The Adept Book 3 The Templar Treasure (8 page)

“
‘The accusation itself is fantastical, but nevertheless would seem to contain one significant grain of truth,’ “
Adam continued to read, glancing at Peregrine to be certain he was listening—and he was. “
‘Though Renault does not describe the seal in any great detail, there seems little doubt that the Templars were keepers of an ancient seal of some kind. Taking into account everything I have been able to find out since embarking on this investigation, I am increasingly convinced that the Seal my ancestor obtained so long ago from Graeme of Templegrange is the same one referred to in Renault’s deposition, brought here with other Templar treasures when the Templar fleet departed La Rochelle shortly before the arrests of 1307.’

“
‘Which still leaves us with many intriguing questions remaining yet unresolved. What was the original purpose of the Seal? What did it guard? If the Seal did not originate with the Templars, where did it come from? And how did these military monks come to be its keepers?’
” Adam looked up.

“He goes on to tell about how Gerard proposes to send a metal sample from the Seal for testing—and I actually found a copy of the letter he got back from the Sorbonne on this, and it
does
support the antiquity of the Seal. Of course, it proves nothing about whether it did, indeed, belong to Solomon,” he concluded.

As he closed the notebook and set it aside, Peregrine gave a soft sigh and shook his head.

“Well. That puts the entire matter far beyond simple burglary, doesn’t it?” he said. “It could certainly explain the Templar link. But where does Dundee fit in?”

“I keep asking myself the same question,” Adam said. “Other than the fact that Dundee apparently was a Templar, there’s a three-hundred-year gap between him and the Seal that I haven’t yet been able to bridge.”

He went on to render a brief account of what he had learned from MacRae concerning Dundee and the Templar cross he had worn into his last battle. By the time he had finished, Peregrine’s hazel eyes were wide as an owl’s behind his gold-framed spectacles.

“There’s nothing about any of this in the material I read,” he said. “I wonder if Nathan was even aware of that connection.”

“I’d guess that he was at least heading in the right direction,” Adam said. “He certainly believed that Dundee figured in the puzzle somehow. Even if it weren’t for all of this”—he indicated the printout with a gesture—”his last words had to do with Dundee somehow being or having the key. At the time, I thought he meant the town. Come to think of it, there
is
a castle in Dundee that’s associated with him: Claypotts Castle.”

“Well, I think it’s clear that he meant the person,” Peregrine said.

“Probably true,” Adam agreed. “But let’s follow this Templar association further. If Dundee
was
Grand Prior of Scotland at that time, it follows that he might have had knowledge—perhaps even
sole
knowledge—of the Order’s most privileged secrets. If those secrets included any information relating to the Order’s collective office as guardians of the Seal of Solomon—or what
it
guarded—then our Bonnie Dundee might, indeed, have the answers we’re looking for.”

“Are you thinking to attempt contact with the historical persona who was John Grahame of Claverhouse?’ Peregrine asked.

Adam nodded. “That’s the most direct approach that occurs to me—though that, in itself, presents something of a challenge. As you know, the most efficient way of approaching such a proposition is via some material focus to link us into Dundee’s personal past.”

“Like, for example, the Templar cross Dundee was wearing when he died.” Peregrine made it a statement.

“Or, failing that, some other personal object closely associated with Dundee,” Adam agreed, gesturing toward the open books. “That’s partly why I wanted the portraits: to see if there was anything—some piece of personal jewellery or item of equipment—which Dundee might have favored wearing at all times. Unfortunately, as you can see for yourself, the three portraits show no common features of that kind.”

“But surely a man of his stature must have left
something
behind, in the way of personal mementoes,” Peregrine said.

“Agreed,” Adam replied. “But what? I know of two, if we don’t count the Templar cross—which may not even exist anymore. A breastplate and steel morion cap alleged to be Dundee’s are kept at Blair Castle. I’ve seen them several times. Unfortunately, the original items were stolen from his grave within a few years of his death. Eventually, they were recovered, but their provenance was broken. Hence, it isn’t altogether certain that the artifacts now on display at the castle are genuine.”

“I see your point,” Peregrine acknowledged with a grimace. “What about other items that might have been associated with him? Is it possible we might be able to locate the Templar cross you mentioned?”

“That’s a good question,” Adam said, leaving his chair to head for the telephone. “To answer it, I think we need the advice of someone intimately acquainted with the world of British antiquities and their collectors.”

Whomever Adam was calling, Peregrine noticed that he didn’t need to refer to his address book before tapping in the number. After a brief double
chirrup
of the line ringing came a muted click, followed by the remote murmur of a woman’s voice. Adam’s resigned expression indicated that the call was being handled by an answering machine, as did his tone as he spoke briskly into the receiver.

