Chapter Two
ADAM MADE the drive across town to police headquarters in a mood of somber reflection, skirting west of the castle mound and into Princes Street, then winding up around Charlotte Square and on along Queensferry Road. He could not escape the growing conviction that something beyond a mere burglary and assault lay at the root of what was now unfolding.
The headquarters complex for the Lothian and Borders Police Department was a multistorey confection of glass and steel, bristling with radio antennae on its roofs and set back from Fettes Avenue, northwest of the city center. Pulling around into the visitors’ car park, within sight of McLeod’s black BMW, Adam parked and locked the dark blue Jaguar and headed for the main entrance. One of the officers on duty at the desk recognized him and waved him on through, rather than asking him to wait for an escort to come down and fetch him, and he made his way purposefully up a back stair. As he headed through the large open-plan office toward McLeod’s door, which was ajar, he nodded recognition to several officers working there. He could hear McLeod’s voice through the gap as he approached.
“Yes, thanks, Walter. That’s all I can think of at the moment. Right. We’ll talk again when I get there. In the meantime, thanks for all your trouble.”
There followed the click of a telephone receiver being returned to its cradle, just before Adam gave a light rap at the door to announce his presence.
“Enter!” McLeod called.
Adam pushed the door open. McLeod was at his desk, gold-rimmed aviator spectacles pushed up on his forehead and his tie askew, looking like a man in no mood to welcome interruptions. As soon as he caught sight of Adam, however, his expression eased to a grin of welcome, the wiry grey moustache bristling above a glint of white teeth.
“Hullo, Adam. Sorry about the bark. I thought for a moment it was one of my confounded juniors determined to bollix things up at the last minute.”
“I take it, then, that you’re free and clear?”
“At least for the rest of today and tomorrow,” McLeod said with a grim nod, getting to his feet and reaching for his coat. “I’ve just been on the phone to a colleague down in York, who’s going to find out what he can. Someone will meet us when we arrive. On the surface, at least, it appears to have been a professional job: household alarm effectively disabled—safe opened, not blown—no identifiable prints left anywhere, other than those of the victim and his wife. There were two perpetrators, but they were wearing balaclava masks and surgical gloves. York Police are still interviewing possible witnesses in the neighborhood, but they haven’t got any leads. It doesn’t look very hopeful at present.”
As he did up his tie, a fresh-faced young man in civilian clothes appeared in the doorway—Donald Cochrane, one of McLeod’s most able assistants, recently promoted to the rank of detective.
“Oh, there you are, Donald,” McLeod said. “Did you finally get through?”
Cochrane grinned, just missing a salute. “Yes, sir. Mrs. McLeod apologizes for tying up the phone, and will have a bag waiting for you by the time you get there. Anything else you’d like me to do?”
“Can’t think of anything,” McLeod replied. “You have the con till I get back. Keep things ticking over smoothly, will you? I don’t want to come home to find half a dozen crises on my desk.”
“Aye, sir,” Cochrane returned with a grin. “See you in a couple of days.”
On the way out to McLeod’s house in Ormidale Terrace, Adam gave the inspector a concise briefing on Nathan Fiennes’ medical condition.
“No wonder Walter and his lads are frantic, down in York,” McLeod said when Adam had finished. “A burglary with assault is bad enough, but if the case gets compounded with a murder charge, they’re really going to have their work cut out for them.”
“If the charges extend to murder,” Adam said grimly, “the perpetrators are going to have more than the Yorkshire police to contend with.”
They picked up McLeod’s bag and made it to the airport in time to rendezvous with Humphrey a good twenty minutes before flight time. The intrepid Humphrey had already checked them in, and handed over tickets and boarding cards along with Adam’s overnight bag before bidding them farewell. The flight itself was uneventful, touching down at Leeds-Bradford within a minute or two of its appointed arrival time.
With only carry-on luggage, Adam and McLeod disembarked along with the rest of the passengers and made their way into the arrivals lounge. Here they were intercepted by a short, wiry individual in a dapper three-piece tweed suit and sunglasses. McLeod’s look of intense scrutiny transformed immediately into a grin of recognition.
“Hello, Walter!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you’d come in person.”
His associate shrugged and smiled.
“I figured I might as well, and save time all around. My driver’s waiting outside in the car. We can talk on the way back to York. Do you have any luggage?”
