"Did he say or do anything?" McLeod asked.
"Aye. He - put a flask to my lips and tipped something into my mouth. I can almost taste it, even now - odd, aromatic… And then things really began to get weird…."
He paused and gulped for breath. Peregrine had an odd look on his face, but McLeod only nodded slowly.
"I don't suppose this man had a name?"
Harry closed his eyes, wrestling with a memory just at the edge of retrieval. "He did. It wasn't said, but somehow I knew who he was. Something - something beginning with a T". Tal - Toller, maybe? No, more like Talley… but longer. Tallier. That's not quite it. Tallier… No - Taliere. Yes, that's it. Taliere."
"Taliere." McLeod tasted the four syllables, then shook his head. "It doesn't ring any bells. What happened then?"
Harry shuddered and shook his head. "I can't remember exactly. Things got very dark. I - can only describe my feeling as one of dread. My head felt like it was about to explode, like there was something in there, trying to get out - or something outside, trying to get in…." He shuddered again. "I can't remember anything more, but it was awful." He swallowed with difficulty and finally looked at McLeod again. "What - what does it mean?"
"It means, my friend, that you seem to have experienced a rather potent flash of psychometry, almost certainly triggered by contact with that bit of ligature," McLeod said casually, laying a gloved hand on Harry's forearm in reassurance. "I've been half expecting it for some time, though I didn't anticipate anything quite this dramatic, first time out."
Harry's jaw had dropped during McLeod's explanation, and now his face went pale beneath its tan.
"I'm not sure I want to hear this," he whispered. "You know I haven't any psychic talents."
"So you've always claimed," McLeod said with a faint smile. "However, I've suspected otherwise for some time. The ability to pick up psychic impressions from physical objects is one of the more useful and better-documented types of psychic sensitivity."
"I know what psychometry is!" Harry snapped, then raised both hands to rub at his temples distractedly, shaking his head in denial. "God, I don't believe this. Couldn't this just have been imagination run rampant?"
McLeod smiled thinly. "Counsellor, I would never venture to describe you as a fanciful man."
"And even if you were," Peregrine said quietly, "I think I can produce some rather compelling independent evidence."
He turned to one of the newly filled pages of his sketchbook and held it out for Harry to see: a sketch-portrait of an elderly white-haired man garbed in the costume of a pagan priest, crowned with a winged headdress in the form of a speckled bird.
"Is this anything like the man you saw?" Peregrine asked.
Harry stared at the drawing. His jaw dropped slightly, his face growing paler still under its healthy sheen of outdoor tan.
"Dear God, that's him exactly!" he whispered, suddenly weaving a little on his feet. "That's him, right down to the last detail."
Casually pulling off his right glove, McLeod turned the stone of his Adept ring inward and lightly clasped the back of Harry's neck, making certain the stone made contact.
"Steady, old son. Just close your eyes for a minute and take a deep breath," he directed with calm authority. "Now let it all the way out. You're perfectly all right. There's absolutely nothing wrong with you. Quite the contrary, in fact. Psychometry's a very useful talent. We'll talk more about this later. In the meantime, just relax and take another deep breath… Now another… You'll be fine in a few seconds."
Harry did as McLeod instructed, trembling beneath the inspector's hand. After a moment or two, his breathing steadied and his face started to regain its normal color. After another few seconds, McLeod slid his hand down Harry's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"Better now?" he asked, as Harry sheepishly opened his eyes.
The counsellor nodded and took a deep breath, letting it out with a whoosh.
"You'll have to excuse the attack of funk," he murmured to his companions, suddenly self-conscious. "I never thought anything like this would happen to me. Maybe proximity to you people triggers this kind of thing, Noel. Or maybe it's just that one is more inclined to believe, having seen you work."
Or it could be that the time is ripe for you to come into possession of your own talents, Peregrine reflected. He certainly had no trouble remembering how alarmed and confused he had been when his own talent first had begun to manifest itself, not so very long ago.
But before he could offer Harry any words of reassurance, the sound of hurried footsteps on frosty ground heralded Chisholm's return. He was shaking his head, looking grim.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you on your own," he announced. "If you'll let McIver know when you're ready to head back to Stornoway, he or Maxwell will run you in."
"Trouble?" McLeod asked.
"Aye, but only the usual sort, thank God - not that the poor bastards involved will know the difference," Chisholm replied. "We've got a vehicle over the side on a really bad stretch of road, down toward Harris. It looks like two dead - local chaps. A recovery team is on the way, and I've said I'll meet them there."
McLeod raised an inquiring eyebrow. "I don't suppose there's any chance of a connection with this?"
Chisholm shrugged, but he looked unconvinced. "I suppose it's possible," he allowed. "Dispatch said it's a Land Rover - which is certainly capable of pulling a horse-box with a bull in it. But it's far more likely that the two incidents are unrelated. This time of year, people drink far more than they should and then try to drive. It's probably just poor judgement and bad luck."
"But you'll let me know if you find anything to change your mind," McLeod insisted.
Chisholm cocked his head quizzically. "Do you know something you're not telling me?"
"No. Just ring me if anything seems odd. I tend to mistrust coincidences, when dealing with something like this."
"All right. And ring me if you come to any conclusions about all of this."
"I will, that."
After Chisholm had taken his leave, McLeod and his companions walked the outside boundary of the circle a final time before seeking out PC McIver for the promised lift back to Stornoway. Their departure was noted with what appeared to be only casual interest by a man loading photo equipment into the passenger seat of a grey Toyota, but he lifted a long tele-photo lens to observe as the police car pulled away and disappeared down the single track leading back to the main road.
When he had stowed the camera in a fitted case and closed the passenger door, he produced a small cellular phone from a breast pocket of his anorak and, as he walked around to the driver's side, punched in a Glasgow telephone number.
Chapter Ten
IN Francis Raeburn's library, Angela Fitzgerald cradled the telephone receiver with a brittle click, then turned to Rae-burn with a peevish grimace that contained no mirth whatsoever.
"That was one of my people checking in," she informed him tartly.
Raeburn was ensconced in a chair by the library hearth, feet on a footstool, meditatively nursing a measure of fine brandy. Pausing to take a sip, he eyed Angela over the crystalline rim of his snifter. "And?"
"And it seems your little piece of playacting up at Callanish has already drawn some of the very attention we hoped to avoid. The cops on Lewis are more savvy than you gave them credit for. They called in McLeod."