Watcher

by Grace Monroe

  The wedding was taking place at 4 p.m. in St Margaret’s Chapel, the oldest building in Edinburgh Castle. In the worst-case scenario, I would have been stuck in court until 3.30 p.m., but as long as I had my dress I could run up the road, and still be on time. I switched my mind to the wedding. I was starting to get in the mood but Jack Deans had other ideas.

  He refilled his glass, and said, ‘It’s not just some trial … it’s the trial of the century – at least that will be my headline.’

  Wandering over to the mullion-paned window, I stared down at the Witches’ Well, tapping my glass on the old window. I pointed out a ten-inch by six-inch black and gold sign that hung on the wall.

  ‘That is a pretty pathetic plaque. After all, it commemorates the fact that over three hundred women were burnt as witches on Castle Hill during the sixteenth century.’

  I half turned to face him. ‘And another thing. Everyone believes the Witch Trials at Salem were bad – but no one was burned.’

  ‘That’s misleading, Brodie. You always push it too far. In America the punishment for witchcraft was hanging – women were burnt in Europe because being a witch was heresy. Nineteen people were hung in Salem.’

  I poked my empty glass into his chest; it was my way of asking for a refill.

  ‘People are already saying hanging is too good for Thomas Foster,’ I said.

  Jack poured me some more of the chilled champagne. He didn’t agree with me.

  ‘As a matter of fact, people are saying they are surprised. No one thought he was a serial-killer type.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘But I’ll bet they’re denying knowing him … No one wants to be best mates with a serial killer. It’s bad for your image.’ Even as I said the words, I questioned them – Thomas Foster had been a fixture of the glossy society pages for some time, generally pictured with talentless hangers-on. They could all make a quick buck if he was found guilty.

  Room service knocked on the door of the ‘Old Library suite’. A young waiter rolled in a trolley covered with the finest starched linen and topped with more champagne and the largest seafood platter I had seen outside of Maine.

  ‘Why Mr Deans, I do believe you are trying to seduce me!’ I purred, using my best Scarlett O’Hara voice.

  ‘Tax deductible … you haven’t forgotten I’m only interested in the Ripper case.’ Rhett Butler fashion, he raised an eyebrow before pulling out my chair.

  It’s never a good idea to eat seafood with someone you hardly know; I tucked into the mountain before me with gusto, juice from the fresh Loch Fyne oysters running down my chin. It wasn’t so much that I knew Jack Deans well, I just didn’t care whether my table manners sickened him or not. I needn’t have worried; his face was down at the trough. I reached under the table and grabbed him by the bollocks. His eyes opened wide with anticipation and, squeezing his stomach, I said: ‘I thought there was supposed to be a famine on in Darfur?’

  ‘Not in the hotels frequented by foreign correspondents with large expense accounts and fuck-all to do.’ Jack wiggled his fingers in the bowl of lemon-scented water beside his plate.

  The lobster claws clanked noisily off the side of my plate. I’d lost my appetite and my head was beginning to hurt. I would have to start drinking again before the hangover took effect.

  Jack had told me earlier that seventy children under five die every day in Darfur, and the thrill I got from envisaging Connie running out onto the pitch on New Year’s Day paled into insignificance.

  ‘You can’t save the world – there’s no point in being maudlin. Lavender deserves to have a good day.’ Jack poured me more drink.

  ‘It’s the same the world over – children and women trafficked for sex,’ I said.

  ‘In every continent I’ve been in it’s the same … even Bosnia. But the governments will not even pay lip service to it. America doesn’t have a law against people trafficking because their defence contractors say it’s unenforceable in foreign lands.’

  ‘Is that unreasonable?’ I asked.

  ‘It is if the slave traders are American citizens.’ Jack grabbed me, pulling me over to the window again. His greasy finger marked the glass. ‘See that?’ He poked at the window. ‘That is the most Masonic street in the world.’

  ‘Jack, that’s bullshit! Masons are not sex slavers,’ I scoffed.

  ‘If you don’t believe that Masons are a force, why did you stir up the hornets’ nest by demanding to know if the judge was a member of any secret society?’ Jack said.

