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commuters, in an atmosphere increasingly redolent of stale clothing and warring
perfumes, they boarded the first available westbound train and spent the next
forty-five minutes clinging precariously to handholds along the ceiling, bags
braced between their feet. Only past Acton did the crowd begin to thin out, and
even then, they had to stand for several more stops.
They arrived at Heathrow with a scant twenty minutes to spare before the 9:30
shuttle. Fortunately, Adam had booked seats the night before, and they had only
carry-on luggage, so securing their tickets and checking in was a relatively rapid
procedure. After signing off on the credit card slip, Adam sent Peregrine off to
buy a Glasgow newspaper while he telephoned Strathmourne. There would be
copies of The Scotsman aboard the shuttle, so he would check that during the
flight up.
"After looking at where we've got to go, I've changed my mind about taking the
Jag," he told Humphrey, after verifying that they would, indeed, be arriving on
the flight Adam had designated in the previous night's call. "I think you'd better
pick us up in the Range Rover. And please pack us each a change of clothes
suitable for stomping around uncertain terrain in uncertain weather. If my
suspicions are correct, and time is running short, we can't afford even slight
delays in getting under way."
"I understand, sir," Humphrey replied. "I'll make all the necessary
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arrangements."
The loudspeakers were announcing the final call for their flight. All he and
Peregrine had to do now was make the plane. They were not the last ones aboard,
but delays at security screening had him fidgeting for a few minutes. As he and
Peregrine buckled up and the plane started to taxi out to the runway, Adam at
last allowed himself to relax a little - which only gave him time to feed his
growing apprehension.
Something new was brewing, almost certainly some new facet of what they had
left behind in Scotland. He searched for it in the copy of the Glasgow paper
Peregrine had brought him and in The Scotsman, but nothing spoke to him.
Were the obstacles they were encountering a part of some emerging pattern of
opposition on the Inner Planes, or were they random? He told himself that most
of the obstacles could be chalked up to coincidence; but another part of him
worried that it was all part of some sinister design being carried out by an enemy
he had yet to meet face to face. Until he knew more, all he could do was trust to
the innate survival instincts of his higher self, and hope that their adversaries
would soon show themselves - and hopefully, make a mistake.
Their flight was routine, though the air turbulence increased the farther north
they flew. The skies over southern Scotland were patched with racing scuds of
dirty grey, and their aircraft descended through gusty showers. They touched
down at Edinburgh on a wet runway and taxied to the terminal amid windblown
outbursts of rain.
By the time the jetway was run alongside and they were permitted to begin
deplaning, Adam had decided to ring Noel McLeod as soon as they got inside the
terminal building. With single-minded impatience, he led Peregrine toward the
arrival gate, raising a hailing hand as he spotted Humphrey, waiting just beyond
the barrier.
But his valet was not alone. Adam stiffened as he
recognized the moustached figure in the trenchcoat, all the slowly-building
apprehension of the past twelve hours or so finally crystallizing.
"What is it?" Peregrine asked.
"There with Humphrey - it's Noel McLeod," Adam replied. "And unless I'm very
much mistaken, his presence confirms the trouble I couldn't find in the papers
this morning. Come on!"
Leaving Peregrine to make his own way, Adam lengthened his stride and darted
forward, weaving his way through the intervening throngs with an evasive skill a
professional soccer-player might have envied. Humphrey and McLeod converged
to meet him. The inspector's craggy face was looking uncommonly grim, and his
mouth was tight.
"Why do I get the distinct impression you're about to give me news I don't want
to hear?" Adam said to McLeod, at the same time handing off his carry-on to
Humphrey. "I was going to call you as soon as I could get to a telephone.
Peregrine, get in here, so he doesn't have to tell it twice."
Peregrine hurried to join them, looking slightly ruffled and mystified. McLeod
greeted the artist with a curt nod and ushered them all aside, Humphrey taking
up a station with the bags a few paces away, to deflect passers-by.
"This comes totally out of left field," McLeod said, "but suddenly everything starts
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to make sense. Not quite two hours ago, I received a phone call from my clan
chief. He's in New York right now. He'd just had words with his staff up at Dun
vegan Castle. It seems that the Fairy Flag has been stolen."
Neither of his listeners needed any explanation of what the Flag was. The Fairy
Flag of the MacLeods was one of Scotland's most famous artifacts, and the
legends surrounding it were common knowledge to anyone with even a modicum
of interest in Scottish folklore. More knowledgeable than most, Adam
experienced a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"When did this happen?" he asked. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]