Death of an Adept

Mallory had been considering his own reflection, captured at various angles in the mirror-like polished glass of the surrounding bookcases.

"I can't say the surveillance reports have made very interesting reading up to now," he observed over his shoulder. "I certainly haven't seen anything in them worth worrying about."

"Oh, really?" Angela countered scornfully. "And what would you know?"

"I know how to get more fun out of life than these self-sanctified Huntsmen do," Mallory replied. He picked up one of the folders Richter had distributed earlier and threw it open. "Just listen," he said derisively. "This is the entry for Christmas Day."

He struck an attitude and began to read, adopting for the purpose a parody of Richter's clipped German accent.

"At 0942, Mr. and Mrs. Peregrine Lovat were observed leaving Strathmourne Lodge. They got into their car and drove to Kinross, where they attended Christinas Day services at the Episcopal Church of St. Peter and St. Paul. Following the worship service, they repaired to Rose Cottage, the home of the Reverend and Mrs. Christopher Houston. The Lovats lunched at the cottage and stayed to socialize for several hours thereafter. At 1613 they took leave of the Homtons and drove back to Strathmourne Lodge, where they remained for the rest of the day."

He broke off with a gesture of dismissive. "Not my idea of a good time, I can tell you. But I guess that's the best you can do when you won't allow yourself the luxury of a few honest vices. I could almost feel sorry for them, knowing they've got nothing to add spice to their lives. Or almost nothing," he amended as his gaze lighted upon one of the photographs attached to the report.

The photo showed Julia Lovat seated at her harp. She was dressed in an Empire-style gown of white organdy, with a softly flared skirt and leg o'mutton sleeves. Her red-gold hair was caught up into a knot at the back of her head and pinned in place with a spray of white Christmas roses. In the background, slightly out of focus, could be seen the candlelit outline of a stained-glass window.

Mallory ran a caressing forefinger over the image in the photo. "How positively angelic!" he sighed expansively. "She might almost tempt me to set foot in a church myself one day."

Angela snatched the file away, photo and all, and tossed it on the table.

"Save it, Derek. We've more important things to do than listen to you indulge in crude adolescent fantasies."

Mallory bridled at her tone, but before he could reply, a languid voice intruded on the conversation.

"What seems to be the trouble, children?"

The three of them turned to see Raeburn lounging in the doorway, hands in the pockets of a navy blazer, looking somewhat underslept. Barclay shadowed him half a pace behind, mostly restored to his normal resiliency by a week's rest and recuperation, though dark smudges still stained the hollows of his eyes, giving him a haunted look. He followed as Raeburn made his way over to the desk and unhurriedly took his seat.

Mallory gave a Byronic toss of his head and moved a straight chair closer to the desk. "Our dear Angela has been expressing some concern over the news that Philippa Sinclair was seen arriving at Prestwick Airport less than two hours ago," he announced.

Raeburn raised a blond eyebrow, apparently no more troubled than a senior financial officer advised of some trivial bookkeeping problem.

"Indeed," he said mildly. "And why should that necessarily cause us concern? Sir Iain Sinclair's widow still has friends and family living over here. It is possible that this could be nothing more than a social call."

"With Adam Sinclair out of the country, and Christmas already past?" Angela retorted. "I think it far more likely that she's here at the behest of the other members of the Hunting Lodge, to help them look into the Callanish affair."

Mallory directed an arch glance in Angela's direction.

"They must be in bad form, if they need assistance from a woman old enough to be my grandmother."

"That old woman," Angela said evenly, "is as much a Huntsman as any of them. And all of us would do well not to forget that."