Murmuring the Judges

21

In common with many of Scotland’s judiciary and Bar, Lord Murray of Overstoun, Lord President of the Court of Session and Lord Justice General, Scotland’s second Officer of State, lived in Edinburgh’s New Town.

His home was a large apartment in Circus Place, an elegant residence on two levels, with a grand book-lined drawing room, dining room and principal bedrooms on the upper floor, and a veritable warren of bedrooms, stores and studies below.

Before his elevation to the Bench, the Lord President, then David Murray, QC, had been Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. He and Skinner had known each other well at that time, and had had frequent contact, but they had not met since Murray’s first judicial appointment.

The diminutive, bespectacled judge greeted the policeman as he arrived, holding open the great grey-painted front door and ushering him into the tiled outer hall. ‘Good morning, Bob,’ he said, warmly. ‘It’s good to see you again. I was intrigued by your call last night. Let’s go through to the drawing room and you can tell me all about it.’

He led the way through the inner hall and into a large room to the right, where two large, overfed spaniels lay in front of the unlit fire.

Skinner had a deep respect for the judiciary. ‘Thank you for seeing me without proper explanation, My Lord.’ he began.

‘Forget the My Lord stuff, man. I’m not on the Bench now, and my name’s still David. I knew you’d be prompt, so the coffee’s ready.’ He filled two cups from a jug on a tray on his desk, added milk to one and handed it to his guest. It was the first time the policeman had ever seen him casually dressed. His grey slacks and open-necked shirt made him seem even smaller. They contrasted with Skinner’s relatively formal clothing, black trousers and navy blue blazer.

‘Thanks then, David.’

‘Sit over there, by the fireplace. Shift the dogs if they’re in the way.’

The two men settled into comfortable leather armchairs, facing each other. Lord Murray’s feet barely touched the ground, but there was something about his piercing blue eyes which made everyone who met him forget his lack of stature.

‘How are the family?’ he began. ‘Last time we met you weren’t long married.’

The detective smiled. ‘They’re great. Sarah and I have had our troubles since then, as you’ll probably know, but, thank God, they’re behind us.’

‘Yes, I’d heard that too, and I’m glad. That’s a fine thing you’ve done, adopting the McGrath boy.’

‘To me it’s a privilege. Wee Mark’s what you might call a designer son.’ He sipped his coffee, testing the temperature. Finding it tolerable, he took a deeper swallow.

‘So,’ said the judge. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Can I ask you something first?’

‘Of course.’

‘Was there any reason for ordering the post-mortem on Archergait, other than the one you gave Joe Hutchison?’

Murray’s brow furrowed. ‘No. There were precedents, and like a good judge I followed them. Why do you ask? Has Billy’s family objected?’

‘Not that I’ve heard. They’ll be grateful to you, in fact. It turns out that the old boy was poisoned.’

‘What!’ The Lord President’s mug slipped in his hand, spilling a little coffee on to his trousers. ‘Poisoned, you said. Oh, that’s awful. I take it you mean food poisoning. I’ve heard that some of these new bugs can be devastating to older people.’

‘No, it wasn’t food poisoning, certainly not in the sense you mean.’

‘Then what possibilities are you looking at? You’re not saying he committed suicide, are you?’

Skinner raised an eyebrow. ‘Other than Nazi war criminals, I’ve never heard of anyone committing suicide by taking cyanide. I’ve also never heard of anyone taking an overdose in a public place.

‘No, David. There’s only one realistic proposition as far as I can see. Lord Archergait was murdered.’

‘You’re not serious.’ The little man slumped even deeper into his chair, shock written on his face. He sat silent for a while, coming to terms with Skinner’s news. ‘Murmuring the Judges,’ he whispered, at last.

‘Pardon?’

‘I said, “Murmuring the Judges”. It’s an old Scots legal term for public criticism of the Bench. A very serious offence, it was. But “Murdering the Judges”; that’s more serious still.

‘I can hardly credit it, Bob. You’re telling me that someone actually killed old Billy, in his own Court, right up there on the Bench?’

‘I see no other explanation.’

‘How could poison have been administered, there in a public place?’

‘My first priority is to find the answer to that question. I’m hopeful that more detailed analysis of the stomach contents will tell us.’

Lord Murray shuddered. ‘When will that be complete?’

‘Tomorrow morning, at the latest.’

‘Does anyone else know about this?’

‘Joe Hutchison, who did the post-mortem, my wife, who assisted, and my Head of CID. Oh, and my daughter, who was there when Sarah told us.’

