The Adept Book 3 The Templar Treasure (15 page)

Then he was sitting alone on a hard stone block, blinking himself back to normal awareness in fading sunlight that now had a chill bite to it, heralding the dusk. Everything, it seemed, was going to depend on tomorrow’s excursion down to England to meet the mysterious and reputedly formidable Sir John Graham of Oakwood.

Chapter Fourteen

FOLLOWING
abbreviated rounds at the hospital the next morning, Humphrey having driven him in, Adam took himself and his overnight bag out to the airport in a taxi. An anxious-looking Peregrine was standing by at the gate, where most of the other passengers had already boarded, but his face lit up in a relieved smile as Adam approached.

“What a relief!” he exclaimed, handing over Adam’s boarding card and ticket “You’re all checked in, but I was starting to worry that you might have gotten held up at the hospital.”

“It
has
been known to happen,” Adam conceded wryly, “but I seem to be in luck today.”

Their flight to London was uneventful. They had a cold lunch in-flight and touched down at Gatwick shortly before one o’ clock, right on schedule. McLeod was waiting for them at the gate, and briskly escorted them to the curbside, where a uniformed constable was standing by beside the red Ford Grenada McLeod had rented. With McLeod at the wheel, they sped eastward from the airport, eschewing the motorways farther north to strike out directly across country on the A264 toward Royal Tunbridge Wells. While they drove, Adam brought McLeod up to date on the events of Saturday and Sunday, especially regarding the Dundee ring and its apparent Templar connections.

“You have it with you?” McLeod asked.

For answer, Adam took the ring out of his coat pocket and put it in the inspector’s outstretched hand. McLeod fingered it thoughtfully, barely taking his eyes from the road, then handed it back to Adam.

“This isn’t really the time to take a close look, but it may be useful, if we get cooperation on the cross. And you say Peregrine’s brought the sketches?”

“They’re in the boot, with my overnight bag,” Peregrine offered. “Do you think you ought to see them before we get to Oakwood?”

“No, we’ll see whether they corroborate
after
I’ve done my bit with the cross and the ring,” McLeod said. “That way, my experience won’t be colored by any preconceptions.” He sighed. “Incidentally, would you two like to hear what I’ve found out about our Henri Gerard, after a whole weekend with access to all the resources of the various London police forces and Interpol?”

Adam glanced at him sidelong. “Why do I get the impression that all these resources were for nought?”

“Probably because they were,” McLeod returned sourly. “Nothing.
Nada.
Zip. I feel it in my bones that he’s somewhere in the U.K., probably in Scotland somewhere, but as far as proof—he might just as well have been snatched off the face of the earth by aliens from outer space!”

After that, he and Adam briefly returned to a discussion of possible approaches for what they hoped to accomplish at Oakwood, then settled into companionable silence as the car ate up the miles. Adam occasionally gave navigation advice from a road atlas, and Peregrine daydreamed.

Quickly the fields of Surrey gave way to the Kentish countryside. Their route followed the northern boundary of the Weald, formerly one of the most thickly forested areas in all Britain. Much of the land had been cleared in modern times to make room for orchards and farms, but more than a few local inhabitants still kept green the memory of those former days when Edward III had required the services of no fewer than twenty-two guides to conduct him safely from London down to Rye.

The countryside here was far different from the moorland vistas of the Scottish borders. Ensconced in the backseat with his sketchbook on his knee, Peregrine was charmed by the passing views of fragrant apple orchards and fields of golden hops, with here and there a row of oast houses with their distinctively funnelled roofs, where the hops were stored and dried. Where fields in Scotland were flanked by freestone walls, here they were marked off by hedgerows canopied by wild roses, honeysuckle, and brambles, the latter weighted down with ripe black berries at this time of the year.

