He saw it clearly in his mind's eye; his hand obeyed him, sketching its details. But as he bent to the fine detailing, he became simultaneously aware of a growing strain on the silver cord holding body and soul together. With a final stroke to the sketch, he allowed the re-fusion, briefly closing his eyes against the now-familiar pang of disorientation and vertigo. Swaying slightly, he pulled himself up and realized that Somerville and Dr. Macaulay were directing curious glances his way.
Hastily he flipped over to another blank page to hide the dagger drawing and began another quick sketch. As he did so, he caught a look of unspoken inquiry from Adam, but his only response was a fleeting grin and a small shrug. He had Seen something, all right; but determining the significance of what he had Seen would have to wait until he and Adam and McLeod had a chance to review his drawings together in private.
Half an hour later it was all over. The official verdict handed down by the two pathologists was that Michael Scan-Ian had died from massive internal hemorrhage as a result of a stab wound to the back. Beyond this primary fact, however, many of the other aspects of the case remained open to speculation. As they gathered in the coffee room afterwards, shed of their surgical scrubs, Somerville and his medical colleagues were engaged in a debate on the possible identity of the murder weapon.
"We're definitely talking about something with a triangular cross-section," Dr. Gow observed, setting down her coffee mug. "In addition, the damage to the ribs at the point of entry suggests a degree of force more consistent with the penetrating power of a projectile weapon. The head injury was serious, but the wound was the proximate cause of death. There was virtually no fluid at all in the lungs. The man must have been dying even as he hit the water."
"Could the weapon have been some kind of spear - something like a harpoon, maybe? " Garda Sergeant Ryan asked. "We're working on the possibility that he and his partner ran afoul of illegal fishermen. It's the sort of weapon that might be used in a hot confrontation."
The two forensic surgeons exchanged glances. "That's not a bad guess, as guesses go," Macaulay said, "except that the wound itself is far too neat."
"A harpoon is barbed so that it won't come free without tearing the surrounding flesh," Dr. Gow pointed out. "Whatever implement made this wound came out as cleanly as it went in."
While the physicians and investigators continued to speculate, Peregrine quietly drew Adam and McLeod aside and showed them the drawings he had made of the dagger.
"This is what made the wound," he whispered, "though I obviously can't show it to them. I'm not sure what it is, though. Any ideas?"
McLeod gave a dissatisfied grunt and shook his head. "Beats me. I'd guess it's Oriental, though - or maybe South American."
"I'd vote for Oriental," Adam said, "but I don't pretend to be a expert on Oriental weaponry. Fortunately, there's someone in our immediate circle who is extremely well versed in Oriental artifacts - and I seem to recall something vaguely similar to this in one of her display cabinets. I think a call to Julian is in order."
"Aye, she'll know," McLeod concurred with a grim smile. "Or she can find out. Say, you don't suppose this is what Peregrine's ghost-monk was holding in his hand? Where are those photos, son?"
Opening his sketchbox, ostensibly to put away his sketch pad, Peregrine unearthed the best of the ghost-monk photos, with the blade-like extension between the monk's clasped hands.
"I think maybe that is what I was trying to see, when I took this shot," he said.
"I'd say you're probably right," Adam agreed. "And I'd say there's also an excellent chance that this is, indeed, the murder weapon. I'll certainly ring Julian before we leave here. And in the meantime, I wouldn't mind a look at that flag Somerville mentioned."
McLeod heaved himself to his feet with a nod. "I'll ask him about it," he said as Peregrine closed up his box. "Under the circumstances, I'm sure something can be arranged."
Somerville, when McLeod drew him to one side, proved as cooperative as predicted.
"Of course you can have a look," he murmured. "All Scanlan's personal effects are being stored in the local lockup until the procurator fiscal agrees to release them to the family. I've got to go along there anyway, to make my report. Why don't you follow me there?"
At the station in nearby Alexandria, Somerville showed McLeod and his associates into a side office and then disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a large storage carton with Scanlan's name affixed to it.
"I hope you won't mind if I abandon you for a few minutes," he told them. "I've got some phone calls to make. You'd think no one at headquarters can do anything, judging by the number of messages I've got waiting. Take all the time you want to go through this stuff. If you finish before I can get back to you, and you need to leave, just give a shout for the desk sergeant and he'll return the box to the safe. I've signed it out, so I'm responsible."
Most of the box was filled with Scanlan's clothing - his bright orange life-vest, the black-and-orange survival suit he had been wearing, the knitted black boiler suit that went underneath like long Johns, a few personal items from his inside pockets. Both suits had triangular tears in the back, though the sea had washed away all traces of his blood. Adam fingered the hole in the survival suit thoughtfully before laying it aside.
The flag was at the bottom of the carton, wrapped in a plastic bag. Pulling it out, McLeod shook out the folds of fine wool, stained by the salt water but otherwise as bright as the day it had been made. His expression was one of mingled fascination and distaste as he passed it to Adam for his inspection.
"I wonder if Scanlan did get this thing off a German U-boat," he murmured.
"I wonder, indeed," Adam agreed. "Peregrine, I don't suppose you can See anything that might be helpful?"
As Adam held out the flag, Peregrine found himself suppressing a shiver.
"Nothing immediate comes to mind," he whispered. "If you want, I suppose I could try handling it…."
"Don't, if it makes you uncomfortable," Adam said.
"No, it's all right."
Drawing a deep breath to ground himself, Peregrine picked up the flag in his two hands. It was slightly stiff from its saltwater immersion; he could smell its mustiness, the salt tang of the sea, as he raised it closer to his face. Everything else around him softened and blurred as he centered his attention on the folds of scarlet and black and white.
The image of the flag itself grew harshly articulate, its color and design impinging on his inner sight with fierce intensity. But when he tried to penetrate beyond that image, the picture itself suddenly exploded.
Chapter Nineteen
HE recoiled with a startled gasp, instantly muffled in the crook of one arm as he threw the flag from his hands. White light splintered behind his eyes like a splash of hot needles, but immediately dissipated. Only belatedly did he feel the bolstering pressure of a hand on his shoulder.
"Easy," came Adam's calm voice. "Did it give you a jolt?"
Coming out from behind his arm, Peregrine nodded and drew a shaky breath as he chanced a cautious look at the heap of crimson, black, and white. His two companions were staring at him in undisguised concern.
"Whew! I won't try that again soon," he mumbled. "The flag's protected somehow. I couldn't See past it. It's linked with something that doesn't want to be Seen."
"Perhaps the submarine it came from," Adam said slowly. "And that bears further thinking. It appears we aren't talking about a mere artifact of war here."
"Bloody hell!" McLeod muttered, exchanging a black look with his chief. "Do you suppose it connects with one of Hitler's Black Lodges?"