The monk nodded and turned his back on his work, scanning for his companion. Up on the cliff-face, the other monk was picking his way back down to the beach, having finished inspecting his handiwork. Of the former cave opening, only a tumble of rubble now remained, indistinguishable from all the other tangle of rockfall on this face of the promontory. Offshore, the blank wall of incoming fog had already swallowed up the sight and almost the sound of the retreating boat, and the smaller speck of the floating body's life-vest and survival suit had very nearly disappeared.
The monk from the cliff rejoined the one on the beach. Facing eastward, the two stood shoulder to shoulder and prepared themselves, daggers grasped in their right hands with the blades pointed downward toward the sand at their feet.
Together they began to mouth the words of a whispered chant, faster and faster, until abruptly the eyes of first one and then the other rolled upward in trance. Faces rapt, lips still moving, they then set out along the shrinking beach in a series of lengthening bounds.
They gathered speed as they went, their pace accelerating to carry them forward in smooth, fluid leaps, each one longer than the one before. As they travelled, the two made rhythmic, forward-reaching motions with their right hands, driving their dagger-points toward the ground as if propelling themselves off the surface with the aid of unseen walking sticks. They struck out across the water when they came to the end of the sand, just skimming the flat surface for half a dozen strides, their movements blurring into invisibility just when they would have disappeared into the fog beyond.
Chapter One
"OH, why do photographers have to take so long?" said Lady Janet Fraser, as she peered up the avenue leading toward Sir Adam Sinclair's gracious country house. "Adam, I'm dying to see the look on Julia's face when she sees the painting."
Behind them, ranged on the front steps and broad front lawn of Strathmourne Manor, nearly a hundred well-dressed wedding guests were chatting amiably and sipping champagne from crystal flutes on this sunny Saturday in May. Many of the men wore kilts and day-wear jackets; the ladies were resplendent in spring frocks and fanciful hats.
Earlier, they had gathered at St. Margaret's Episcopal Church in Dunfermline to witness the marriage of Peregrine Lovat, one of Scotland's most talented young portrait painters, to the lovely Miss Julia Barrett; now they prepared to celebrate those nuptials with a formal reception and luncheon, here in the gardens of Strathmourne, Scottish seat of one of Peregrine's more prominent patrons. Over on the south lawn, a vast yellow- and white-striped marquee had been erected to accommodate the guests. Half a dozen waiters in Stewart tartan trews and white mess jackets circulated among them with silver drinks trays, offering liquid refreshment before the bridal party arrived from the church.
Even as Janet spoke, there was a sudden flash of reflected sunlight among the tall beech trees that lined the avenue leading to the house. More flashes followed in quick succession, winking in and out among the beech leaves on the long approach.
"They're coming!" Janet declared, as her surgeon-husband, Sir Matthew Fraser, brought her a glass of champagne.
Adam smiled and glanced in signal at his stableman, John Anderson, kilted and filling in as domestic staff for the day. Anderson, in turn, beckoned to another kilted man, the teenaged son of one of Adam's tenant farmers, who nervously brought out a pair of ancient-looking broadswords. The two took up posts to either side of the entryway, swords at rest before them, as the first of three sleek Daimler limousines came into view, deep claret coachwork gleaming in the midday sun.
At a pace both stately and efficient, the first car eased to a stop at the foot of the steps and disgorged the bride's aunt and uncle and both mothers. Adam welcomed them graciously, deftly directing them to one side as the first car was replaced by the second, which carried the best man, Julia's matron of honor, and the two little flower girls. Other family members followed in the third car, and the tardy photographer bailed out of a hastily parked Volkswagen van and began setting up. As the newcomers availed themselves of champagne and joined the rest of the wedding guests beginning to congregate closer to the entrance to the house, the bridal car appeared at the far end of the drive and made its slow approach.
Rather than another hired Daimler, it was Adam's own classic Mark VI Bentley that carried the newlyweds, lent for the occasion along with Adam's valet-butler, Humphrey, in his well-accustomed alternate role as chauffeur. Though Humphrey rarely displayed much emotion, as befitted his station as manservant in a distinguished household, Adam thought he detected more than a hint of a smile on Humphrey's normally impassive face as he brought the big blue car to a smooth halt in front of the steps and came around to open the door.
"Oh, don't they make a handsome couple?" Janet murmured as the kilted Peregrine handed his bride out of the car, to a smattering of applause from the assembled guests. "And Julia's gown is absolutely stunning!"
The gown in question was an Edwardian confection of creamy silk taffeta, with wide skirts billowing from around Julia's tiny waist. Antique lace framed the wide neckline and frilled the puffed sleeves at the elbow, and dozens of tiny buttons marched down the back of the close-fitting bodice to a bustle-effect above a modest train. In keeping with the romantic mood set by the gown, Julia had pulled back her red-gold curls in a cascade caught at the crown, with a wreath of creamy-yellow silk roses securing her veil. Peregrine's cobalt-blue velvet doublet was frothed at the throat with an heirloom lace jabot, above a kilt of brown and blue and green - the hunting sett of his customary Fraser of Lovat tartan.
"Oh, I do love weddings!" Janet declared as the pair kissed for the photographer's benefit. "One of these days, Adam, I hope to see you getting out of that car with a lovely bride on your arm."
Adam shot her a forbearing smile and returned his gaze to the bridal couple, now posing for a more conventional photograph with Humphrey, beside the car. He hoped Janet was not going to bring up the subject of Ximena. On this day, of all days, he did not need reminding of his own domestic frustrations. A physician himself, he had met Dr. Ximena Lockhart in a hospital emergency room, after sustaining minor injuries in a car crash some eighteen months ago. Despite this inauspicious beginning, which had proven to connect with one of the highly unofficial investigations he pursued from time to time with the local police - and which had even brought Ximena herself into danger - his relationship with the lissom, dark-haired American had flourished in the next six months, leading both of them to begin entertaining serious thoughts of marriage.
But news of her father's terminal illness had summoned Ximena back to California the previous summer to nurse him in his final months - which now had stretched on to nearly a year. Adam could not begrudge them the time together, but he still cherished hopes that, when all was resolved, she might be moved to return to Scotland. Meanwhile, he must not let his own nostalgia for her company darken his enjoyment of Peregrine Lovat's wedding day.
The said Peregrine was looking very pleased with himself as he led his bride up the steps of Strathmourne, hazel eyes shining behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, the fair hair slightly breeze-ruffled. Behind them, Humphrey took the Bentley silently off to its garage in the stableyard, and ahead of them, beyond Adam, Anderson and his young partner came to attention and brought their swords smartly to salute.