As his gaze swept out across the fields, Peregrine found himself recalling the “green and pleasant land” of Blake’s famous poem “Jerusalem,” immortalized in that hymn of the same name which had become almost a second national anthem for the English. Briefly he wondered whether it was possible that, in ancient times, the feet of the “holy Lamb of God” had, indeed walked upon “England’s mountains green. “ On days like this, it was not difficult to imagine the young Jesus treading here with Joseph of Arimathea, as the Glastonbury legends insisted He had done.

Nor had Peregrine any trouble appreciating where such celebrated English artists as John Constable and Samuel Palmer had derived their inspiration for more secular subjects. The rural tranquility of farm cottages and tame woodlands was subtly offset by shifting changes in the light. Peregrine became fascinated with the transparent flow of shadows across the landscape, sometimes blurring, sometimes highlighting details at a distance. The ever-changing patterns were almost hypnotic. After a while all the colors blurred together, and he nodded off into a light doze.

He roused some time later to find they were driving along a single-track country road, flanked to the left by rolling green pastures and to the right by the shady slopes of a wooded park. Immediately to either side was the dense thicketry of ancient hedges bright with wildflowers, though not so tall as to obscure the views beyond. Drawing himself up with a slightly guilty start, Peregrine glanced at his watch and was surprised to discover that he had been asleep for the better part of an hour.

“The Sleeper awakens,” McLeod said drily, grinning at Peregrine in the rearview mirror as Adam glanced back at him. “Have a nice kip?”

Peregrine pulled a rueful grimace. “I must have been shorter on sleep than I realized. Where are we?”

“About half a mile short of our destination,” Adam said. “I’d suggest you straighten your tie. We’ll be there in another few minutes.”

The entrance to the Oakwood estate was marked by a pair of sphinx-like stone lions standing guard at either side of the massive wrought-iron gates, which stood open and looked as if they were rarely closed. The drive beyond was bordered by majestic oak trees, the intricate spread of their branches over-lacing the road like a baldachin. More oaks dotted the grassy parkland on either hand, interspersed with groves of lesser trees, mostly birch and rowan. Beyond them rose the battlemented rooftops and chimneys of a handsome Tudor manor house.

From the moment they passed between the stone gateposts, Adam was quick to sense a change in the air. As they progressed farther up the drive, he became aware of a deep, protective hush underlying the twitter of birdsong and the stirring of a light wind among the trees. Recalling what Lindsay had said regarding Sir John Graham’s esoteric abilities, he was not surprised to detect the subtle presence of powerful wards set permanently in place to guard Oakwood and its occupants. The latent potential energy in the very air was such that no one with psychic gifts could fail to be aware of it.

McLeod cast a wary glance around him, like a hunter conscious of venturing into unknown territory.

“This is quite a place,” he muttered under his breath.

Peregrine hunched his shoulders, just missing a shiver. “I’m glad we’re coming here as friends.” He opened his mouth as if to comment further, then gave an involuntary exclamation of admiration as they rounded the last bend in the drive and he caught his first unobstructed view of the manor house itself.

The central wing of the house presented a handsome facade of half-timbered walls and gables and diamond-paned bay windows embellished with ornamental mouldings. Peering up at the upper story, Peregrine counted eight chimneys, each one carved differently from the others. The stonework had all been executed in native Kentish ragstone, the hue of wild honey. Rose-tinted tendrils of ivy curled and twined their way up trellised sections of the walls, gentling the angles of the building with delicate networks of bright color.

To the hiss of gravel beneath their tires, McLeod drove them under the arch of a two-storied gatehouse into an open Elizabethan-style courtyard, where he parked the red Granada beside a tidy-looking Fiat Panda, in the shadow of what once had been the carriage house. A King Charles spaniel came bounding out to greet them as they got out of the car, its joyful barking further heralding their arrival as they approached the front steps, though it did not accompany them to the door. A tug at the bellpull summoned an elderly butler in traditional striped waistcoat and black coat, who received Adam’s card with the stately formality of an old family retainer.

“Good afternoon,” Adam said, as the butler’s eyes flicked over the card. “I believe Sir John is expecting us.”

