long warm days and sultry nights; a cabin in Ontario, a lake, the smell of barbecued trout; sitting on the deck watching the reflection of the trees on the water; a blond Canadian boy with a guitar; her whole life in front of her. It had been another world.
She left Jane and went out into the courtyard. As she passed the tree
with thrushes popular
, she looked up into the branches, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bird she had seen earlier. There was a movement in the branches, and then stillness; she did not think it was a thrush.
She walked home. The students she and Jane had seen sitting on the grass were still there, the same boy reading from the same book. Isabel slowed down as she passed them, hoping to see the cover sufficiently clearly to satisfy her curiosity as to whether it was
The Prophet
. One of the students gazed back quizzically, and Isabel hurried on her way. But as she made off, she heard the voice of the boy who had been reading aloud, “ ‘But what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind …’ ”
She smiled to herself. Gibran, she thought, just as I suspected. Such mystical wishful thinking, but beautifully put, as mystical wishful thinking so often is.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I SABEL WALKED DOWN Dundas Street the following morning, with the hills of Fife clear in the distance across the Forth. There was a breeze, but not an unfriendly one, and the sky was high and cloudless, a colour that her mother had called “singing blue.”
At the junction with Northumberland Street, she turned to the right and began to look at the numbers on the doors. She was in the heart of the New Town, and the stone terraces had all the features of classic Georgian architecture: perfectly proportioned windows, neat astragals, the whole effect being of harmony and pared-down elegance. Judges had to live somewhere—as everyone did—and this, Isabel thought, was a very fitting place for a judge to live: reserved, dignified, understated.
She had phoned Catherine Succoth the previous evening. The judge had seemed a bit guarded when Isabel first spoke to her, but her tone became warmer once she established that Isabel was not contacting her about a professional matter.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I must ask you whether this is anything to do with the law. I don’t want to be unhelpful, but in my position I can’t really discuss legal affairs. It’s one of the consequences of being a judge—one has to withdraw, so to speak.”
“It’s nothing like that. It’s … well, it’s about somebody you might have known years ago—in your student days. Clara Scott.”
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. Then, “I remember her. My goodness, that was ages ago. Clara Scott. Yes. Masson Hall.”
Isabel could not conceal her pleasure. “I’m delighted you remember her. Could we meet?”
“Of course,” said Catherine. Then there was a pause. “I take it that you’re aware that she died some years ago? A car accident.”
“I know that. But there’s something I need to ask you about.”
“Come round,” said Catherine. “Tomorrow? I’m not in court, so you could catch me in Northumberland Street. Eleven-ish?”
Now, at a few minutes after eleven, Isabel found herself outside a dark-blue doorway on which was fixed the house number in brass Roman numerals. To the right of the door, on the stone architrave, on a discreet brass plate, the size of a playing card, was inscribed
Mr. Rankeillor, Advocate
. The brass plaque had weathered but its inscription was still perfectly legible. This was the Advocates’ Quarter, the traditional territory of the members of the Faculty of Advocates, the Scottish Bar, and such brass plates were common up and down its streets. Mr. Rankeillor, Advocate … Why not
Miss Succoth, Advocate
, which is what Catherine would have been before she became a judge?
Isabel looked again. There were four neatly filled holes in the stonework directly below the
She left Jane and went out into the courtyard. As she passed the tree
with thrushes popular
, she looked up into the branches, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bird she had seen earlier. There was a movement in the branches, and then stillness; she did not think it was a thrush.
She walked home. The students she and Jane had seen sitting on the grass were still there, the same boy reading from the same book. Isabel slowed down as she passed them, hoping to see the cover sufficiently clearly to satisfy her curiosity as to whether it was
The Prophet
. One of the students gazed back quizzically, and Isabel hurried on her way. But as she made off, she heard the voice of the boy who had been reading aloud, “ ‘But what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind …’ ”
She smiled to herself. Gibran, she thought, just as I suspected. Such mystical wishful thinking, but beautifully put, as mystical wishful thinking so often is.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I SABEL WALKED DOWN Dundas Street the following morning, with the hills of Fife clear in the distance across the Forth. There was a breeze, but not an unfriendly one, and the sky was high and cloudless, a colour that her mother had called “singing blue.”
At the junction with Northumberland Street, she turned to the right and began to look at the numbers on the doors. She was in the heart of the New Town, and the stone terraces had all the features of classic Georgian architecture: perfectly proportioned windows, neat astragals, the whole effect being of harmony and pared-down elegance. Judges had to live somewhere—as everyone did—and this, Isabel thought, was a very fitting place for a judge to live: reserved, dignified, understated.
She had phoned Catherine Succoth the previous evening. The judge had seemed a bit guarded when Isabel first spoke to her, but her tone became warmer once she established that Isabel was not contacting her about a professional matter.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I must ask you whether this is anything to do with the law. I don’t want to be unhelpful, but in my position I can’t really discuss legal affairs. It’s one of the consequences of being a judge—one has to withdraw, so to speak.”
“It’s nothing like that. It’s … well, it’s about somebody you might have known years ago—in your student days. Clara Scott.”
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. Then, “I remember her. My goodness, that was ages ago. Clara Scott. Yes. Masson Hall.”
Isabel could not conceal her pleasure. “I’m delighted you remember her. Could we meet?”
“Of course,” said Catherine. Then there was a pause. “I take it that you’re aware that she died some years ago? A car accident.”
“I know that. But there’s something I need to ask you about.”
“Come round,” said Catherine. “Tomorrow? I’m not in court, so you could catch me in Northumberland Street. Eleven-ish?”
Now, at a few minutes after eleven, Isabel found herself outside a dark-blue doorway on which was fixed the house number in brass Roman numerals. To the right of the door, on the stone architrave, on a discreet brass plate, the size of a playing card, was inscribed
Mr. Rankeillor, Advocate
. The brass plaque had weathered but its inscription was still perfectly legible. This was the Advocates’ Quarter, the traditional territory of the members of the Faculty of Advocates, the Scottish Bar, and such brass plates were common up and down its streets. Mr. Rankeillor, Advocate … Why not
Miss Succoth, Advocate
, which is what Catherine would have been before she became a judge?
Isabel looked again. There were four neatly filled holes in the stonework directly below the
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