Dark Angels. Grace Monroe

       NINE

      Jack Deans was going to be tight-lipped about this one until he alone decided it was time to speak. This man was obviously important, not merely because of Deans’ reaction, but because of the aura he had about him and which even I could sense from my vantage point amongst the bushes.

      My heart played knock and rattle with my chest. I knew this man from somewhere but I couldn’t say where. He stopped at the foot of the steps, his back unbowed with age, and his hair silvery white. We were feet from him, as I tried to blend in with the shadows of the hedge.

      Turning in our direction, as if aware that he was being watched, he looked hard. Intense blue eyes pierced out of his tanned, weather-beaten face. If eyes are the windows of the soul, his was icy cold. At best he could be described as purposeful.

      No resident of Scotland had skin like that. This man had clearly lived abroad for years–so how did I know him? Pedigree hung about him, like mist at dawn. Surely only mourners would darken the doorstep of the deceased today–but on this man, no trace of grief showed. Breeding had strengthened his upper lip.

      Jack Deans was still silent as the man turned on his hand-made leather brogues and walked up the stairs. The door was open before he arrived. His appearance was evidently expected. The door had swung open, as if by some ghostly hand; the person opening it remained unseen. Deftly, the old man disappeared inside.

      I felt a gnawing at my insides. I ached to know who he was. Shamefully, I was willing to trade anything. My voice was high and excited as I spoke.

      ‘Right, Deans, spill. If you want any inside information, scoops, whatever, now’s your chance. Tell me who he is.’

      ‘Calm it, Brodie. Don’t be so impatient. Or so desperate. It’s not your most attractive feature.’

      Since childhood, I have found it impossible to believe that patience is a virtue. My right boot tapped a salsa rhythm on the cobbles beside my bike. When anxious, I fidget. Jack Deans was enjoying my discomfort, although he seemed at a loss to understand my urgency.

      ‘Impressive old bloke, isn’t he?’ he teased me as I nodded assent.

      ‘I’m surprised you don’t know who he is. He was a fighter pilot during the war…’

      ‘Well, I wasn’t around then, and an obsessive interest in military history seems to have passed me by,’ I answered. ‘So, if you could get your self-importance out of a place where the sun doesn’t shine, maybe it wouldn’t kill you to actually tell me who the old codger is?’

      Jack Deans stared at me.

      ‘You don’t even recognise him?’

      It was a question to which he expected an answer. I was not prepared to give him any insight into what the sight of this old man made me think–I didn’t quite know myself, other than the vague sense of recognition.

      ‘Of course I do, Deans. It’s just that I so enjoy our never-ending verbal sparring that I thought I’d keep begging you to tell me just for fun.’

      ‘It’s Lord MacGregor,’ he revealed.

      ‘The old Lord Justice Clerk?’

      ‘If you want to put it that way, yes. Personally, I think his role as father of the murder victim is more important.’

      I wouldn’t have recognised him from court because he retired from the bench long before I was called. The only thing I knew about his career was that some still said he had retired too young and that the Law of Scotland had suffered as a result of his lack of influence.

      The need to know how I knew him still gnawed at me. A traffic warden passed his car, stopped to look at it, then, magically moved on. I was still puzzling over this. Edinburgh wardens are mean and vindictive, and generally deserve their press coverage. I personally had never witnessed one walk away from such easy pickings.

      Speaking of easy pickings, I turned my attention back to Jack Deans.

      ‘Why were you surprised that he turned up? Surely, a father-in-law would be the first one to comfort the widow.’

      ‘I wasn’t surprised,’ he sounded huffy, ‘I just said I wondered if he would. There’s a difference. I like to keep an open mind on all things.’

      I snorted before snapping, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, just tell me what the score is here.’

      Resigned, he spoke. Slowly at first, as if trying to formulate it all in his head.

      ‘They fell out years ago. I don’t think they were ever close. No one knows what the cause of the argument was but Lord MacGregor refused to sit on the bench with his own son.’

      Jack Deans chewed on the end of his pen, trying to formulate his own answer.

      ‘The members of the Enlightenment wouldn’t get involved, wouldn’t even try to sort out the mess and old MacGregor resigned.’

      I ignored the way Deans had managed to bring his conspiracy theories in again and asked: ‘Was Lord MacGregor involved in the law at all after that?’

      ‘No,’ answered Deans. ‘He severed his ties and left the country, although he did keep his flash pad in town. He was a widower, so he took to wandering the globe. Finally, he settled in Thailand, and I understand he married again and has a young family.’

      The lives some people lead. At his age, I would have thought he was more in need of a pipe and slippers than a mail-order bride. It was all interesting enough, but still didn’t explain where I knew him from. I waited anxiously for Lord MacGregor’s exit from the house.

      ‘There was only one connection that Lord MacGregor kept up,’ added Deans.

      I turned to face him, but he toyed with me like a game show host pausing to increase the suspense. I moved away, keen not to let him see my interest in this matter.

      Eventually he gave in.

      ‘The only link that Lord MacGregor maintained was his post as governor at Gordonstoun School.’

      Looking at me in anticipation, he continued:

      ‘Coincidentally, he severed that tie the year you left.’

      Again with his conspiracy theories.

      This time trying to drag me in.

      ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jack, it’s not unusual for old boys to remain in touch with their schools. Some judges even take their judicial names from their school house.’

      Jack Deans cut me short.

      ‘He went to Eton.’

      I couldn’t think about this latest piece of information. The black-painted front door was opening, the brass lion knocker looked positively menacing. It seemed as if nothing was happening, and an inordinate amount of time passed between the opening of the door and the eventual emergence of Lord MacGregor. He walked out of the house alone.

      ‘Interesting. I would have thought if that pair had buried the hatchet, then Lady Arbuthnot would have seen him to the door,’ commented Deans.

      ‘Perhaps she’s too upset by her recent bereavement to move.’

      ‘You obviously don’t know Bunny MacGregor. Appearances count for everything. Even in death.’

      He looked at me conceitedly, and I, for one, was getting heartily sick of this game playing.

      ‘Jack, I didn’t know we