  ‘Doh … to get my client off.’

  ‘You should know better. If you want to get Thomas Foster off, use the fact that he’s a “Bonesman”,’ he said.

  ‘Pardon?’ I said, walking away from the window to refill my glass. He had reignited my interest in this conversation. I was open to any ideas about how to get a ‘not guilty’ for Thomas Foster, but with Jack it didn’t do to show you were too interested. Besides, I needed to get ready for the wedding.

  I pushed open a panel of books in the library wall, and it swung open revealing a bathroom. It was a suite we had stayed in before. The claw-foot bathtub was approximately one hundred years old, I remembered – I remembered that it was big enough for two as well but I didn’t want any distraction. I closed the door on Jack’s face, secretly pleased to see the look of disappointment. He shouted to me loud enough so I could hear him clearly above the roar of the water and through the books.

  ‘The society of Skull and Bones was started at Yale in the nineteenth century.’

  My ears pricked up. Thomas Foster told me he had been forced back to America to go to college; he was at Edinburgh University on exchange. The Molton Brown pomegranate bath gel was foaming into mounds of soapy suds. I lay back and allowed the hot water to relax my neck; the contrast with the champagne bubbles going up my nose was divine.

  ‘It was founded by Russell – a Boston opium trader. Russell and Co. was led by an old sea captain named Warren Delano the Second, the former American viceconsul in Canton and grandfather of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the thirty-second president of the United States. Not that we can talk – Russell and Co. were the second biggest drug dealer in the world. The Scots firm Jardine Matheson were the biggest,’ he said.

  ‘If Thomas Foster is a Bonesman, it doesn’t seem to be doing him much good,’ I shouted back, jumping out of the bath, soapsuds clinging to my skin dripping water all over the floor. I made straight for Jack’s razor; rubbing my hairy legs, I knew the real reason I hadn’t let him join me – still, there was always tonight!

  ‘Wait and see. Adie Foster is a Bonesman and Thomas was born to be one.’ Nepotism, I knew all about that.

  I remained silent, so Jack was forced to speak. He abhorred a void.

  ‘The Skull and Bones Society is not some two-bit club. President George Bush and presidential candidate John Kerry were both members – their influence makes the Enlightenment Society look like a joke.’

  ‘But not in Scotland,’ I shouted back. ‘Here the Enlightenment Society holds sway and it wouldn’t have any interest in Thomas Foster.’

  The Enlightenment Society, formed in the eighteenth century, was a secret brotherhood of lawyers, recruited as first-year students at Edinburgh University. Until recently, over 90 per cent of judges were alleged to be members.

  ‘They’re linked. Edinburgh New Town was built and designed by Masons – the Masons who built Castle Street went directly to work on the White House; the cornerstone of the Statue of Liberty was laid by a Scottish Mason – need I go on?’ he asked.

  ‘Can I stop you?’ I whispered.

  ‘Okay, you think this investigation is going to be based on reason, reliable evidence. It’s not. If you don’t believe me, ask your grandfather. Why did the police contact him when they arrested Thomas Foster? More to the point, I’d ask why he didn’t tell you Thomas was the Ripper?’

  At that moment, I stopped shaving my legs.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  St Margaret’s
Chapel, Edinburgh Castle

  Monday 24 December, 3.30 p.m.

  Step we gaily on we go

  Heel for heel and toe for toe,

  Arm in arm and row and row

  All for Lavender’s wedding

  A piper played ‘Mairi’s Wedding’, and Connie sang in her clear high voice, changing the words to suit the occasion. She skipped along excitedly in the late afternoon air; sometimes she ran back to squeeze my arm and whisper it was Christmas Eve. It was already dark and Edinburgh Castle was floodlit, eerie in the freezing fog. The bridal party marched across the bridge between the statues of Bruce and Wallace, through to the inner entrance.

  The uphill route to St Margaret’s Chapel was hazardous, the icy, uneven cobbles threatening to trip us up. We chatted and laughed as Dark Angels carrying flaming torches lit the bride’s way. Lavender held on to Grandad’s arm as they marched through the portcullis, as much to steady her nerves as to keep her balance.