“He is, indeed, sir,” the butler replied with a slight bow that included McLeod and Peregrine as well. “Come this way, please.”

From the high-ceilinged entryway he led them through a vestibule passage and along the length of a long gallery, its walls hung with portraits and landscapes. Though the collection included choice works by Romney, Gainsborough, and Reynolds, some of which Peregrine had seen before in photographs, he found his eye drawn to an unsigned late medieval tempera painting of a noble-looking gentleman kneeling with joined hands clasped in homage between those of a man wearing a royal crown. It stopped him in his tracks.

The legend on the tiny plaque at the bottom of the frame identified the subjects as King Henry VI and David, Second Earl of Selwyn. Though much of the painting had darkened with age, the faces held something ineffably poignant in the look locked between the two. Rarely had Peregrine seen a clearer depiction of the almost sacramental relationship between sovereign and subject that was the mystical essence of kingship. He was not even aware that he had lagged to a halt until a strong hand clapped itself to his shoulder.

“Come along, lad,” McLeod muttered in his ear. “Best not keep our host waiting.”

Adam’s attention, meanwhile, was focused on the impending interview. The Dundee ring was loose in his coat pocket, and his signet ring was on his finger, but it was the prospect of seeing the Dundee cross that drew him now—and meeting its apparently formidable keeper. Glancing ahead beyond the butler’s shoulder, he could see a door at the far end of the gallery, its oaken panelling carved with a design of oak leaves and acorns.

Through this door the butler led them, briefly along another short hallway and then to a similar door, on which he rapped respectfully before opening it and stepping through.

“Sir Adam Sinclair, Miss Caitlin,” he announced gravely, “along with his associates.”

“Thank you, Linton. Please show them in,” called a musical contralto voice from the room beyond.

With old-fashioned ceremony Linton ushered Adam and his companion inside. A willowy young woman with shoulder-length chestnut hair rose from the overstuffed chair before the Tudor fireplace and came forward to greet them. She looked to be in her early twenties, with skin as freshly translucent as apple blossom, simply dressed in a silk blouse open at the throat and an easy, calf-length skirt, both in a robin’s-egg blue. A single strand of pearls lay outside her collar, and the hand she extended to Adam was ringless.

“Welcome to Oakwood, Sir Adam,” she said, smiling with easy informality. “I’m Caitlin Jordan. Sir John is my great-grandfather. It’s a pleasure to have you with us.”

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” Adam said, smiling in his turn. “These are my associates, Inspector Noel McLeod, from Lothian and Borders Police, and Mr. Peregrine Lovat. I hope we haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “I’m actually surprised you got here so quickly. Oakwood is somewhat off the beaten track, so we always make allowances for first-time visitors. How do you do, Inspector McLeod? I’ll bet you drove, and that’s how you managed to find us so readily. Mr. Lovat, I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

As she offered Peregrine her hand in turn, he found himself looking deep into a limpid pair of dark-brown eyes. The sensation was like gazing down into a clear woodland pool, a mirror of mutable reflections overlaying hidden depths. For the space of a heartbeat the reflections seemed to rise up and encompass him, catapulting him backwards in time to a primeval glade ringed round with towering oaks. In place of the lovely Caitlin, he was suddenly confronted by the vision of a slightly older but no less beautiful woman, gowned in flowing white and crowned with mistletoe like a Druid priestess . . .

He took a grip on himself and shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, his vision was back under control. A ware that she was gazing at him in quizzical expectancy, he gulped slightly and tried to recall the question she had just asked. Adam, glancing his way and perhaps guessing what had happened, came to his rescue.

“The drive was very pleasant, thank you,” he said. “The Kentish countryside is particularly lovely this time of year.”

“Yes, we who live here like to think so,” Caitlin replied. “But may I offer you a drink, perhaps? Or tea?”

Adam smiled. “I’d prefer to meet the general first, if you don’t mind. I don’t wish to appear unsociable, but—”