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It seemed that Judge Kirkton did remember me, if not with fondness then at least enough goodwill to be willing to listen to my explanation and to give it a degree of consideration. First he politely dismissed Methven and his tame lawyer, who were escorted to a side room to wait. Methven looked at me quizzically as he pulled himself upright, but didn't speak. He seemed authentically surprised by my sudden appearance, or perhaps he was expecting Mayfield as well. It was hard to tell. I was ushered to a seat opposite from where Methven had been and a clerk poured me a tumbler of water. I needed the drink; my throat was dry and I drained the glass in one pull. The Judge sat calmly as a refill was poured, then looked at me expectantly. I told him what happened. As I spoke, Kirkton took careful notes on a yellow legal pad with an old-fashioned quill pen. He sat up noticeably straighter when I made it clear that the person attempting to murder Mayfield was her own brother and, from the Judge's point of view, more importantly also somebody who was expected to attend the probate hearing in this office this very morning. About halfway though my rendition, The Judge interrupted me with a politely raised hand, then sent one of his clerks to make a few enquiries. The clerk returned perhaps ten minutes later, to report that, yes, there were numerous police in the building and two bullet holes in the marble tiles in the stairwell, both of which were duly noted. He also asked a few canny questions, the most astute of which was whether I could be sure that the person doing the shooting was actually Cairnie Westwood. I answered truthfully, that Mayfield had recognised him immediately and that I had no reason to doubt her judgement. The Judge carefully did not ask how I came to acquire such a powerful and expensive glamour. I similarly carefully did not volunteer that information. "Well, Mister Gask," he said finally, "All very interesting, but what is it you want me to do?" "Postpone the reading of the will, for a week, a month, long enough for it to be safe for Miss Westwood to attend in person, and long enough that Cairnie can be found and investigated." "Yes, I probably have grounds for that," he said thoughtfully. He nodded at one of the ever-present clerks, who made a note in a grand leather-bound tome as the Judge spoke and then a second entry in a smaller book which I took to be a desk diary. "A week, Mister Gask, just one week," Kirkton said gravely, "Miss Westwood, and Mister Westwood, here, or a very good reason why they can't be. And you too, please, for a further report." "Yes, sir," I responded smartly, "I'll be here." It seemed I was dismissed. A clerk held the door open as I stood up and tugged my hat back on my head. "Oh, and Mister Gask," the Judge said as I reached the door. I turned. "Try and find out what happened to Lady Strowan." "I intend to, sir." The heavy door closed behind me. Time to go and talk to the cops.
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Part 53