  Eddie and Glasgow Joe in full Highland regalia were waiting at the altar. As a special concession to Eddie, Joe had agreed to matching kilts in Hibs’ tartan, predictably a fairly vivid green, toned down by black Prince Charlie jackets and waistcoats both with silver buttons. Full sporrans, brogues and traditional cream socks complete with skean-dhu daggers and green flashes completed their ensembles. Lavender was already ten minutes late; late enough to keep Eddie on his toes. Malcolm held on to my arm, probably afraid of slipping in his new, leather-soled shoes, but he kept bringing out his hanky and sniffing; there had been no last-minute reconciliation with Derek.

  St Margaret’s Chapel is high on a mound within the inner castle. Joe had left the Norman church to check if the bride was en route. He didn’t see us. He wandered over to the battlements. Edinburgh was partially hidden from him, like a fairy city concealed in the mist. He looked jumpy to me. He was swallowing too hard – from what I could remember, that was pretty much the only sign that Joe was afraid. He seemed to be searching the ramparts – I don’t know why. I might have to believe in Thomas Foster’s innocence, but Joe could rest easy and believe the story the police were putting out.

  In truth, I felt as if someone was walking over my grave. Maybe, we were both just remembering the tacky Las Vegas wedding chapel where we tied the knot. Sniffing the wind, I could smell that snow was coming, but there seemed to be something else out there, something that made my skin crawl. The Boxing Day sale signs were already up in the department stores on Princes Street – everything looked normal. But it didn’t feel normal, and I had no idea what was causing me to feel that way.

  Joe spotted us and waved. ‘You look gorgeous!’ he shouted at us. ‘Eddie’s here, he sent me out to check he hadn’t been stood up.’

  In an effort to include everyone in her happy day, Lavender had asked Patch to be the celebrant. When Joe saw him, it just looked as if his day had been made even more macabre – Patch had carried out the autopsies on the Ripper’s victims and the nuptials were now feeling just a bit too closely allied to death.

  Joe continued to search the night sky. He scrutinized the faces of the bridal party as well. He seemed to be the only one bothering. Moses was too busy ensuring no one set light to Lavender’s train to have much else on his mind. The Dark Angels formed a guard around her; not such a fabulous plan as hot wax seemed to be dripping everywhere. It certainly landed on my arm as I marched through to the church, sending me rushing into the chapel like a scalded cat.

  The Norman church was small, and serene; people had been baptized, married and buried there for nearly a thousand years.

  Huge candles lit the tiny chapel; flowers filled the altar and Eddie Gibb smiled from ear to ear as his bride walked towards him. William Wallace had worshipped here, as had The Bruce, but the look on Lavender’s face said only one man was her hero.

  The size of the chapel dictated that the Dark Angels remain outside; it was no bad idea. Their presence inside would have given Joe the willies even more. He was appalled when Eddie had told him he’d already seen Lavender today. That was considered so unlucky that no Scottish girl would allow it – but Lavender was from London after all and they were a different breed down there.

  Patch stood waiting at the altar and, as Lavender walked towards Eddie, Elvis crooned that he couldn’t help falling in love with someone or other. The pathologist claimed that he was Elvis’s biggest fan, attending conventions, and even standing at the gates of Graceland on his hero’s birthday. Joe often said that he didn’t know what unnerved him most: Patch’s fondness for the dead or the fact that a member of a strict, Scottish, Presbyterian congregation could risk eternal hell and damnation for Elvis.

  I looked across at Connie who, despite her previous excitement and delight at being a bridesmaid, was now fidgeting and, regardless of the romance of the occasion, already beginning to look bored. Fleetingly, I remembered my own awkwardness as a young teenager at adult events. No matter how much I’d looked forward to them, I’d felt out of my depth and lacking in confidence. As the only child present, being still, quiet and behaving ‘like a grown-up’ observer was as alien to her as it would be to a Labrador puppy. Both were used to being the centre of attention.