“No, just what we’re carrying,” McLeod replied. “Walter, I’d like you to meet Sir Adam Sinclair, special psychiatric consultant for Lothian and Borders Police. As I mentioned earlier on the phone, he’s a longtime close friend of Nathan Fiennes, and Fiennes apparently asked his wife to call Adam, right after the assault. Adam, this is Superintendent Walter Phipps, whose men are following up on the investigation.”
“I’m grateful for any assistance you and your men can render, Superintendent,” Adam said, taking stock of his new acquaintance as he and the Yorkshireman traded handshakes. Half a head shorter than McLeod, Phipps was lean and active-looking, with short-cropped fair hair and a crisp moustache, both lightly touched with hints of silver. Steady grey eyes returned Adam’s gaze with shrewd regard, then crinkled slightly at the edges, as if their owner was favorably impressed by what he saw.
“Your reputation precedes you, Sir Adam,” Phipps said with a tight-lipped smile. “And please call me Walter, if you’re a friend of Noel’s. I seem to recall that you’re the man Scotland Yard called in several years ago to construct a psychiatric profile of the man they eventually arrested as the so-called Scarborough Slasher. Nobody looks for a miracle like that to come along every day, but maybe you can come up with some leads in the present case—because I’m afraid we haven’t much to go on, so far.”
“I’ll certainly do whatever I can,” Adam promised, as they headed out to the curb and a waiting black Ford Granada. “Right now, however, I’d like to get to the hospital as soon as possible. I gather that Professor Fiennes’ prospects are not good, and I’d like at least to attempt to speak with him before time runs out.”
“Well, I don’t know how successful you’re going to be in that,” Phipps replied, opening the boot so McLeod and Adam could stash their bags. “He was still unconscious when I left York, three-quarters of an hour ago, though at least he was holding his own. It doesn’t look good, though.” He got into the front, next to the uniformed constable who was driving, and McLeod and Adam piled into the back.
It was twenty-three miles back to York. On the way, Phipps briefed them on the essentials of the case to date. The police car pulled up at the main entrance to York District Hospital shortly before six o’clock. As Adam prepared to get out, Phipps produced a business card from his breast pocket and scribbled some numbers on the back.
“I expect you’ll want to be here for a while,” Phipps said, handing the card to Adam. “This is the extension at my office, and the other one is my home number. Noel and I will pick up a bite to eat on the way to headquarters, but then we’ll be at this number or thereabouts for the rest of the evening. If it gets too late, we may come to check on you. Incidentally, you’re both welcome to stay at my place, if you haven’t made other arrangements.”
“Thank you,” Adam said with a nod. “I’m not sure sleep is in the cards for me tonight, but I’ll try to give you a call later this evening, when I know more. See you later, Noel.”
Once inside the building, Adam made his way up to the intensive-care unit. The sister in charge of the ward greeted him with an air of reservation at first, but her manner thawed at once when he produced one of his business cards listing his credentials.
He skimmed over Nathan’s chart with growing dismay, returning it with a word of thanks. He was just turning to go into the ICU when a tenor voice hailed him from farther up the corridor.
“Is that Sir Adam Sinclair? Oh, thank God you’re here!” The speaker was Nathan’s elder son, Peter, a muscular, dark young man in his mid-thirties, wearing an impeccably cut grey pin-striped suit and round horn-rimmed glasses that made him look studious. After graduating with a first-class law degree from Oxford, Peter Fiennes had gone to work for one of the most prestigious corporation legal firms in London and quickly earned his barrister’s credentials. Recent rumor had it that he soon would take silk as a Queen’s Counsel. At the moment, however, little in his manner suggested the cool, levelheaded barrister. Instead, he looked tense and grief-stricken and far younger than he was—a man already in mourning for a father whose grasp on life was growing weaker with every passing hour.
He hurried forward to clasp the hand that Adam held out to him, allowing himself to be drawn briefly into an embrace of commiseration. Feeling the tremor in the younger man’s shoulders and hand, Adam said quietly, as they drew apart, “Peter, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this should have happened. Naturally, I came as quickly as I could. How’s your mother holding up?”
Peter shrugged and shook his head. “She’s exhausted; I don’t think she’s gotten more than an hour or two of sleep while Dad was in surgery early this morning. He’s always meant the world to her. Right now, all she can think about is that she’s losing him. And there doesn’t seem to be anything anyone can do about it.”
“Peter, I’m so sorry,” Adam repeated. “How about your brother? Have you gotten through to him?”
Peter nodded. “He’ll be in a few hours. He’s flying in from Tel Aviv. The orchestra’s getting ready to go on tour, but they drafted the second flute to move up to first. She’s thrilled at the chance, but sorry for the circumstances, of course—a really nice girl. I hope Larry marries her. Anyway, that means that he’ll be able stay as long as—as he has to.”
