Beneath the Abbey Wall (27 page)

Mr. Brodie positively radiated approval. “Yes. Of course. Splendid.”

“Faerie flags?” McAllister was even more doubtful.

“There are at least two versions, so take your pick,” Rob explained. “The flag was either a banner from the Crusades or a gift to a McLeod chieftain from his faerie lover—another unsuitable match that ended in tears.”

McAllister was reminded that as a Southerner, he was completely unconnected with the Highlanders from the Gaeltachd. But though he might not know the legends, he trusted the lawyer's theatrics would at best win over a jury of locals, at worst confuse them.

“The story of a love gone wrong means we must hope for as many women on the jury as possible,” the advocate continued.

“How can you manage that?” Angus McLean was perplexed. Under Scottish law there was no say in who the jurors were.

“Pray,” Mr. Brodie said, and turned and winked at Rob.

“Next, bombard the jury with possibilities, the husband for example.” Again he turned to Rob. “Everything unsavory you can find . . . ”

“There is a rumor he is not the war hero he claims to be . . . ” McAllister put in. But he left out the rumor of the sergeant major visiting boys in an Indian brothel.

“Splendid.” Mr. Brodie was tapping his dainty red-sock-clad feet in happiness.

“I heard Smart gambles,” Angus contributed.

“Sergeant Patience is rumored to be one of the card circle.” McAllister again.

“Even more splendid. He was the first policeman at the scene, he is a friend of the sergeant major—I'll give him the full grilling.”

“The sergeant major behaved appallingly to Mrs. Smart. We have two excellent witnesses to this.” McAllister again.

“Of course. Mortimer said he would be happy to speak in court.”

It took McAllister a second to place who Mortimer was, then he remembered Beech must know the advocate, as it was he who had suggested him in the first place. Mr. Brodie sensed the confusion. “Beauchamp Carlyle and I are old acquaintances. My father was a footman on his family estate.”

At the honesty of this, McAllister liked the man even more.

“Mrs. Jenny McPhee—would she make a good witness?”

“Splendid,” Rob said, making Mr. Brodie chuckle and nudge Rob with his elbow.

“Next, we'll call the Gurkha chappie. Should make an interesting witness. And McAllister of course. You can attest to the sergeant major's temper.”

“That might backfire. The sergeant major tried to have me charged . . . ”

“I'm sure I can help the jury to see what a bully the man is. Next, do we know anyone from the church who could be a witness to Mrs. Smart's good works or something along those lines?”

“I'll find someone,” Angus McLean said.

“And if anyone can find something that might muddy Smart's reputation . . . hand in the till, housemaid pregnant . . . that sort of thing . . . ” Mr. Brodie went on. “Next, the key; a fine
old mystery. We shall make much of that. The knife the same. Next”—he turned to another page—“the will. Mrs. McPhee's legacy. Mrs. Married-Name-Yet-To-Be-Determined was most generous in her bequest to a Traveler woman. The bequest to the Gurkha chappie the same. The estate in the Highlands; did Mr. McLeod know it might be worthless once death duties were paid? Mr. McLean, would you find out exactly how much Mr. McLeod might inherit, erring on the low side perhaps?” The questions were rattled off with the speed of a Gatling gun. “Next, I need the details of the sergeant major's financial situation.”

“That will be difficult.” Angus looked across the table hoping this guardian of the law was not encouraging his son to indulge in illegal activity.

“Come, now, one of you gentlemen must know a friendly bank manager.”

“Don would have something on someone who might know. Or Jimmy McPhee, he knows everything,” Rob told him.

“Marvelous, this boy of yours.” The advocate's feet were dancing as he beamed at Angus McLean. “I shall ask Mr. McLeod when we meet. But I believe it may not be a good idea to have Mr. Jimmy McPhee in court.” He looked around the table. “My next step is to interview the prisoner.” He used the word deliberately, to remind them Don was a man charged with murder in the first degree. “With all your notes plus my own observations and more sterling work from young Rob here, we have a start. Now it is up to Mr. McLeod to start talking in his own defense.”

