Murmuring the Judges

40

Deacon Brodie left his mark on the world in ways which not even he could have imagined: in the continuing legends of his escape from the gallows. . of his own design. . upon which he was publicly hanged, through Stevenson’s compelling tale of Jekyll and Hyde, for which he was said to have been the model, and in the tavern on the Royal Mile which still bears his name, and upon the wall of which his story is written, to intrigue passers-by and to lure them within.

In the wake of the sensational publicity which had followed the revelation of the circumstances of the deaths of the two judges, Colin Maxwell had been less than keen on being seen in conversation in Parliament House with Mario McGuire and Neil McIlhenney, Instead, he had suggested, ‘a jar across the road, lads. lunchtime, eh?’

Like many Edinburghers in their age group, both of the policemen were traditionalists. They disliked instinctively the plasticised, made-over bars, selling designer beer rather than draught, which had proliferated in the city for a time. Instead they sought out places like Deacon Brodie’s, traditional pubs with a mature atmosphere, and with unfailingly good ale.

McGuire settled back into the bench seat, watching McIlhenney as he made his way from the bar, three pints of brown, white-crested heavy beer nestling securely in his big hands. He laid them on the table then took three rounds of polythene-wrapped sandwiches from the capacious pockets of his double-breasted jacket.

‘Chicken Tikka?’ said the Inspector. ‘They’re all bloody Chicken Tikka.’

‘Very true,’ the bulky sergeant retorted. ‘I like Chicken Tikka and I’m buying. Sling them over here if you don’t fancy them.’

With a muted growl, the swarthy, piratical McGuire ripped his pack open, leaning forward as he did and turning towards the little court officer, who sat quietly, tasting his beer. ‘Aye,’ he mused. ‘The best pint in these parts, this is. Cheers, lads.’

‘Cheers.’ McIlhenney looked at him, over the top of his glass. ‘How’s the Court today then? Any judges left?’

Maxwell grunted, his eyebrows coming together. ‘Mine’s bloody twitchy, I can tell you. He fairly rattled through the witnesses this morning. He kept looking down at the accused too, as if he was saying “Why don’t you plead guilty, you bastard, and let me out of here.” The boy’s getting the message, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if the trial folds this afternoon.’

‘Colin,’ said McGuire, pushing the crust of his first Chicken Tikka sandwich back into the plastic casing, ‘we were very interested in what you had to tell us about Lord Archergait’s attitude to his son. From what we can gather, Norman King didn’t like his father much either.’

The little man’s face clouded. ‘That’s true enough. I’ve heard those stories too, about what a bloody awful father he was, but I take as I find, and I liked the old boy.’

‘What about Barnfather? Did you know much about him?’

Maxwell took a long swallow of beer. ‘Old Walter? Nobody ever knew too much about him. There were stories, though.’

‘What kind of stories?’

‘The kind that get the Bench a bad name.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

The little man leaned forward. ‘Boys,’ he whispered.

‘You mean he was a paedophile?’ asked McIlhenney.

‘No, no. I don’t mean children. I mean young men: above the age of consent, although I’ve never heard of one carrying a birth certificate.’

‘What’s the big deal though? There are gay advocates these days. There are gays in just about every walk of life.’

‘Aye, but a gay judge is something else. The tabloids have a field day with that sort of thing. There’s gays and gays, too. The rumour about old Walter was that he liked them young, and so he went with male prostitutes; the rough trade down in Leith. Know what I mean?’

‘Did you ever hear of him having a special friend?’

Maxwell shifted in his seat. As the policemen watched him, he ate a sandwich in silence. ‘There was a story,’ he said at last, ‘about him and old Archergait. But that’s all it was, only a story. They were good friends, I know that. . They came to the Bar at around the same time. . but I’m sure there was never any of that stuff.’ His face twisted into an expression of distaste.

‘Do you know of any connection between them other than just friendship?’ McGuire asked.

The Court officer frowned again, and launched an attack upon his second sandwich. When he was finished he crumpled up the packaging, turned for a moment as if looking for a wastebin, then, finding none, laid it back on the table.

‘Well,’ he began, at last. ‘Old Billy told me a story one day at the golf; in confidence, but they’re both dead now, so what the hell. He and Barnfather were planning on leaving all their money to the Faculty of Advocates, to be used to support youngsters training for the Bar, and in their first year in practice.

‘Walter didn’t have any family to inherit his, and old Billy only had the two boys: one he hated, and the other earns upwards of two hundred grand a year, so he doesn’t need it.’

‘Surely Norman King must be a high earner too?’ McIlhenney interrupted.

‘No’ really. He has a mainly criminal practice, and Legal Aid fees are bloody tight these days.

‘Anyway,’ he went on. ‘Billy told me. . this was just two or three weeks back, mind. . that they were in discussion with the Dean, and some sort of joint trust was going to be drawn up, wills changed and so on. I don’t know if it ever was though. I hope so, for it can be tough for a young advocate with no pay during training and precious little for the first year or so. On top of that, most of them that come up from now on will still be carrying debt from student loans.’

‘Poor souls,’ said McGuire, without a scrap of sincerity in his voice. ‘Let’s hope everything was signed.’ He drained his glass, ‘Neil, we’d better get back across the road. There’s someone we have to talk to and we might just catch him before business starts again for the afternoon.’