"Oh, Peregrine, it's wonderful. I hate to think how much time you must have spent toiling over this when you might have been doing other things. Whatever gave you the idea?''
Smiling, Peregrine captured one of his wife's hands and raised it to his lips with a smile.
"I thought the spirit of our first meeting should be preserved, and the Johnstone painting seemed somehow an appropriate model," he declared. "You have made me a prince among men, dearest Julia, and just as Bonnie Prince Charlie placed his life in Flora's hands, so do I place my happiness in yours."
"Hear, hear!" someone shouted approvingly as applause broke out again; and Janet Fraser murmured, "Who said that chivalry was dead?"
The luncheon menu began with a salmon mousse in shells of fresh melon and worked through a tomato bisque, breast of duck in a marinade of orange and ginger, and an accompaniment of new potatoes and garden vegetables, along with appropriate wines. Once the remnants of the main course had been cleared away, Humphrey wheeled in the wedding cake on a silver serving trolley: a glistening triple-tiered confection in white sugar icing. Decorating the top tier, in place of the traditional figures of a bride and groom, was a miniature scene from a fairy tale: a knight on a white horse doing battle with a dragon while his lady looked on from the turreted window of her castle.
"How lovely!" whispered Janet Fraser to her husband. "To be married in the spirit of chivalry…"
Once the cake had been cut, using a Victorian cavalry sword carried by the groom's great-grandfather in the Zulu Wars, there followed the traditional round of speeches while the cake was distributed and coffee was served. After the addresses had been concluded, Adam rose from his seat at the top table and gave his crystal champagne flute a chiming tap with a silver coffee spoon. As the buzz of conversation settled, he lifted his glass.
"My lords and ladies, honored guests, friends and family of the happy couple," he proclaimed. "Before we adjourn to the garden, please join with me in pledging Julia and Peregrine our best wishes for a happy, healthy, and prosperous future."
The toast signalled the formal end to the meal. Thereafter, the guests filtered out to the gardens while Lord Kintoul's piper played again and the marquee was cleared for the dancing that would follow. Adam, his formal hosting duties now done, circulated freely among the guests, enjoying the sunshine of the terrace and the chance to chat with friends.
Eventually his perambulations brought him round to the rose arbor, where he found Noel McLeod sitting alone on a stone bench in the shade, polishing his gold-rimmed aviator spectacles on a handkerchief. Something in the inspector's manner suggested that he might have been waiting for Adam.
"Hello, Noel," Adam said, wondering what the reason might be. "Don't tell me you've tired of the festivities already, when there's still some country dancing to be done."
Scowling beneath a wiry grey moustache, McLeod settled his spectacles back on his face and ran a hand through thick grey hair.
"Not tired, just hot," he said with a grimace. "I had to wear my winter-weight kilt." He picked up a pleat in distaste. "Jane discovered only yesterday that the moths had been at my summer one, and you know how women are, when they get something in their heads: She wouldn't even entertain the thought of me wearing a suit."
Adam smiled. "If you wore your kilts more often, the moths wouldn't have as much chance to get at them."
"Och, I know that." McLeod raised a hand in dismissal. "I could have hired one, I suppose, but things have been so hectic at the office lately that I haven't had much time to spare for anything apart from police business. As a matter of fact, the next time you've got a free moment, there's something I'd like to talk over with you - just to see what you think."
McLeod's tone was casual, but the very fact that he had broached the subject of business at a purely social gathering made it clear that the matter to which he was referring had been weighing on his mind.
"I suppose I could make a bit of time just now," Adam said, "so long as it isn't anything too complicated."
"Well, the telling isn't complicated," McLeod said as Adam sat beside him. "You remember Donald Cochrane?"
"Of course." Cochrane was McLeod's chief assistant.
"Well, about a week ago, Donald handed me the file on a case that had come over from Traffic Division. It seems that in the course of the past four months, for some unknown reason, a particular stretch of the Lanark Road west of Currie has suddenly become the scene of a whole string of serious traffic accidents, with several fatalities.
"I say 'for some unknown reason,' " he went on, "because that bit of road has never been a problem before. I've driven it many times myself, and I can tell you that it's just a straight stretch of plain tarmac - no curves, no roundabouts, not many access roads - no potential hazards of any kind. As far as these recent accidents are concerned, there are no reports of any particularly adverse weather conditions on the days in question, likewise no unusual traffic congestion.
"Nor have we been able to make any human correlations. Investigators from Traffic Division checked over the medical records of the various victims and couldn't find any medical anomalies affecting any of the drivers. And yet, for all these noes, there have been no fewer than nine people killed or injured along this roadway since the beginning of the year. It's getting so bad that the media have begun referring to this bit of road as Carnage Corridor."
During McLeod's recital, Adam had become aware of something stirring at the back of his mind. It was a sensation he had experienced many times before, and invariably signalled that there was more to a given situation than might meet the eye. Without having any special idea what he might be plumbing for, he asked, "What can you tell me about the accidents themselves?''
McLeod pulled a scowl, setting both hands on the stone bench to either side of him and studying his black brogues and kilt hose.
"The first crash occurred on New Year's Day," he said. ' 'Three local lads were on their way home after an all-night Hogmanay party when the driver ran his car off the road. The vehicle overturned into a ditch, killing the driver outright. One of the passengers died a few days later; the other survived, but is still in a coma. They haven't much hope that he'll ever wake up. Everyone involved in the investigation assumed that it would turn out to be a clear-cut case of drunk driving, but the post-mortem showed that the man at the wheel had a blood alcohol level well below the legal limit."
"Asleep at the wheel, then?" Adam ventured.
"Maybe. But the hostess of the party says that all three lads had caught a few hours of sleep in the wee small hours, and they'd had a solid breakfast before setting out for home, with lots of strong coffee."
"Go on."
"Since then, there have been four more accidents, occurring roughly at three- to four-week intervals," McLeod continued, ' 'each of them attended by at least one fatality. They form enough of a pattern to suggest that there must be some common factor - but so far, nobody's been able to figure out what it could be. Given the fact that all logical avenues of investigation have failed to turn up an answer, I've begun to wonder if maybe the explanation we're after is one that defies conventional logic."
"The situation certainly would seem to border on the uncanny," Adam agreed. "Have you any theories?"
McLeod pulled a wry face. "Nary a one. That's why I thought it might be worthwhile to let you have a go at it. If you've any chinks in your schedule this coming week, I'd appreciate it if you could come down to the station and look over the reports for yourself, just to see if you get any feel for what might be at the bottom of it all."