“His secret is out,” McAllister pointed out.

“Ah, but are there more?” As Mr. Brodie, QC, said this, he shut his leather-bound notebook—red, naturally.

McAllister spoke. It was not that he wanted to dilute the enthusiasm, it was reassurance he wanted.

“There is absolutely no evidence against Sergeant Major
Smart. And no matter how unsavory the man, it seems highly unlikely he could have killed Joyce Mackenzie.”

Angus had been thinking the same, and he nodded his agreement.

“You are quite correct, Mr. McAllister. I cannot see how Smart could physically commit the crime. However, in the absence of other possibilities, we shall use him to distract from the most likely killer—Mr. McLeod.”

McAllister did not find this at all reassuring.

“Well, gentlemen, we have plenty to keep us busy, and we will talk again after I have seen Mr. McLeod.” It was as though he owned the room, his companions his chatelains, and now they were dismissed to do their master's bidding. But no one minded.

After handshakes all round, the advocate murmured to Rob, “Dinner this evening? Station Hotel?”

“I'll be there.”

When the gentlemen advocates had left, Angus looked at McAllister. “No smoking in here, I'm afraid. Let's go into my office.”

“That was splendid,” Rob said as he watched his father pack his pipe and McAllister savor the first cigarette he had had in almost an hour.

“I don't know how a jury will keep up with him—he had me bamboozled,” McAllister replied.

“Yes, but will the judge see through the tactic and clarify the arguments for the jury? It is often the summing-up that determines the verdict.” Having put a damper on McAllister's hopes, Angus lit his pipe and puffed away like Para Handy.

“We'd better go. We have a newspaper to put out,” Rob reminded his boss.

They walked back to the office in silence. There was much to think about, not least the next edition of the
Highland Gazette.

*  *  *  

“We'll have the wine list first, please,” Mr. Brodie told the black-clad waiter, who, Rob thought, had probably been hired when the hotel opened in 1854.

“They have an acceptable burgundy,” Rob said. “I believe Lord Lovat orders it when in town.”

“Splendid.”

Mr. Brodie sampled the wine. He nodded at the waiter, then at Rob. “You are a young man full of surprises.”

They ordered dinner, ate, drank, made small talk, and then retired to a corner of the lounge.

Mr. Brodie went straight to the point. “I'd like you to be my research assistant.” This time Rob nodded. “Write to me. Inform me of anything and everything: gossip, guesses, wild scenarios, wild women . . . ”

“You mean Jenny McPhee.” Rob was enjoying himself.

“I have heard that Beech's sister has a colorful past. Those girls that went out to India, there must be some in town who might have heard stories that could discredit the sergeant major.”

“I'll ask my mother.”

Mr. Brodie gestured to the barman. “Another bottle of the burgundy, please.”

As the second bottle was opened Rob was wondering if he could leave his motorcycle in the Station's left luggage office.

“Sergeant Patience. He was first on the scene. He plays cards with Smart.”

“I find him a decent enough man, he helps me out from time to time.” Rob didn't like the idea of the sergeant as an enemy. “The other players are apparently former soldiers.”

“Perhaps you could intimate to the sergeant—as a friend—that I intend to pull him apart in the witness stand. That would
be most embarrassing, unless, of course, he has information that might help the defense. I'd also like to know why McAllister was summoned to identify the body. Surely someone in the police station knew who Mrs. Smart was? So why not call her husband?”

“I hadn't thought of that.” Rob's admiration for the QC shone out of his face, and the man hitched up his trousers slightly, the better to show off the socks.

“Next, find out if Smart ever attended the church on the riverbank next to the stairs.”

“I know the minister there was an army chaplain during the war.”

“So the sergeant major was possibly of that congregation. Next, ask the good sergeant and anyone else you can think of about the sergeant major's mobility. Then find me someone willing to testify that Smart was physically capable of gaining access to the back porch by going in through the front door, the riverbank entrance of the church.”

Rob was scribbling frantically, hoping he would be able to decipher his not-so-perfect shorthand.

