by Grace Monroe
‘His arms encircled me. I screamed, lashing out with the broken glass. I was so sure it was him, that boy with the strange eyes, and I was scared, so scared. Only when I felt its sharp edges pierce the skin did I notice whoever was holding me did not have a leather coat on–he was wearing a rough green Harris Tweed jacket. Someone had heard me–someone had come to help, and I had rewarded this, this saviour with a broken glass.
‘He started shouting: “Am I cut badly? Am I cut badly?” Kailash gulped for air like a stranded fish as she recalled the night’s events. ‘But the blood just kept gushing out of him.’
So Lord Arbuthnot had died a hero attempting to save a woman in distress. I wondered if he would have rushed to the rescue if he had known who she was?
‘The bunch of criminals fled, but not before they lifted my handbag…and I was left alone with Alistair MacGregor,’ she concluded.
I sat up sharply in my seat. She had called him by his own name. She would not have known that, unless she knew him well. Lord Arbuthnot was his judicial title, assumed when he took his seat as a senator in the college of justice. Judges don’t always take judicial titles but his father, Lord MacGregor, was, at the time, still sitting as the Lord Justice Clerk, the second most powerful judge in Scotland.
The MacGregors could trace their judicial lineage back for four centuries. But that bloodline ended last night, on a Princes Street pavement. Alistair MacGregor died without issue.
Sheriff Strathclyde sat watching Kailash, visibly moved by her story, and somewhat impressed that his deceased colleague had performed such a chivalrous, if fatal task. If a lauded man had to die, how much better that he should die in the pursuit of a noble deed, even if the heroine was a whore. Kailash wiped some tears away and decided she had a few more words to add.
‘I held him in my arms, but the blood just kept flowing.’
She paused and looked at the tape recorder before continuing.
‘I don’t know where he came from…’
She paused again, as though considering the dead man’s options. She lifted her eyes from the whirring tape inside the machine and reverted back to staring at Sheriff Strathclyde.
‘Oh…’ she whispered, before her voice became steadily stronger.
‘He must have come from the toilets.’
Sheriff Strathclyde leaped to his feet as a slow smile spread across Kailash’s face.
‘Stop that tape now! Stop it! I demand that you stop it!’ he shrieked at the stunned clerk.
‘Yes,’ went on Kailash Coutts. ‘I think he did. In fact, I’m positive. Lord Arbuthnot came from the public toilets. He came from the toilets.’
Sheriff Strathclyde was now on his feet, blustering, moving back and forth.
‘I order you to stop! Just stop speaking now, woman!’
Kailash looked at him one more time, looked at the still-whirring tape machine and pronounced:
‘Certainly. I’ve said all I needed to say. Thank you, M’Lord. Thank you.’
EIGHT
After the court was cleared and Kailash escorted back to the cells, I left as quickly as possible. I didn’t want, or need, to speak to my client just now, but I did have to go over what had just happened. Alone.
Ordinarily, I would have tried to nip back to the flat. Some mornings, some afternoons, some trials just left me needing time spent with nothing more strenuous than a cookbook in front of me. Running often worked, drinking too, but there was nothing more satisfying than taking your frustrations out on a block of meat or chocolate. Today wasn’t shaping up to be the sort where I could slip in a bit of kitchen action–Kailash’s outburst had seen to that.
Strathclyde’s behaviour was unheard of–judicial interference with a witness’s evidence may happen, but never so publicly, and never on tape. I couldn’t blame Strathclyde for his outburst. The toilets at the East End of Princes Street are a notorious gay haunt, particularly favoured by those keen on a nice wee bit of cottaging to go with their double lives.
Could it really be that, seconds before he died, the Lord President was ensconced in a grubby toilet cubicle, with a stranger? He was married, without children, but Alistair MacGregor and his wife Bunny had a public life that did not allow for any whispers or revelations. They were patrons of a children’s cancer charity, regular visitors to opening nights at the Festival and King’s theatres, and expected attendees at anything involving a ceilidh and small-talk that happened in the city.