“Lindsay, this is Adam. I’m trying to track down any personal relics you may know of that are associated with John Grahame of Claverhouse, more commonly known as Bonnie Dundee. I’m especially interested in finding out what may have become of a Templar cross which Dundee supposedly was wearing at the time of his death. Does such a cross still exist, and if so, who is now its keeper?

“Failing information concerning this particular artifact,” he went on, “I would welcome news of any other related items you may know of. I’m already aware of the breastplate and motion at Blair Castle. Please get back to me on this matter as soon as possible. I believe the matter may be of some urgency.”

He returned the receiver to its cradle and went back to his chair by the fireside. Peregrine had picked up the book with the Kneller portrait and was gazing thoughtfully at the serene face of Bonnie Dundee.

“I’ve been thinking,” he announced, as Adam reclaimed his seat. “Your Lindsay may take a while to report back, and even then, there may be nothing to report. Why don’t I drive up to Killiecrankie tomorrow and have a look around the battle site? Who knows? I might be able to pick up some visual resonances centering on Dundee, maybe even verify whether he was wearing a Templar cross that day. I could use one of these portraits as a focus.”

Adam considered the offer, then shook his head. “I have a better idea,” he said. “You’re on the right track regarding technique, but let’s focus it on St. Bride’s Church at old Blair. That’s where Dundee was buried. It’s in the grounds of Blair Castle. If we could be sure of the exact spot at Killiecrankie where he died, that might be the better choice—but even then, I’d tend to be wary, because of the general residuals of a major battle like that.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Peregrine allowed.

“Only because you didn’t know where he was buried,” Adam said with a smile. “If you like, we can have a look at the breastplate and morion, since we’ll be there anyway. In either event, whatever images you might pick up there are apt to be far more controlled and specific than any you’d be likely to encounter at Killiecrankie itself.”

Peregrine was nodding avidly. “All right, Blair it is. How early would you like to be off in the morning?”

His unabashed enthusiasm made Adam chuckle in spite of himself.

“Steady on. Some of us have morning rounds to make, before we can go anywhere. Remember, I’ve been away for two days. Besides that, I’d like Noel to come with us, if he can get away. Let me check with him just now and see what his schedule’s like for tomorrow. We can rendezvous here for lunch before heading off, whether or not he’s able to join us.”

Chapter Seven

SHORTLY
before noon
the next day, Peregrine Lovat slung a fawn-colored leather jacket and a lightweight portable sketchbox onto the passenger seat of his Morris Minor Traveller and set out up the beechwood drive to the manor house. There had been a time when he had regarded the visionary insights of his artistry as a curse, and in those dark days he had avoided carrying any sketching materials with him, hoping thereby to avert any casual invoking of the deep sight he feared.

Since then, with Adam’s help, he had learned how to control—and value—those selfsame faculties of perception. Nowadays, he rarely left home without taking at least a pocket sketchbook with him. Especially when he was going on an outing in the company of Adam Sinclair.

He pulled up in the yard in the shadow of the manor house and left the Morris parked on the gravel outside the entrance to the stableyard, where Adam’s cars and his own Alvis drop-head were garaged. He had room for only one car down at the gate lodge, and the aging green Morris Minor was his everyday workhorse. The Alvis he had inherited from a wealthy patroness who was fond of him—Lady Laura, Countess of Kintoul, who had first introduced him to Adam and whose death had been the catalyst for him to seek Adam’s help. He poked his head into the garage to admire the old car, mentally thanking Lady Laura, wherever she was now, then presented himself at the side door which was commonly used by Adam’s close friends and acquaintances. He was admitted at once by Mrs. Gilchrist, Adam’s efficient and motherly housekeeper, who had a soft spot in her heart for “young Mr. Lovat” and offered him tea and scones before ushering him into the library to wait for Adam. Peregrine reluctantly declined the offer, for lunch would not be long in coming, once Adam arrived with McLeod; and they must be off fairly quickly afterwards, if they hoped to have sufficient time at Blair Castle before the light failed.

Twenty minutes later, the deep purr of a powerful car in the driveway announced the impending arrival of Adam himself, in the Jaguar. Going to the library window to watch the car pass, on its way to the garage to be changed for the more practical Range Rover, Peregrine saw a familiar broad-shouldered figure sitting in the passenger’s seat which could only be Inspector Noel McLeod.

