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