‘You haven’t informed the Fiscal yet?’ The Lord President laid his mug on the hearth. He pushed himself out of his chair, and walked to his desk, which was set by the window.

‘Not yet,’ Skinner replied. ‘I wanted to speak to you first. I must tell the Crown Office soon though, or I’ll be in default of my duty.’

‘I’ll come to see Pettigrew with you,’ Lord Murray declared.

‘Actually, in this case I intend to go over Pettigrew’s head, and advise the Lord Advocate personally.’

‘Yes, I agree with that. And since Archie lives just round the corner, he can come to see us. I’ll give him a call now.’ He picked up the telephone on his desk and pressed one of the instrument’s bank of memorised numbers.

‘Lord Archibald, please. It’s the Lord President speaking. ’ In the brief silence which followed, Skinner glanced about the room. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling along one wall, many of them filled with heavy leather-bound volumes in which much of Scotland’s case law was enshrined. Facing them, above the ornate fireplace, which he guessed had been in the house since it was built almost two centuries before, hung the only picture in the room, a portrait of Lord Murray’s great-grandfather, a predecessor in the office which he now held.

‘Archie,’ the judge resumed. ‘Something rather serious has happened. Do you think you might look round to see me?

‘Well, now, actually.’

Within five minutes, Skinner saw the stocky figure of the Lord Advocate as he bustled past the window and up the steps to the front door. Lord Murray greeted him at the door, and showed him in to the drawing room. Lord Archibald, casually dressed like his near-neighbour, started in surprise as Skinner rose to offer a handshake.

‘Bob. What are you doing here? But then David did say that it was a serious matter. Don’t tell me one of the judges has been misbehaving.’

‘Actually,’ said the Lord President, ‘it’s rather the opposite.’ He pointed Archibald to the chair which he had vacated, taking a seat himself on the matching settee. ‘Bob will explain.’

‘I have a formal report to make, Archie,’ the detective began, ‘of a serious crime which I believe has been committed.’

Scotland’s senior Law Officer sat in amazement as Skinner repeated the findings of the post-mortem on Lord Archergait, and the inevitable conclusion which he had drawn.

‘That’s what I believe,’ he said.

‘In that case,’ said Lord Archibald. ‘I have no choice but to instruct you to begin an investigation.’ The big policeman nodded.

‘Now that formality is complete, Bob,’ said Lord Murray, ‘how do you intend to proceed?’

‘As quietly as I can, David. Who else knows about the post-mortem?’

‘Billy’s two sons. His wife died three years ago. I didn’t discuss it with anyone else.’

‘That’s good. Where can I find them?’

‘Norman King, the older one, is a practising Member of Faculty. The younger brother is a big-firm accountant. He’s at the Harvard Business School just now.’

‘You don’t happen to know where Norman was when his father died?’

‘I do,’ said the Lord Advocate. ‘He was prosecuting in a High Court trial in Glasgow. He’s an Advocate Depute.’

‘I’ll see Norman and tell him what’s happened.’

‘What about the funeral?’ the Lord President asked. ‘That is to say, can the body be released, in the circumstances?’

‘For a burial, yes,’ Lord Archibald agreed. ‘I’d be reluctant if they planned a cremation, for fear of a claim by the defence in any future trial that the Crown had destroyed the evidence.’

‘That’s fine.’ Skinner nodded. ‘Let them have their funeral, as if nothing untoward has happened. I have an edge here, I think. I don’t believe that Archergait’s killer anticipated a post-mortem. A judge dies suddenly, up on the Bench; it looks like heart failure, so he thinks that’s what everyone will assume. He couldn’t have known that you’re a stickler for precedent, David.’

He grinned. ‘It’s every detective’s dream: to be investigating a crime which the perpetrator believes to be undetected.’

‘Do you mean you’re not going to issue a statement about the murder?’ the Lord Advocate asked, surprised.

‘I’ll do whatever’s in the public interest. In this case, I believe that I may have an advantage over a killer. In my judgement it’s in the public interest for me to keep it secret for as long as I can.’

‘How long will that be, though? I don’t want any embarrassing questions in the House of Lords.’

‘A few days, Archie, but that may be enough. We could wrap this up very quickly. But you’re right, when we start interviewing people, the whispers are bound to start. I promise you; as soon as our confidentiality becomes compromised, I’ll release the story.’

‘Fair enough. Where are you going to start?’

‘With the closest eye-witness I have, one of my own men.’

‘Can I help in any way?’ asked Lord Murray.

‘I don’t know yet, David: but if I don’t get a quick result, my answer might well be yes.’