Actually, I had some sympathy with Sheriff Strathclyde’s reaction. Lord Arbuthnot had died a hero–what had his sexual preferences to do with his death, or the memory of him?
As I left the court, the first editions of the Evening News had already hit the streets. As there had been no media present when Kailash had dropped her bombshell, I didn’t expect anything to be splashed across the front page–but it was only a matter of time. I grabbed a copy, just to be certain, and was reassured by the usual headline informing residents that traffic was worse, parking was impossible, and the Enforcers (the Dr Who-type name for the Capital’s traffic wardens), were evil personified. No change there.
However, it wouldn’t be long–helped by the selfsame papers–before Edinburgh would be reeling with shock. Particularly the Establishment. Ordinarily, the city was a peaceful place for them. Fist fights, brawls, even murders were common enough, but they were usually the work of what they still considered to be the lower classes who hung around pubs and such dreadful places. Every Friday and Saturday night, a thug would take a fist to his neighbour or his wife, and each weekend there was at least one stabbing in the pubs in Leith. These episodes were just part of life. For those who could buy themselves out of such a world, things were very different. They may worry about credit card fraud, or getting their purse pinched as they leave Harvey Nicks, but what had happened to Lord Arbuthnot would shatter their cosy little world.
Public opinion would soon decree that this was no ordinary murder. It had money, titles, gangs and sex–it was a story waiting to happen, and I gave it twenty-four hours tops before the shit wouldn’t just hit the fan: it would splatter us all.
With a television crew camped outside my office, I parked in the only spot in Edinburgh where I knew that I would not be harangued by the press. Outside the home of the deceased. Even in death, the elite are accorded privileges. If this had been a ‘normal’ killing, the media would have set up shop–in fact, there would be someone in there right now, persuading the bereaved that telling all to a tabloid followed by a stint on a talk-show would cure everything. Money doesn’t just talk–it buys peace and quiet too, and that was exactly what was happening on Heriot Row.
As I surveyed the scene from outside the private gardens opposite Lord Arbuthnot’s home, a small cardboard cup filled with steaming espresso was pushed under my nose.
‘Stop dreaming, Brodie,’ a familiar voice intoned. ‘Keep your eyes open if you’re set on making enemies.’
Jack Deans had emerged from the exclusive private gardens behind me, holding two cups of coffee and a bag of muffins. If past experience was anything to go by, he would have made his purchases in Rose Street at the police box coffee bar. To get to where he was now harassing me, he would have walked down to Heriot Row using the private Queen Street Gardens as a shortcut. Deans couldn’t have known I was parked in Heriot Row–he wouldn’t have seen me, over the high hedges that guarded the occupants’ privacy until the last moment. How had he known I was there? I knew it was pointless to ask him, as futile as asking how he, a mere commoner, had obtained the elusive keys to Queen Street Gardens. Deans would merely state he had his sources. He was a man who got himself into places no one else could. And, I guess my vanity would have to accept that, perhaps, he wasn’t looking for me; perhaps he had decided this was where he needed to be irrespective of who else was hanging around.
‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ Jack Deans was staring, openly envious, at Lord Arbuthnot’s Georgian townhouse.
‘Rarely come up for sale these
houses.’ Scanning, his eyes appeared to be noting every architectural detail.
‘One of the best addresses in the world,’ he went on, as much to himself as to me.
‘Robert Louis Stevenson lived at number seventeen. They’re passed down through families or sold privately to a suitable purchaser.’ Jack Deans’ mouth crumpled at the sides, giving him an air of disappointment, although I doubted if he had ever been in a position to buy one.
