburn looked mildly pained. "Do try to have a little faith," he admonished. "Klaus and I took every precaution to ensure that we were shielded throughout. Talented as Lovat is, he won't have been able to penetrate any of Klaus's bulwarks."

"You've been wrong before," Angela reminded him. "You were wrong about Taliere. You might be wrong about Lovat, too."

"Taliere was equal to the task as we originally envisioned it," Raeburn said patiently. "Who could have foreseen the intervention of the Head-Master?"

"That's precisely my point," Angela said. "You don't know what other tricks the Hunting Lodge may have in reserve."

Raeburn sighed, setting aside his drink. "What would you have me do? Sit on my hands and do nothing, simply out of fear that the Hunting Lodge may have acquired a new secret weapon? Since when did cowardice ever achieve anything? If it's safety you want, Angela dear, perhaps you ought to get out of this business."

"Don't lecture me about the virtue of taking risks," she snapped. "It's your penchant for adventuring that's largely to blame for our present predicament."

She darted a look across the room at Barclay, who was sitting huddled beside a radiator in an overstuffed chair, an afghan around his shoulders and both hands shakily wrapped around a mug of hot soup. The pilot had slept around the clock following his Callanish ordeal, but he was still ashen and hollow-eyed from the aftereffects.

"Look at him!" she whispered fiercely. "You're lucky he isn't dead, after the way you let Mallory push him to the brink the other night!"

"I didn't know you cared," Raeburn remarked drily.

Angela just missed stamping her foot. "I hate to see a good tool misused, that's all! If I were you, I'd keep a closer eye on our young doctor. He's too ambitious by far. He wants results, and he doesn't care how he gets them."

Raeburn shrugged. "A streak of ruthlessness is, on the whole, no bad thing in our vocation."

"He'll turn it against you, if you don't watch out," Angela warned, and gave a fastidious shiver. "Nasty little toad, he makes my skin creep. He probably started out by pulling the wings off flies when he was a boy! I hate to think what he gets up to on his own, in the middle of the night."

"He can do what he likes, as long as he continues to obey my orders," Raeburn said mildly.

Angela gave an unlady-like snort. "Some day you may rue that remark. What happens now?"