Peregrine considered the two men as he went out on the front steps to await their arrival. An outsider would have regarded them as unlikely companions and associates. Sir Adam Sinclair, baronet, psychiatrist, and antiquarian, was a model of graceful propriety, tall and well proportioned, always elegantly dressed and possessed of an understated poise that Peregrine had never seen desert him, even in the most stressful situations he had known them to encounter. McLeod, by contrast, was wiry and muscular and sometimes gruff-spoken, with a peppery turn of temperament that had made Peregrine slightly wary of him until he’d gotten to know the inspector better.

But under the surface the two were more closely allied then anyone outside their fellowship might ever have suspected. Both of them were Huntsmen of redoubtable skill and proven prowess, dedicated to the pursuit of an order of justice not normally recognized by conventional law enforcement authorities. Peregrine, though he now had often joined them in the field, suspected he had yet to fathom the full scope of their powers and jurisdiction. As the most recently recruited member of the Hunting Lodge, he was not even certain he had met all the peripheral members of the group.

One thing
was
clear, however, and that was that the job came with its share of attendant dangers. But then, danger was the accepted complement to the challenge of the Hunt.

Adam and McLeod joined him shortly thereafter, Adam withdrawing briefly to change from his three-piece suit to cords and a tattersall shirt with knitted tie, much as Peregrine was wearing. McLeod’s tweed suit already had a country look to it, and would easily see him through whatever the afternoon might bring.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Adam said, as he came into the downstairs parlor where Humphrey had set the table for lunch.

Over Tandoori chicken, kedgeree, and salad, with a single glass apiece of white Zinfandel, McLeod related what had transpired during the night regarding the search for Henry Gerard.

“So far, the Cypriot police haven’t been able to verify Gerard’s presence on their turf,” he informed his listeners, pulling a folded sheet of paper from an inside pocket and passing it for Adam and Peregrine to see. “Treville from the Sûreté was able to fax us this photograph of Gerard taken from passport records. I’ve had it blown up and duplicated, and sent copies along to Phipps down in York, as well as the airport security people at Heathrow, Gatwick, Manchester, and Prestwick. It’s a long shot, I admit, but someone might just have spotted our man in passing. Provided, of course, that we aren’t simply barking up the wrong tree. He may still be camping innocently on Cyprus.”

Adam dismissed the suggestion with a shake of his head. “My instincts say otherwise.”

“Mine too,” McLeod agreed, “but we’re going to need more than instincts to get us where we need to go with this case.”

When they had finished lunch, a twenty-minute run up the A90 brought them skirting Perth to the west. From there they continued north and westward toward Pitlochry on the A9, gradually climbing up into the Highlands. The day was bright and dry, and the Range Rover ate up the thirty miles in as many minutes. Just past Pitlochry, they came down off the A9 to take the secondary road that paralleled it, passing through the Pass of Killiecrankie and skirting the green fields that once had reeked of battle.

“You can see that there’s nothing much to use as a focus out there,” Adam said, pointing out the hillsides as they sped by. “There’s an exhibit about the battle at the National Trust Visitor Center, but it wouldn’t have been much use for what you had in mind.”

Just past Killiecrankie, the road crossed under the A9 and brought them into the village of Blair Atholl. A few minutes later, they were turning through the main gates of the Blair Castle estate of the Duke of Atholl, who was also hereditary Chief of Clan Murray. The castle rose regally beyond the lime trees lining the main avenue, its dark slate rooftops and snowy harling giving it a dazzling, fairy-tale appearance that belied grim centuries of history. The bright blue and white saltire of Scotland floated from a flagstaff high atop one of the castle’s towers, but not the ducal banner, indicating that the duke himself was not at home.

With the ease of familiarity, Adam swung the Range Rover into the visitors’ car park and brought the big car to a halt very near the walkway that led up to the visitors’ entrance. Clambering out of the car behind Adam and McLeod, Peregrine drew a deep breath of fresh, wood-scented air and decided to put on his leather jacket. It was warm enough in the sun, but he had worked on commissions for enough noble and landed families by now to know how chilly it could be inside their stately homes. A small sketch pad and a selection of favorite pencils already resided in the jacket’s inner pocket, obviating the need to take his sketchbox for this part of the afternoon’s excursion.

Adam led the way up to the visitors’ entrance. Before he could identify himself to the young woman at the desk as a sponsor of the National Trust, an older man wearing a kilt in the dark green and blue of the Murrays of Atholl came bustling out of the rear office, his face lighting with a broad smile of recognition as he spotted Adam.

“Sir Adam Sinclair! I had no idea you were planning to stop by. How are you keeping?”

