Amongst those who took notice of this operation was a burly young man seated in one of the vehicles waiting at the adjoining taxi stand. As the Bentley pulled away from the curb, the young man shucked aside the magazine he had been pretending to read and pulled out of the taxi queue, transmitting a brief message over the radio on a frequency that was not normally within the broadcast capabilities of a taxicab operator.
The message, briskly relayed through trusted intermediary channels, was not slow in reaching the ears of its intended recipients.
"Sinclair's mother!" Angela Fitzgerald exclaimed, when she heard the news of Philippa's arrival. "What the devil is she doing back in Scotland?"
This question was addressed to Richter and Mallory. The three of them had been summoned to Raeburn's library for an updated briefing session, but Raeburn himself had not yet made an appearance. In the interim, Richter had provided the others with folders containing annotated reports on the movements of all suspected associates of the Hunting Lodge, including the McLeods, the Lovats, and the members of Adam Sinclair's domestic staff. It had been judged too risky to tap into the telephone system at Strathmourne itself, but Humphrey's early morning departure in the Bentley had alerted Richter's operatives that something of note was afoot; and an intercepted conversation on the car's mobile phone had confirmed Humphrey's intended destination as Prestwick Airport, to meet an incoming flight from Boston. With that information, it had been a simple task to have an operative stake out the airport, confirming the arrival of Philippa Sinclair.
"We don't yet know about the plans of Sinclair himself," Angela reminded her companions, "but doesn't it strike you as a trifle odd that this meddlesome old she-cat should be paying a visit to the family manor while her son is still absent in America? It makes me wonder if McLeod and Lovat might have stumbled onto something up at Callanish to arouse the suspicions of the Hunting Lodge. If Sinclair couldn't come himself, it makes sense that he might send her."
Richter's bland expression remained unchanged. "Then we shall have to watch her as closely as we are watching Sinclair's other associates."
"And just hope to get lucky?" Angela asked.
Mallory had been considering his own reflection, captured at various angles in the mirror-like polished glass of the surrounding bookcases.
"I can't say the surveillance reports have made very interesting reading up to now," he observed over his shoulder. "I certainly haven't seen anything in them worth worrying about."
"Oh, really?" Angela countered scornfully. "And what would you know?"
"I know how to get more fun out of life than these self-sanctified Huntsmen do," Mallory replied. He picked up one of the folders Richter had distributed earlier and threw it open. "Just listen," he said derisively. "This is the entry for Christmas Day."
He struck an attitude and began to read, adopting for the purpose a parody of Richter's clipped German accent.
"At 0942, Mr. and Mrs. Peregrine Lovat were observed leaving Strathmourne Lodge. They got into their car and drove to Kinross, where they attended Christinas Day services at the Episcopal Church of St. Peter and St. Paul. Following the worship service, they repaired to Rose Cottage, the home of the Reverend and Mrs. Christopher Houston. The Lovats lunched at the cottage and stayed to socialize for several hours thereafter. At 1613 they took leave of the Homtons and drove back to Strathmourne Lodge, where they remained for the rest of the day."
He broke off with a gesture of dismissive. "Not my idea of a good time, I can tell you. But I guess that's the best you can do when you won't allow yourself the luxury of a few honest vices. I could almost feel sorry for them, knowing they've got nothing to add spice to their lives. Or almost nothing," he amended as his gaze lighted upon one of the photographs attached to the report.
The photo showed Julia Lovat seated at her harp. She was dressed in an Empire-style gown of white organdy, with a softly flared skirt and leg o'mutton sleeves. Her red-gold hair was caught up into a knot at the back of her head and pinned in place with a spray of white Christmas roses. In the background, slightly out of focus, could be seen the candlelit outline of a stained-glass window.
Mallory ran a caressing forefinger over the image in the photo. "How positively angelic!" he sighed expansively. "She might almost tempt me to set foot in a church myself one day."
Angela snatched the file away, photo and all, and tossed it on the table.
"Save it, Derek. We've more important things to do than listen to you indulge in crude adolescent fantasies."
Mallory bridled at her tone, but before he could reply, a languid voice intruded on the conversation.
"What seems to be the trouble, children?"
The three of them turned to see Raeburn lounging in the doorway, hands in the pockets of a navy blazer, looking somewhat underslept. Barclay shadowed him half a pace behind, mostly restored to his normal resiliency by a week's rest and recuperation, though dark smudges still stained the hollows of his eyes, giving him a haunted look. He followed as Raeburn made his way over to the desk and unhurriedly took his seat.
Mallory gave a Byronic toss of his head and moved a straight chair closer to the desk. "Our dear Angela has been expressing some concern over the news that Philippa Sinclair was seen arriving at Prestwick Airport less than two hours ago," he announced.
Raeburn raised a blond eyebrow, apparently no more troubled than a senior financial officer advised of some trivial bookkeeping problem.
"Indeed," he said mildly. "And why should that necessarily cause us concern? Sir Iain Sinclair's widow still has friends and family living over here. It is possible that this could be nothing more than a social call."
"With Adam Sinclair out of the country, and Christmas already past?" Angela retorted. "I think it far more likely that she's here at the behest of the other members of the Hunting Lodge, to help them look into the Callanish affair."
Mallory directed an arch glance in Angela's direction.
"They must be in bad form, if they need assistance from a woman old enough to be my grandmother."
"That old woman," Angela said evenly, "is as much a Huntsman as any of them. And all of us would do well not to forget that."
"No one is forgetting," Raeburn said patiently, "but it seems I must keep reminding you that the Hunting Lodge have nothing of substance to go on. Such evidence as does exist points only to Taliere - and as long as we have him under wraps, that evidence won't get them very far. So let them keep spinning their wheels by attempting to track him down. By the time we're finished with him, he'll be of no further use to anybody. Do I make myself understood? Good. Then let's get down to the business at hand."
The others had moved closer while Barclay arranged more chairs in a semicircle in front of the desk, and Raeburn gestured for them to be seated.
"Now," he began, "the operation at Callanish was always a calculated gamble. Though that gamble failed to pay off, we have by no means exhausted our potential for success. On the contrary, Callanish was only the opening gambit of the game. I have been reviewing our position, and have come up with an alternative strategy which promises to yield even higher returns than our original plan."
"It had better," Richter said. "We are playing for very high stakes."
"I'm well aware of that," Raeburn agreed. "But we've come too long a way to waste our energies thus far - and I believe we can build on what we have achieved.