"Then, there will be a splendid party! Excellent!" Philippa exclaimed. "I shall look forward to helping the two of you plan the details. Incidentally, have you given any thought to a ring?"
"Not yet," Adam admitted.
"Then don't," Philippa said. "Unless, of course, you think Ximena would be averse to wearing the sapphire that belonged to my mother."
"The Rhodes sapphire?" Adam was obviously taken with the idea. "Mother, you have me at a loss for words. Thank you. I'll ask her, but I imagine she'd be delighted to wear it."
"Then I'll be sure to bring it with me," Philippa said crisply. "Being a surgeon, she'll probably want a plain gold band to go with it, but we can sort that out later. At least you've left me twenty-four hours' grace to get it out of the safe deposit box."
"I gather this means you approve of the match," Adam said wryly.
"Have you forgotten who you're talking to?" Philippa countered, and smiled to herself. "If your stars have been slow on the ascendant, my dear, their impending conjunction presages as bright a future as any two people could ever wish for."
Chapter Eight
THE Lothian and Borders branch of the Scottish police had its Edinburgh headquarters in a large office block on Fet-tes Avenue. Despite the seasonal garnishes of tinsel and holly scattered throughout the building, Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod was not in a particularly festive mood, thanks to an eight-hour shift spent trying to reduce an accumulated backlog of paperwork. He had nearly cleared his desk and was thinking fondly of going home when there was a sudden, unwelcome knock at his office door. Stifling an inward groan of misgiving, he barked, "Come!"
The door opened, admitting Sergeant Donald Cochrane, one of McLeod's most promising investigative aides. The younger man was brandishing a piece of fax flimsy in one hand.
"Glad I caught you before you left, sir," he said. "You remember that tarted-up pink piano that went missing last week?"
Cochrane's expression indicated that he might just have found it.
"Aye," McLeod said apprehensively.
"Well, I've just taken a call from Sergeant McGuinness over in North Berwick. He thinks he's found it."
"He thinks'?' McLeod muttered testily. "Hell's teeth, Donald, there couldn't be two like that! Where is the damned thing?"
"The van turned up in a derelict warehouse," Cochrane said. "A watchman stumbled on it more or less by accident, and notified the police. When they went to check it out, they found the piano in the back. McGuinness just faxed through the report."
Rolling his eyes heavenward, McLeod put out his hand.
"I know - crime of the century," Cochrane said, as McLeod skimmed the details. "But McGuinness thinks it might tie in with some heavy-duty burglaries in another part of his patch, and he and his lads have locked down the warehouse until the lab can get someone over there to dust for prints. I can handle it, if you want to get on home," he added, noting his superior's sour grimace.
Shaking his head, McLeod rose and retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair.
"No, I'll go. I've been cooped up here all day. Besides, you have a pretty young wife at home, and a baby daughter about to experience her first Christmas. You shouldn't miss that."
"You're sure?"
"Aye, off with you. I'll scare up a print man and get over there as soon as I can - and call Jane to let her know I'll be late for dinner. Just ring McGuinness before you leave, and tell him he'd better be at the warehouse when we arrive, or I'll sign it off and he can whistle for his prints. That club owner has been on my back three times a day since the blessed thing was stolen. With any luck, he may just be able to have it ready for his Christmas Eve opening after all."
"Will do, Inspector. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."
It was after eight o'clock by the time McLeod returned from North Berwick. Back in his office, he was just putting the finishing touches on his report when the telephone rang. This time McLeod did not scruple to curse out loud as he reached for the receiver. But his initial irritation soon lost its edge when the caller introduced himself.
"Inspector McLeod? This is Detective Sergeant Hugh Chis-holm, ringing from Stornoway, Isle of Lewis." Chisholm's voice held the soft lilt of the Western Isles. "We've not had occasion to speak before, but I believe you've worked with my wife's nephew, Sergeant Callum Kirkpatrick, who works out of Blairgowrie."
McLeod's stomach did a slow, queasy turn, for Blairgowrie recalled the ritualistic murder of a member of the Hunting Lodge - though that connection had never come to light during the investigation following its discovery. What had emerged was a well-orchestrated campaign to destroy prominent Freemasons, masterminded by a cult of black magicians operating from a secret base in the Cairngorm Mountains. Though Kirk-patrick, himself a Mason, had never learned the full truth behind the murders, he remained high on McLeod's list of approved contacts. Which meant that Chisholm also was likely to be more than a casual contact.
"Callum Kirkpatrick," McLeod repeated slowly. "Yes, indeed. I remember him well. He's a good man, and a fine police officer. I was impressed with his handling of that Blairgowrie case." He paused a beat. "I hope you aren't ringing to tell me you've got another one like it?"
"Not exactly," Chisholm allowed. "But there are some creepy similarities."
"Are we talking about a murder, Mr. Chisholm?"
"No, no - or at least I don't think so, though we're still checking on the human angle. But there certainly appears to have been some kind of ritual sacrifice involving a bull."
"I think you'd better give me all the details," McLeod said, reaching for a pen and notepad.
"Right. I don't suppose you know the stone circle at Callanish?"
McLeod had never been to Lewis, but he had read about the Callanish Ring and seen photos.
"Not directly," he replied, "though it strikes me as a hell of a place for nasty doings."
"Well, your instincts are dead accurate where that's concerned."
Quickly Chisholm outlined the case, stressing his own inexperience with such matters.
"We figure it must have happened late last night," he said thoughtfully. "We can account for at least three vehicles, plus a trailer or horse-box to transport the bull, and maybe six or eight perpetrators. You'd think someone in the village would've seen or heard something, but no one's talking, if they did. You know how local superstition can run in a place like this - and apparently for good reason, in this case. Besides, folk aren't apt to poke their noses out of doors much past about seven o'clock, this time of year - and the snow and wind would have muffled most sound anyway. The perps sure left an unholy mess, though. There was blood everywhere."
"Yes, you mentioned something about a ritual sacrifice," McLeod said, trying to shake off mental images of another secluded, snow-shrouded location drenched in blood, two years before, and a friend and colleague lying dead in the snow. "Mind telling me exactly what you found?"
A heavy sigh issued from the receiver. "Well, the bull had had its throat cut and its entrails pulled out, and then someone had flayed off the hide, quite expertly. We also found remnants of what looks like a crown of mistletoe and holly. And like I said, there was blood everywhere: daubed on the stones, painted on the ground - "
"Sounds like some kind of divination ceremony," McLeod said, praying that was all it had been. "What makes you think there might be a murder involved, as well?"