Mr. Brodie paused. “Here, laddie, you haven't touched your drink.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “To the befuddlement of juries everywhere.”

Rob laughed and raised his glass.

“When I ask you to research these questions, I am not looking for proof perfect, only as many possibilities as you can suggest—no matter how wild.”

“Then I'm your man.” Rob was so excited at the idea of being Mr. Brodie's sleuth that he found himself jiggling in his chair, in imitation of the advocate.

“Splendid.” One point dealt with satisfactorily, Mr. Brodie reached for his glass. “Now, what happened to the key to the gate into the courtyard? Again, we need to quiz Sergeant Patience.
The knife also. It is not so much who took it, but how did it get back into the niche in the wall?”

Rob wrote these questions in block capital letters.

“And thinking on the whereabouts of the key leads me to ask about the handbag.”

“Handbag?”

“Very well said, young McLean.” He refilled his glass, gestured to Rob, who motioned no, then made a toast. “To Mr. Wilde and handbags.”

“Cheers.” Rob was enjoying himself hugely.

“A woman would never be without a handbag, and none was found at the crime scene. Ergo, the murderer made off with it, or a passerby stole it, or . . . ”

“Mr. Grant, who found the body, left his bike at the top of the steps. It disappeared. Maybe someone used it to get away.”

“Thank you for reminding me.” Mr. Brodie's knees, as well as his feet, were now dancing.

“Mr. Grant thought he saw something in the graveyard above. Just a glimpse out the corner of his eye, he said. I think he thought it was a ghost.”

“Splendid indeed! And would your man make a good witness?”

“He seems a solid, dependable sort.”

Rob realized that Mr. Brodie was not making notes.
I bet he has a memory like an elephant,
Rob told himself. He was correct. William Brodie, QC, could recall conversations, facts, faces, with prodigious accuracy. When a child, his parents would wheel him out at family gatherings to play the Memorize the Objects game. He was perfect every time.

“Now, tomorrow morning's meeting with Mr. McLeod; tell me about the man—just quick impressions.”

“He's the keeper of the town's secrets,” Rob started. He saw
the interest in the advocate's small bright eyes. “He likes a bet on the horses. He likes a dram. He speaks Gaelic. He thinks Trotsky made some valid points. He's really good at his job. He's smarter than you'd think from meeting him.”

“Good at keeping secrets too.” Mr. Brodie was rolling this around as though tasting a good wine. “He kept the marriage secret all these years to protect the good name of his lady-love. How touching.”

Rob heard admiration, not sarcasm. “So, if the sergeant major found out . . . ”

“Precisely.” Mr. Brodie beamed. “But
when
did he find out? Had he always known? Did he have to live with the knowledge for years, having his nose rubbed in it every Sunday evening?”

Rob could see how that would drive a man to murder.

“Had
she
decided she had had enough? Did Mr. McLeod persuade her at long last to come to live with him?”

“No, I don't think so.” Rob was answering the last question. “There was no change that I could see in their behavior.”

“Ah, but did you ever notice they were close? It seems no one on the
Gazette
did.” He answered his own question.

Rob considered this. “You're right. I didn't do very well for a reporter, did I?”

“You'll learn. So now, ask many questions. Answers not always necessary. Remember, the defense must only prove, on balance of probability, that Mr. McLeod did not kill her. We do not need to find the culprit.” Mr. Brodie stood. “It has been a pleasure.” He held out his hand. “Please keep in touch. Telephone me anytime. Send a report as soon as possible. And don't forget an invoice for your time.”

“But Don's a friend.” Rob had never considered being paid for the work.

“I expect a professional job, therefore professional rates
apply. If Mr. Angus McLean should question this, refer him to me. But perhaps best not to mention it.” Mr. Brodie winked, then set off on his red-clad feet, across the carpet towards the grand staircase, as though on his way to an assignation with a courtesan.

Rob decided to drive home, believing the cold would sober him. As he turned the bike around, the clock struck ten. He remembered the date. There were barely three weeks till the trial. That sobered him.