Free Dark Angels by Grace Monroe

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 knewthe 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