I didn’t join him in his reverie. I savoured the hot, strong espresso as I observed the house. Sure, it was elegant, but this street has always spooked me. These houses are not homes. They gleamed like the prized possessions they were, but I doubted there was often the sound of children’s laughter or happiness coming from them. Their owners did not even contribute to their appearance–well, only financially. They were largely owned by rich men with wives who lunched. The late Lord Arbuthnot and his wife, Bunny MacGregor, were no different. They’d have a legion of help to keep their little jewel shining, but the place would have no heart like all the others on the street.
The house had no front garden; you simply climbed three stone steps from the pavement to get to the door. This did not make it accessible. To the right of the doorway, a plain brass name plaque was fixed, declaring that Alistair MacGregor, Advocate, lived there. Judges remain advocates even when they are senators of the college of justice. Frankly, it would have been dangerous for the plaque to proclaim that this was Lord Arbuthnot’s residence. He was a hard man, a tough sentencer, who publicly and frequently stated that justice must not only be done, it must be seen to be done. The voice in which such statements would be delivered was–had been–rich and sonorous, honed by Eton and polished by Christ’s College, Cambridge.
‘He’s been in the Enlightenment since he was nineteen.’
Jack Deans came back to life and I immediately knew the reason for his interest in this case. My hands gripped the tiny cup that was still warm from the coffee. Turning to face him, I stared with what I hoped was a withering look.
‘So?’
‘You as well, Brodie? Another unbeliever.’
He was well used to this reaction.
‘I’m meant to get all excited about a debating group for public school boys? For people who should know better?’ I asked him.
‘Brodie! It’s a secret organisation that rules Scotland! Over eighty per cent of the judiciary are members.’
‘Jack, I’ve heard it all before. From you. Time and time again. I don’t care what little groups little boys join, not even when they keep their membership going when they’re grown men. If they want to shave their left leg and dribble toffee on their right nipple while pledging allegiance to some Faerie Queen of the thirteenth century, good luck to them. If they’re busy with that, maybe they won’t interfere in my cases and real lawyers can get on with real legal work.’
Jack Deans paused, before continuing as if I had never uttered a word.
‘And, as I was saying, all of them became members before they had finished their law degree. Like Lord Arbuthnot.’
He actually did have a point, but I’d be buggered if I’d tell him. Either the Enlightenment Society was the most incredible talent spotting organisation ever or there was something more to it.
‘Listen to this, then, if you think it’s all so innocent.’ Deans was winding himself up to begin a full-blown rant. Behind him I could see that we were being observed by someone hiding amongst the curtains in the late Lord Arbuthnot’s house.
‘In its official biography, it states that if ever judicial interests conflicted, with the interest of the Enlightenment Society, then the society’s interest must be primary.’
This guy was sad and clearly obsessed with conspiracy theories. So what if Arbuthnot and the old guys had got their jobs through nepotism, surely things had changed now?
Jack Deans was launching into a history lesson, but I was edging myself back into the shadows of the hedge so that I could see the goings on without being seen. My uninvited companion was making this very awkward.
‘The Enlightenment Society was founded in 1774, by two Masons from the Central lodge. Robert Louis Stevenson and Sir Walter Scott were both said to be members, and given their membership of other societies, I wouldn’t be surprised. The Enlightenment Society still meets every week at the University of Edinburgh. Its members pepper the highest offices in the land. At least eighteen Scottish Law Lords are members. This matters, Brodie, it matters.’
‘Jack, I. Don’t. Care. It’s irrelevant. The MacGregors are an ancient family, man and boy they have pledged their allegiance to the widow’s son.’ I started to use Masonic terminology, just to wind him up and to show that I was not completely ignorant.
‘Very good, Brodie. You’ve read a wee article somewhere, but obviously not the right one as you’re still so bloody sceptical. Did you know that the Masons began in Scotland?’
I didn’t. We are a small and largely barren land. I could see no good reason why an organisation that has been credited with some of the major changes in world history, such as the French and American revolutions, would begin in the homeland that I love dearly but still think of as a tad parochial. Besides, I was too interested in what was going on within the house.
