Death of an Adept

The inspector knit his brow briefly, rubbing at his moustache, then lifted his glass. "All right, here's one my grandfather favored:

"Lang life and happy days,
Plenty meat and plenty does;
A haggis and a horn spune,
And aye a tattle when the ither's dune."

"Your grandfather was a practical man!" Peregrine said with a chuckle, when the toast had been duly solemnized.

"He certainly knew what was really worth having out of life," McLeod replied, and cocked an eye at the young artist. "How about it, laddie? Have you any pearls of wisdom you'd like to contribute on this festive occasion?"

"I might," Peregrine said. He thought a moment, then recited:

"Lang o ' purse,
And licht o ' heart.
Health tae thee,
In every part."

Once again the three friends lifted glasses to their lips. "I think this makes it your turn, Adam," Peregrine said, as he set down his glass.

"Very well," Adam said. "Since I'm off to the West, I have in mind a Gaelic blessing. Somehow it seems appropriate:

"May the mad rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face.
May the rains fall softly upon your fields until we
meet again. May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.

Breaking off, he smiled at his companions. "It's going to be up to you to keep the peace while I'm away. But I know you're equal to the task. Slainte var!"

"Slainte var!" the two of them repeated, as they drank the ancient toast.

It was still dark the following morning when Adam set out for the airport, driven by his faithful valet-butler, Humphrey. An overnight drop in the temperature, with the attendant promise of ice on the roads, made the steel-blue Range Rover, with its four-wheel drive, the only choice of vehicle. As they nosed out of the stable mews, high-performance tires crunching on a white carpet of frost, the windscreen wipers only barely kept at bay a moist ground-fog that was verging on a drizzle. Looking back over his shoulder as they crawled down the drive, Adam could see the turrets and gables of Strathmourne silhouetted against a crystalline backdrop of morning stars. The windows in the kitchen wing showed a scattering of lights where Mrs. Gilchrist, his cook and housekeeper, was clearing up the remains of a frugal breakfast.

The avenue leading to the gates passed between sentinel ranks of copper beech trees, their branches black and bare against the pre-dawn sky. Off to his left, through the passenger window, Adam glimpsed another cluster of lights marking the location of a stout, stone-built steading held by one of his tenant farmers. A gentle bend in the road brought them abreast of the gate lodge, its darkened windows confirming that Peregrine and Julia, his bride of seven months, were still asleep.

Hunching down contentedly in his topcoat, Adam let his thoughts touch fondly on the couple as Humphrey eased the big car quietly past their front door and swung onto the main road. Peregrine had been still a bachelor when he first accepted Adam's invitation to take up residence in the gate lodge, in exchange for what Adam quaintly termed a "peppercorn rent." The fair Julia had come to share her husband's affection for the little house, and considered Adam to be the most agreeable and charming of landlords, but both Lovats eventually realized that they were going to need more room if they ever intended to have a family.

Toward that end, with Adam's help and encouragement, the pair had recently purchased a decommissioned chapel, but a few miles away, and had happily begun working on plans for its conversion into a residence. That alone might take upwards of a year, sandwiched in between Peregrine's portrait commissions; and Adam guessed that completion of the work might take another year or even two.

Even so, the Lovats would ultimately be moving - not far, but Adam still would be sorry to see them go. Quite apart from the convenience of having another member of the Hunting Lodge so close at hand, Peregrine had taken on aspects of close friend, star-pupil, favorite nephew, the younger brother Adam had never had, and the son he wished one day to father.