“As will I,” Adam said quietly. “As long as I’m needed. Where’s your mother just now?”
“Keeping watch over Dad,” Peter said, gesturing with his chin toward the glass-windowed double doors. “She’s hardly left his side since he came back from surgery. Come with me and I’ll take you to her.”
The intensive-care unit, like most facilities of its type, was a gleaming, antiseptic wilderness of light-panels, consoles, and life-support installations. Several of the other patients confined there had relatives in attendance, in addition to physicians and nurses circulating among them, and the big room breathed with the susurrant murmur of lowered voices above the hum and ping of the electrical equipment. Adam and Peter drew one or two token glances as they entered from the corridor, for both were striking-looking men, in different ways, but it was clear that the other visitors present were too wrapped up in their own concerns to pay much heed to what was going on elsewhere in the unit.
Nathan Fiennes occupied the bed farthest to the left of the room, his supine, white-draped body wired up to a battery of monitors. His face beneath the alien white skullcap of surgical bandages was grey and bruised-looking, more like the face of an effigy than that of a living man. As Adam drew closer, he could hear the older man’s breath whistling as it sawed in and out between slack, dry lips. A nasal oxygen tube of transparent greenish plastic snaked back over his head to disappear among the orderly tangle of other tubes and wires. Even without a knowledge of what was recorded on Nathan’s medical chart, Adam would have known at a glance that his old friend was not likely to recover from his injuries.
Rachel Fiennes was slumped exhaustedly in a chair between her husband’s bed and the next, which was empty, her back to the doorway. Her head was bowed, either dozing or praying, but even from across the room, Adam could see the tension in the lines of her body as she clung fast to one of her husband’s slack hands. His other hand, confined by a cuff, was connected to an I.V. drip. Together they made a study in tragedy.
Shaking his head sorrowfully, Peter Fiennes went up to his mother and laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. When she started up, he soothed her with a pat and said gently, “It’s all right, Mother. Sir Adam’s here—just as Dad wanted.”
Rachel Fiennes’ haggard gaze flew beyond her son to the tall, dark figure standing a few feet behind him, at the foot of her husband’s bed, and a tremulous smile touched her lips.
“Adam,” she breathed softly. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“I only wish it were under happier circumstances,” Adam said quietly. “I’m not sure why Nathan asked for me in particular, but now that I’m here, I hope I can be of some service.”
Wordlessly Peter Fiennes brought up a chair for Adam beside his mother, then took another for himself on the other side of the bed, facing them. As Adam settled beside Rachel, she reached out to take one of Adam’s hands with her free one.
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re here, Adam,” she whispered. “If only you knew how guilty I’ve been feeling.”
“Guilty?” Adam said. “Whatever for?”
“For not telephoning you sooner,” she replied. “Nathan wanted me to call you last night. Right after the incident, before he lost consciousness, he made me promise to call you at once. I gave him my word, fully intending to do as he wished, but I could see he was desperately in need of medical attention. My first call was to summon an ambulance and the police, and after that—” She made a helpless gesture.
“You were doing your best to save your husband’s life,” Adam said quietly. “You were entirely right to regard everything else as secondary.”
“No, I don’t think you understand,” Rachel insisted. “The thieves, whoever they were, took the Seal—the one that’s been in Nathan’s family for goodness knows how many generations. You know the piece I’m talking about?”
“Not the one he used to refer to as the Solomon Seal?” Adam said, seeing it in memory and suddenly flashing on a twinge of greater uneasiness.
“Yes, that’s the one. I’m sure he must have shown it to you.”
Adam nodded. “He did—but that was many years ago. It certainly was very old—though I wouldn’t know about it having been Solomon’s Seal.”
“I don’t know that either,” Rachel said. “I think it was more than just old, though. I do know that research surrounding it had occupied a great deal of his time and energy, these last few years. And just before he passed out, he said—he said, ‘Things about the Seal you don’t know—dangerous things. It’s got to be recovered, at all cost. Call Sir Adam Sinclair and tell him what’s happened . . .”
“Indeed,” Adam said, cocking his head. “Do you know what he was talking about, saying there were dangerous things about the Seal?”
She shook her head.
“I see. Tell me this, then. Do you think the thieves were after the Seal in particular?”
Rachel shook her head again. “I don’t know,” she said tersely. “If they were, they didn’t hesitate to take all my jewelry as well. And they would have been welcome to every gaudy scrap of it, if only they’d left me my Nathan, safe and sound!”
