‘But,’ Heather Brodie persisted, deliberately putting herself in front of him to stop him leaving, ‘everyone will appreciate that she didn’t do it for herself, won’t they? That it was a mercy-killing. So they’re bound to be lenient with her, aren’t they? She only did it because she had to do it. She’d nothing to gain from killing Gavin, everything to lose.’
‘Well, I’m not sure I’d quite go along with that… no, I can’t quite go along with that,’ he replied, impatient to leave, snapping the popper shut on his now-closed umbrella, having decided not to expose himself to ridicule by using it. This would be no legal-aid job, and the tattered mess would create quite the wrong impression. Better to accept a soaking.
‘Why not? It’s true!’ Harry said.
‘A mercy killing? No, that’s not what she described to me, or the police, I gather. She said that she did it for Ella – not really for Mr Brodie.’
‘So?’ the boy demanded, unable to conceal his frustration.
‘Well, that was her fatal mistake – purely from a legal perspective, you understand. You see, if Ella had done it for her father, killed him as he had begged her to, that clearly would have been a mercy-killing, a culp. hom., the Crown would likely accept a plea to culpable homicide and she would have got…’ he paused, thought briefly and then continued, ‘well, who knows? Maybe even probation if she was lucky. But this? This is quite a different kettle of fish.’
‘So what is it then, if not a mercy-killing?’
‘I’ll have to speak to Senior Counsel, obviously, but it looks much more like murder to me.’
Driving home that evening, Eric Manson put on Classic FM, and found himself bathed in the haunting sound of Albinoni’s ‘Adagio for Strings’, the solemn and moving music a strangely fitting accompaniment to his mournful frame of mind. It was true, they had solved their case, but he could not celebrate that. Not that bloody catastrophe, no. No nips or pints for him in the pub this evening, no banter, no knees-up for having cracked this one.
Feeling his eyes becoming hot, tears prickling at their edges, he shook his head violently from side to side as if such a movement might shake away his grief, then turned the radio off, forcing himself to concentrate on the road ahead. It must have been the sad music, and he must be over-tired too, that explained it. Or maybe, he was getting a cold from that sickly baby sneezing all over him. Anyway, nothing like a bout of righteous anger to drive the blues away, he decided, egging himself on by thinking about all the hours that they had spent on the Brodie woman’s lies, not to mention her fancy-man’s contributions. Wasting all their precious time and muddying the waters terribly. But that poor teacher, that poor bloody woman. Unworldly, a holy fool. In some ways too good for her own bloody good. Too good for her adulterous sister, for sure.
And, Christ, the fucking coven was supposed to be having another of their interminable gatherings in his house that evening, monopolising Margaret and marginalizing him again. Witches to a woman. But if they saw him in a miserable mood they would scent his weakness immediately. A single glimpse of his bloodshot eyes and they would know that he was wounded, vulnerable, and take strength from the fact. But he had not given up yet, oh no. Margaret would stay his, stay married to him, because he would see them all off, and any fancy man too. Tomorrow, he would be feeling better, stronger, somehow he would sort it all out. She must still love him.
He traipsed up the garden path, feeling lower than ever, and came to a halt on the doorstep, breathing in, pulling his shoulders back and forcing his mouth into a confident grin. So fortified, he strode into his hall, and as he did so, all the lights in the house were switched on and a raucous cheer went up. He saw that his hallway was crowded with people, with his friends and with his family, and, bewildered, he stood blinking in amazement at them all. As he waited, struck dumb, Margaret elbowed her way through the assembled throng towards him. Her face shining with delight, she planted a huge kiss on his lips, and as he responded the crowd erupted, clapping and whooping at the pair of them.
‘Surprise! And happy thirtieth anniversary, my darling,’ she whispered in his ear. Glancing at her he was struck by how pretty she looked, dazzled by her figure, now shapely in a cream outfit with the navy embroidery on the collars. It was her going-away dress.
‘What do you think?’ she said twirling round like a model in front of him. ‘I tried out lots of new outfits, but I didn’t like myself in any of them. So I dieted for weeks and weeks, very difficult when you’re trying out new recipes for a party too, and yesterday, for the very first time, I managed to do up all the buttons on this!’
Tears welled up in Eric Manson’s tired eyes, and he felt that his legs were about to give way, but he put his arm around his wife for support, kissed her cheek, then took a long draught from the champagne flute that had been thrust into his hands. Opposite him, a glass in her hand too, stood Elaine Bell. She gave him a quick thumbs-up, which, smiling wanly, he returned.
Walking along Henderson Row, Alice, too, was finding it difficult to get the events of the day out of her head. She could still see Pippa Mitchelson’s figure in the interview room. The woman had seemed so awkward and vulnerable in there, so utterly incongruous in such a setting. In a classroom of small children she might, possibly, wield some authority, but outside it she had none. She seemed almost bemused by the world, like a nun released from her convent too late, no longer able to survive in changed times. She spoke like the schoolteacher she was, in an unhurried, measured way, a manner suited to the times tables or dictation, but not to the confession of a killing that she had carried out.
And listening to the lone spinster, most of Alice’s sympathies had been with her, because she had so obviously lost her way. Love had led her astray, had been her only motive. And the sight of her, stricken, when, for a second, she re-lived the moment when she cut the man’s throat and was sprayed with his still-warm blood, would remain with her forever, Alice thought, however much she might wish to forget it. Handing her over to the turnkeys, watching them laugh uproariously at their own in-jokes while manhandling her, listening to her old-fashioned expressions of gratitude as her cell door was opened for her, had been heartbreaking. Now she was just another body in the system, waiting to be processed like the rest of them, and there was nothing to be done to change that, nothing she could do. Pippa Mitchelson’s life was over, whatever sentence was pronounced on her.
Once she saw Ian, she told herself, her mind would stop racing and she would be able to distance herself from the Brodies, get everything back into its proper place, into perspective. Finally they would be able to talk freely, in private, and she would tell him about the woman’s tragedy, the man’s tragedy, in fact, the whole bloody family’s tragedy. The very act of telling their story, of putting it into words, would help to make it all easier to understand, to accept. Things would fall into place, as they usually did. And, embracing one another at last, they could smooth any ruffled feathers, reassure each other and find the way back to their old, comfortable world.
Of course, and naturally enough, he would give her more news of the boy. This child who had, somehow, entered their lives through a back door, and had no mother. Only a father.
When she had considered children at all, and idly at that, she had only ever imagined her child, their child. She had wanted their child, never someone else’s. Not some other woman’s child. Loving their child would be easy, it was unimaginable not to love such a wondrous new being. But what did she know about children? Nothing. Despite her best efforts, the squalling baby in the surgery had found no comfort in her arms. So how would she manage? And, as importantly, would she, could she, love this unknown boy? Because if he became part of their family, in fact, made them into a family, she would have to. And what would happen to them, all of them, if, for some reason, that never happened? Perhaps there was no way back to that old, comfortable world?