  I turned my attention back to Lavender and Eddie, facing each other, holding hands, ready to recite their vows. She looked absolutely beautiful – and a damn sight thinner than I’d ever seen her in the past. Give him his due, Eddie didn’t look too bad either – clean and, from what I could tell, sober. Joe watched me out of the corner of his eye, no doubt for any sign that I remembered our wedding day. Marry in haste, repent at leisure was the theme of that excursion into marital bliss. It was Joe who’d backtracked the quickest. Divorce in haste was the mistake he’d made. There was no way that I would come back to him, as I told him then – from my vantage point, he’d cast me aside, even if he claimed that it was for my own good. For more than two decades, Joe and I had laughed and loved and hated one another. It was a pattern and passion that looked set for life, and I refused to be tabloid fodder for marrying and divorcing the same guy over and over.

  Perhaps Jack represented an escape route from that fate. Perhaps that was his attraction. When Jack was in my bed, Joe couldn’t be. And the temptation was removed. But despite the highs and lows, it was difficult to imagine my life without Glasgow Joe somewhere at the heart of it.

  Looking at the assembled cast, I realized that, even though he liked Joe in theory, my Grandad would probably cut his eyes out rather than watch me be with him. He would never think Joe was good enough for me, and I guess he still thought that old families had certain standards to maintain. Assassins didn’t come into that – even if paedophiles did. The old man allowed a tear to fall unashamedly from his eye as the vows got underway and Eddie’s voice cracked with emotion. In accordance with the ancient tradition of the Celts he and Lavender spoke in unison.

  ‘I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night, and the eyes into which I smile in the morning.

  ‘I pledge to you the first bite from my meat and the first drink from my cup.

  ‘I pledge to you my living and my dying each equally in your care.

  ‘I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine.

  ‘I shall not slander you, nor you me.

  ‘I shall honour you above all others and when we quarrel we shall do so in private, and tell no strangers of our grievances.’

  Joe placed the gold Celtic knot rings on Patch’s Bible. With a trembling hand, Eddie placed one on the third finger of Lavender’s left hand; she steadied his hand and firmly placed a ring on him. Eddie kissed his bride, then ‘Amazing Grace’ filled the night air as Mr and Mrs Gibb walked out through the torchlight arch held by the Dark Angels. Lavender shouted ‘catch’ and her bouquet spun through the air. I don’t know whether it was a reflex or perhaps Lavender had aimed it directly at me, but I had to catch it to avoid serious injury. I didn’t want anyone to get ideas.

  The Dark Angels were feeling the cold.
Edinburgh Castle is a draughty place to be, even in August when the tourists flock there, but on a Christmas Eve that seemed to deny global warming, it was beyond bitter. Moses’ lips seemed to be turning blue as he kept an eye on his crew, and the piper led the procession smartly back down through the cobbled roads of the inner courtyard before he had a death on his hands. Marching quickly down the hill, Grandad admonished us all to plant our feet firmly to avoid sliding. We concentrated on this instruction, and striding through the portcullis, in our absorption, no one noticed that Connie wasn’t with us. No one that is, except Joe who, just as he had before the ceremony, had patrolled the battlements and chapel surrounds after it.

  Whatever he was looking for, he instead found Connie, huddled in the doorway, lip trembling, but trying to hold back the sobs of self-pity and confusion to which only a thirteen-year-old can succumb.

  ‘What’s wrong, darlin’?’ he asked anxiously.

  He told me later that night that Connie couldn’t quite explain, other than that she felt anxious, left out, in the way, ignored, and at the same time guilty about not feeling happy.

  Joe didn’t know what to do except envelop her in a comforting bear hug and assure her we all loved her.

  Clearly, once Christmas was out of the way, I should schedule a sisterly chat about how to deal with the natural, but nonetheless unpleasant, effect that blossoming hormones have on mood swings.

  Fortunately, by the time Connie and Joe had caught up with us at the bottom of the hill, her spirits were restored – and we had a wedding to celebrate.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Edinburgh Castle

  Monday 24 December, 3.30 p.m.