Shaking his head from side to side, Deans lit a cigarette. A sign of the times, he did not offer me one. I was grateful–in a moment of weakness, I would have accepted. He generally claimed it was his last one, and he was in the process of quitting, but he’d wound himself up so much this time, that he didn’t even bother with the pretence.
‘You’ve got so much to learn. And you’ve got to start learning sharpish–for your own safety. I’ll start at the beginning.’
I groaned theatrically, but he still cleared his throat.
‘The Knights Templar fled to Scotland after Philip IV of France and Pope Clement V had their leader, Jacques de Molay, burned at the stake. You’ll know his face, it’s on the shroud of Turin.’
He just tossed that one in, as if everyone thought as he did.
‘Oh, that’s right, Jack. I remember reading that was a pretty recognised thing these days. In fact, I think the Pope has just issued a press release.’
Jack didn’t seem that interested in the black saloon that drew up outside the house. A subservient man in a sombre suit deferentially approached the front door. The undertaker, come to discuss funeral arrangements. I knew that he didn’t yet have the body, because I was due to attend the post mortem later that day. I didn’t get bothered by post mortems–or so I told myself and everybody else–but suddenly, I became acutely aware of the muffin sitting heavily in my stomach. Another reason to resent Jack Deans.
‘In March 1314 they roasted Jacques de Molay over a slow fire on the Ile de la Cite in the Seine. He cursed Philip IV of France and Pope Clement V, ordering them to join him before God’s seat within the year. They were dead under suspicious circumstances within months…and so started the powerful Templar legends.’
‘Thanks for the history lesson. Got any more on how to shut the fuck up?’ I snapped.
The undertaker was now safely ensconced inside. I did not see who had opened the door as it had been such a seamless movement.
Annoyingly, and predictably, Deans continued with his discourse.
‘Christendom was a dangerous place for the surviving Templars. Where could they run?’
‘Shame your brain wasn’t around in those days, Jack–I hear that’s a pretty vacant space.’
I had to hand it to him–he was a born storyteller. He couldn’t keep the dramatic inflections from his voice, and he loved an audience, even a reluctant one.
‘Only a country, where the Papal Bull did not extend would accept them. Robert the Bruce had been excommunicated, and so these learned wealthy knights were welcomed into Scotland.’
Pausing to light another cigarette and draw breath, he continued.
‘There are more Templar graves in Scotland than anywhere else in the world…outsi
de Jerusalem.’
The undertaker left the house. He had been inside for less than ten minutes, insufficient time for a cup of tea never mind to organise a funeral for a Knight of the Thistle.
Jack Deans was looking at me expectantly, probing me with his eyes.
‘What?’ I hissed and threw my hands in the air. What did he expect me to say?
‘Is that all you have to add? Scotland’s premier judge has been murdered, and, even off the record, you have no comment. Ach, Brodie–you’re not the girl I thought you were.’
‘My comment is…it was an accident,’ I said, trying to ignore the flutter I got from him almost complimenting me and almost admitting he thought about me. I almost managed.
Incredulous, he continued. ‘It’s the first time a judge has been murdered in Edinburgh. Now you know his background, and you know he was bumped off by a prostitute. Do you still say it was an accident?’
‘Yeah.’ I answered like a snotty teenager.
He looked let down.
‘Not everything is part of some hidden agenda, Jack. Sometimes, most times in fact, things are exactly as they seem.’
The house seemed to be stirring, an old cleaner, dressed in a floral crossover pinny, busily polished the brass nameplate, as if someone of importance was awaited. Not the master of the house obviously.
Surprisingly, Jack Deans had no interest in the comings and goings of the house. I was the sole focus of his attention. Scrutinising my face, he sought unknown confirmation of something. Satisfied, he nodded to himself.
‘You’ve a lot to learn.’
‘So you’ve said.’
Placing his tongue between his surprisingly white teeth, he paused for a moment. Thinking better of what he was about to say, he changed his mind.
‘If you see things as they are, and believe that’s all there is, you’ve led a sheltered life.’