The wind up by the stones was sharp. When Peregrine had ducked under the tape that Chisholm held up for them, he turned up the collar of his duffel coat with a shiver. McLeod seemed impervious to the vicissitudes of the weather, as did Harry. Frost crunched under their feet as they made their way toward the center of the circle, now seen to mark where the stone avenue and three single lines of stones converged in a rude Celtic cross design.
The details inside the stone circle were much more foreboding. An icy slick of reddish-brown still darkened an open space beside the central stone - obvious location of the bull's demise - and looking more closely, Peregrine could see where blood had been used to trace the outline of a smaller circle on the short wintry turf between the central stone and the irregular depression of an open tomb cairn. More blood still marked the insides of all the stones defining the circle - which he had seen in the photographs, of course, and with the bloody carcass of the bull still in place.
But somehow the reality was far more disturbing, even after the first attempts at clean-up. As Peregrine tried to make some sense of what he was seeing, a sudden flood of psychic impressions rose to meet him, beating against the barriers of his inner Sight with an urgency that was almost irresistible.
"Inspector," he said, as casually as he could, "if you don't mind, I'm going to pull off to one side and start making some sketches. This seems as good a place to start as any."
"Please yourself," McLeod muttered. "You know what we need. Harry, why don't you give him a hand?"
Harry merely inclined his head and gestured for Peregrine to lead the way. Chisholm, meanwhile, drew McLeod aside to point out what looked like a scorch mark at the base of one of the central stones, where the wintry turf showed pale and withered.
"What do you make of that?" he asked. "There are three more like it."
Crouching down on his hunkers, McLeod prodded at the mark with the end of a pen, then glanced around the circle and located the three other marks, obviously marking the cardinal points of the compass.
"At a guess, I'd say they were made by lights of some kind - kerosene lanterns, maybe, or oil lamps, or possibly votive lights."
"That was my thought, too," Chisholm agreed. "But you'd think someone would have noticed. There wasn't even any moon that night."
McLeod shrugged as he rose, all too aware how a sufficiently powerful Adept might contrive to screen his doings behind a veil of obscurity, especially if he harnessed the power of the moon at full wane. Such practice did not necessarily betoken dark intentions, but neither did it bode for good, coupled with the sacrifice of a black bull. But all he said was, "If they were shielded lanterns, and set at the right angles behind the stones, they might not have been visible from the village. And given that this apparently occurred well after dark, on a cold and windy night…"
"Aye, you're probably right."
Chisholm went on to show McLeod the symbols which had been painted in bull's blood on the standing stones of the circle. Though McLeod readily identified them as Druidical signs of warding, he did not mention to Chisholm that the symbols had been fortified by signature flourishes of unusual potency. Pausing to copy them into the small notebook he always carried with him, McLeod became conscious of a foreboding prickle at the base of his skull. Though the residual power of the stones themselves appeared to be neutral, it was becoming increasingly clear that the individuals who had carried out this work on Solstice Eve were anything but novices.
"I think it's time I went and had a word with that witness of yours," he said, snapping his notebook shut and turning briefly toward Peregrine and Harry. "I'll be back in a bit," he called.
The witness in question was sheltering in the lee of the furthermost stone in the south arm of the Celtic cross described by the stones. Enveloped in a heavy grey wool cloak instead of a coat, he had been almost invisible until he rose at their approach, pushing back the cloak's hood from long reddish hair plaited into braids on either side of his face.
He was a lanky young man, perhaps a bit younger than Peregrine, with a straight mouth, a bushy moustache, and a pair of earnestly frowning eyebrows that almost met across the bridge of his nose. Beneath the cloak, which was fastened at one shoulder with a bronze penannular brooch, he was wearing faded blue jeans, knee-high sheepskin-lined boots, and a mossy-green medieval-style woollen tunic, the latter girt at the waist by a broad leather belt with a buckle of handcrafted bronze. Cradled in the crook of one arm was a tall ash-wood staff surmounted by a shard of rock crystal.
He drew himself erect, like a prince receiving petitioners, as Chisholm led McLeod into his presence, taking the staff in hand and planting it firmly in front of him. Despite the hint of challenge in his manner, his dark eyes betrayed no trace of guilt or evasion.
"This is lolo MacFarlane," Chisholm said to the inspector, "lolo, this is Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod."
MacFarlane looked minutely relieved, but retained his guarded stance. "A DCI? I hope this means someone is going to take this case seriously."
His voice was a light, ringing tenor, not as confident in tone as his manner had suggested. Adopting a less aggressive approach than first intended, McLeod removed his aviator spectacles to polish them casually with a pocket handkerchief.
"Mr. MacFarlane, my associates and I flew up from Edinburgh this morning at Mr. Chisholm's request. You may take that as an indication that we are all interested in getting to the bottom of this affair. I'm hoping you can help us."
"Oh." MacFarlane seemed to unbend slightly. "You really came all the way from Edinburgh?"
"Aye."
"Well - thank you. Ah, how can I help?"
"I read over the case report and saw the photographs before I came," McLeod replied, "but obviously they don't tell the whole story." He put his spectacles back on. "Judging by the signs, this would appear to have been a Druid sacrifice, but there are elements here that don't add up. So I'd like to go back over your impressions, beginning when you first arrived on the scene."
"My impressions?" MacFarlane retorted. "How would you feel if you turned up for church on Sunday morning and found that somebody'd left a dead sheep on the floor in front of the sanctuary?"
"I'd be pretty thoroughly outraged," McLeod said with blunt candor. "And I'd bloody well want to find out who did it." He cocked an eye at the younger man. "Mr. Chisholm says you're a practicing Druid yourself. I know a bit about that, and I know this isn't how it's meant to be." He gestured back toward the site. "Suppose you tell us what you can surmise about the people who did this."
MacFarlane drew a deep breath, then inclined his head in guarded assent. "They certainly seem to have known their history. Sacrificing bulls was a regular practice amongst the later Druids, as was divination from the entrails. And they knew enough to carry it out in the traditional manner. But no true followers of the Druid way would have left such a mess behind. That's sacrilege. This is holy ground. And they used it like the floor of a slaughterhouse!"
He stopped short, his eyes blazing, and McLeod gave a sympathetic nod.
"Your anger and resentment are fully justified," he said quietly. "We'll try to wind up the technical part of this investigation as soon as possible, so you and your people can come in and do what's necessary to cleanse the site."
This statement earned McLeod a look of mingled surprise and gratitude.
"We'd be very much obliged," MacFarlane said.
"I'm the one who's obliged," McLeod replied. He took one of his cards from his pocket and presented it. "If you come across anything you regard as unusual in the clean-up process, I'd appreciate your giving me a call. I need to know, if we're to find who did this."