Dark Angels (8 page)

‘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…outside 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.’

I couldn’t deny it. He was right. I had led a charmed life to date. Although my father had forsaken me before my birth, my mother Mary McLennan moved mountains to give me the future she thought I deserved.

Mary was born in a fishing village in the north east of Scotland. It bears no importance to my life, except for one stroke of good fortune: its proximity to Gordonstoun, the school for the Royals.

Gordonstoun provides nine free places to children from the surrounding fishing villages. Mary McLennan lied and cheated my way into one after primary school was over. It wasn’t easy. I was an outcast, but, over the
years as I saw my peer group take up soul-destroying jobs or sign on the dole, I was grateful for every time she shouted at me and made me study.

I never quite understood her passion, to push me up the social ladder, because she was perfectly content with her own life. It just wasn’t good enough for me. Mary worked two jobs to give me the finest. I promised I would repay her selflessness one day.

We were both cheated. If there is a God, He saw fit to deny her greatest wish–to see me graduate Suma Cum Laude from the Law Faculty at the University of Edinburgh.

Dying from the cancer running rampant throughout her body, doctors were unable to control her pain. Delirious with morphine, she repeatedly begged my forgiveness, crying over and over again that I was meant for better. Without seeing me graduate, she would never know that she had achieved what she dreamed of. I had reached my potential. I had succeeded. Mary was a humbling mother in many ways, and the root of my addiction to work, I freely confess in moments of introspection, came from being a slave to her ambition for me.

My reverie was shattered as Jack Deans grabbed me by the shoulders. He swung me round, directing my eye line to the car that had just pulled up outside Lord Arbuthnot’s home. An ancient two-seater Morgan roadster. Racy, with maroon and silver paintwork. The driver parked on the kerbside, directly in front of the house. Flouting the yellow lines he ignored the parking bays where we were. Obviously not an
Evening News
reader. Jauntily, a tanned old man jumped out with a spring in his step, which belied his years.

‘I thought I told you, Brodie,’ said Jack. ‘You’ve got to keep your eyes open.’

He paused before whispering:

‘I was wondering if he’d show up.’

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.’