As tears welled up and she stifled a sob, releasing his hand to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand, Adam took a fresh handkerchief of monogrammed linen from the breast pocket of his suit coat and offered it to her. She nodded her thanks and dabbed at her wet cheeks, sniffling miserably, and Adam exchanged a sympathetic glance with Peter.
“Rachel, from what you’ve told me,” Adam said, “it’s obvious that the Seal has acquired a far greater importance of late than it had all those years ago—or at least Nathan had become aware of a greater importance.”
As she nodded, he went on.
“The fact that Nathan asked for me, in conjunction with his worry about the Seal’s theft, also suggests that he intended me to devote my attention specifically to the problem of locating and recovering it before any harm can result from its theft. I have no idea what kind of harm that might be, but I’ll certainly do my best to find out and to carry out his wishes. Tell me: Besides myself, how many people outside the family would have known about the existence of the Seal?”
Rachel gave him a blank look and turned to her son for inspiration. Shaking his head, Peter gave a helpless shrug.
“I suppose that any number of people might have known something about it,” he said. “Dad’s never been a particularly secretive man. If you’re talking about anyone having specific knowledge—”
“How about recent and specific knowledge,” Adam prompted, “perhaps in the last year or so?”
Peter grimaced and sighed. “I suppose I ought to give you some recent background first, then,” he said. “Since Dad showed you the Seal, he probably also told you that it’s always been something of a family mystery. When I was little, my grandfather used to tell me stories about how the Seal used to belong to the royal house of Israel, and how it had the power to stamp out evil spirits. You know the kinds of tales that grown-ups sometimes tell kids, to embellish.”
Adam nodded, his face impassive, but the mention of evil spirits had triggered a new apprehension.
“Anyway,” Peter went on, “over the years, Dad had been trying to find out more about the Seal—probably sparked by the tales his grandfather had told him when he was a boy. It started out as a kind of academic game, I think—and you know how tenacious he can be when he gets his teeth into a research project—but a new factor entered the equation about eighteen months ago.”
“What happened eighteen months ago?” Adam asked.
“Well, Grandfather Benjamin died. It wasn’t unexpected—he was eighty-seven, and he went in his sleep, like that.” He snapped his fingers. “After the funeral, Dad went up to the old house in Perth to clear away the last of Grandfather’s personal effects. While he was about it, he came across a whole chest full of old family papers stored in the attic. Among them was a really battered old parchment document. It was badly yellowed, and the writing was faded brown with age, practically illegible, but Dad was able to make out enough to tell that it was in Latin, and seemed to refer to a seal of some kind.”
“The Solomon Seal?” Adam asked.
“So he believed. The possibility was enough to make him· drop everything and head across to St. Andrews University to see if anyone in the medieval history department could decipher it for him. The document turned out to be a promissory note for a bronze seal pledged in pawn to one Reuben Fennes of Perth, by somebody named James Graeme, dated 1381!”
He directed an inquiring look at Adam, as if inviting comment, but Adam only shook his head.
“This is all news to me,” he said. “I gather, by your expectation, that the Seal had been pawned for a substantial sum.”
“I’ll say,” Peter replied. “It was practically a duke’s ransom. The figure cited was so extraordinary that Dad was keen to find out who this James Graeme might have been, and why the Seal should have been worth that much money to our distant forebear.”
“And did he?”
“That, I don’t know,” Peter said. “It was about that time, however, that he started seriously ferreting through all manner of medieval archives, not only in the U.K. but also on the Continent. It got to be quite an operation. I’m sure he must have used research assistants to help him sift through some of the documentary material. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
“Oh, yes,” Rachel agreed. “There have been several dozen, over the years. He loved to involve his students in his work.”
Adam smiled. “I can attest to that. Tell me, do you suppose you might be able to draw up a list for me?”
“Dear me, you don’t think—”
“Unfortunately, it’s far too soon to tell you what I think,” Adam said easily. “A list of people who know about the Seal is a good place to start, though. Peter, do you think you might be able to give your mother a hand?”
Peter shook his head. “I don’t have any direct knowledge, Adam, but maybe Dad’s personal notes would give us some clues. They should be locked up in his desk at home, shouldn’t they, Mother?”
Rachel’s face brightened. “Yes, of course,” she said. “And fortunately, the thieves didn’t tamper with the desk.”
She might have said more, but at that moment, the injured man in the bed stirred and groaned aloud.