“Very well, thank you, Davy,” Adam responded pleasantly as they exchanged handshakes. “Good to see you again. Noel, Peregrine—this is David Alexander, the castle’s assistant administrator. Davy, let me introduce you to two friends of mine: Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod, from Edinburgh, and Mr. Peregrine Lovat, whose portraits may well hang here at Blair Castle one day, if His Grace is as shrewd a judge of artistic talent as I think he is.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Inspector. And you also, Mr. Lovat,” Alexander said, as he shook hands with both men. “I’m afraid that you’ve missed His Grace by a good few hours, Sir Adam. He took off this morning for a long weekend in London, and he won’t be back before Monday.”

“Not to worry,” Adam replied. “I wasn’t expecting to find His Grace at home. Actually, if I might make a confession, the three of us are out playing tourist today. Peregrine wanted to do some sketching. I wonder if we might simply take a wander about the place with the rest of the visitors?”

“Of course you can. Nothing easier,” Alexander said affably. “Was there anything in particular that you wanted to look at? I’d be quite happy to act as your guide.”

“That’s very kind,” Adam said. “Peregrine?”

“As a matter of fact, I
would
rather like to see the mementoes of Bonnie Dundee,” Peregrine replied, taking his cue smoothly. “I understand that you’ve got his breastplate and helmet here at the castle. He’s always been something of a hero of mine.”

“Right you are,” Alexander said, nodding. “Those are on display in Earl John’s Room. Come with me and I’ll take you there.”

The room in question was smallish and rather dark, dominated by a large bed hung with ancient red velvet. A fine collection of portraits adorned the walls, including one of Earl John himself, an ardent royalist of his day, and another of the Marquis of Montrose who had raised the King’s standard at Blair in 1644. The Dundee relics, wired to the left-hand shutter of one of the windows, consisted of a tarnished morion and a battered breastplate pierced by a bullet hole which Peregrine knew had actually been added by one of the later Dukes of Atholl in the somewhat misguided belief that it made the armor look more authentic. A plaque fixed to the shutter beneath the helmet gave details of authentication.

Another group of visitors was there ahead of them, but moved on almost immediately. To give Peregrine some privacy in which to inspect the relics, Adam contrived to draw David Alexander aside with questions about a handsome, plainly finished grandfather clock in the room’s far comer. As Peregrine moved closer to the window, McLeod trailed along with the others, casually interposing his body between Peregrine and their guide.

Closing his ears to the politely lowered voices of his companions, Peregrine took a moment’s brief pause to compose himself, then focused his attention more closely on the pieces of armor in front of him. His passively receptive gaze could detect no ghostly visual resonances. Summoning up a visual picture of Dundee, as portrayed in the Kneller portrait, he waited again to see if some more lively impression suggested itself. For a brief moment, he saw the breastplate whole, without the cosmetic addition of the bullet hole, but he could detect no trace images of the man who might have worn it. Disappointed, he drew another deep breath and briefly closed his eyes to allow his sight to readjust to the material world.

“It’s a pity these old relics can’t speak,” he observed out loud. “Still, it’s interesting to be able to look at them.”

Adam turned to glance in his direction, obviously aware, from these casual remarks, that his younger associate had observed nothing to engage their interest.

“Have you seen enough, then?” he asked jocularly. “In that case, let’s move on.”

For form’s sake, they allowed David Alexander to complete a quick tour of the castle. They never seemed to hurry, but Peregrine had to admire the way Adam was able to direct the conversation to keep them briskly on the move through the many rooms that were open to public view. The tour ended half an hour later at the Larch Passage, so named for the wood in which it was panelled, where Adam politely declined Alexander’s invitation to partake of tea.

“I thank you for the offer, Davy, but I’m afraid we really must be going,” he said in tones of courteous regret. “I particularly wanted Peregrine to see the old kirk where Dundee is buried, and we’ll lose the light if we don’t head down there. It’s been good to see you again, though.”

Reclaiming the car from the car park, they set off along a narrow, wooded back road pointing them in the direction of the old factor’s house and St. Bride’s Kirk, the latter now a ruin. The shadows were, indeed, lengthening as they parked again and entered the old churchyard. A few other visitors were inspecting gravestones farther across the yard, but they seemed engrossed in their own activities. As Peregrine followed Adam and McLeod out across the grass among the grave markers, this time carrying his sketchbox, he was suddenly conscious of a subtle prickling in his senses—and the distinct feeling, absent at the castle, that he now was on the right track.

His heartbeat quickened as they wound through the burial ground and approached the western front of what remained of the little church, a lichen-studded enclosure open to the sky. Ducking through the round-arched doorway, they made their way along the narrow line of paving slabs set where the center aisle had been, heading for a memorial plaque mounted on one of the stones to the right, just before a doorway leading out to the yard to the south.