Chapter 22
‘One more witness for today,’ Mr Alexander says as soon as they are all sitting back down. ‘Please call Muriel Fleming.’
The macer leaves the room and returns leading a middle-aged woman into the witness box.
She takes the oath in a crisp voice, very businesslike.
She’s wearing a black trouser suit with a purple blouse underneath, a chunky silver necklace round her neck.
Professional she might look but not corporate, Matthew reckons.
The moment she starts to speak she confirms this.
‘I’m a psychiatrist attached to the Royal Edinburgh Hospital,’ she says.
‘I’ve been qualified for nearly twenty-five years.
I specialise in the treatment of children and young people with diagnoses of severe mental illness.
I’ve acted as an expert witness in numerous legal cases over the last fifteen years. ’
‘Did you have cause to examine the accused, Isobel Smyth?’
‘I did, yes. I spoke to her at some length on three separate occasions.’
Matthew looks over at Isobel. She’s scowling. But not at the psychiatrist. At her advocate, by the direction of her stare.
‘At whose instruction?’
‘At the instruction of the Crown,’ she says. ‘I was asked to determine whether the accused is fit to plead. In layman’s terms, whether she is mentally well enough to understand the court proceedings and engage with them.’
‘Is this a copy of the reports that you made?’ Mr Alexander says, brandishing papers at her. She nods. The papers flash up on the screen in front of Matthew. He restrains himself from reading through them immediately. Better to hear from the psychiatrist herself.
‘On examination, did you reach a determination about the accused?’
‘I did, yes,’ the psychiatrist says. ‘Despite her avowed belief in magic and witchcraft, the accused is not suffering from schizophrenia or any other diagnosable mental illness. I could discern no trace of a personality disorder, or any kind of intellectual disability that would derogate from her ability to participate fully in proceedings.’
‘You mean that she’s fit to plead?’ the advocate depute says.
‘She’s fit to plead.’
Mr Alexander sits back down.
Miss Brodie has no questions to ask. It’s Miss Goodly who leaps up to her feet, striding over to the lectern with great purpose.
‘I’m going to take you through some parts of your report. Go first to the fourth paragraph down on the second page of the bundle.’
The psychiatrist turns the page of the bundle.
‘Please will you read out that paragraph to the court.’
The psychiatrist clears her throat. ‘“The patient reports that on the first occasion that the coven met, they did a tarot card reading. The cards disclosed a very troubling pattern in which death was foretold for one of the girls. The patient states that she has total conviction that the tarot cards held meaning and were not just a selection of randomly selected images.”’
‘Thank you,’ Miss Goodly says. ‘Now I’d ask you to turn to the first paragraph at the top of the fourth page and read that to the court.’
Another throat clear. ‘“The patient states that she fell asleep in her dormitory one afternoon only to find herself flying across the rooftops of Edinburgh to the site of the old church in North Berwick, where she landed to find herself in conversation with someone that she calls Old Nick, otherwise known as the Devil.”’
Matthew wraps his arms close around him. His hands have grown suddenly cold. Someone must have turned the air conditioning down.
‘“He was an imposing figure with a tail and horns on his head. His eyes were particularly remarkable – amber in colour, ringed in flame. Most notably, the pupils were rectangular in shape.”’
Tremors running right through him, the horror of what Matthew experienced on the Esplanade completely real again to him.
‘“When he spoke, she had to keep her head down, because the smell of his breath was so terrible. He told her that she was his chosen one and that the people around her would soon recognise her power. Then he turned round and bent over, presenting her with his anus, which he invited her to kiss. Under the circumstances, she felt that she had no alternative but to comply, even though the smell was even worse than his breath. But she was happy to pay homage to her new lord.”’
It’s entirely still in the courtroom. No one is moving. No one even looks as if they’re breathing. Matthew is frozen in place.
Miss Goodly puts up her hand to stop the witness from reading further. ‘Do you remember Isobel’s demeanour when she said this to you?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘How did she present?’
‘She seemed entirely normal and matter-of-fact in the way that she related the dream.’
Miss Goodly shakes her head. ‘You are using the word dream, but she never referred to it as a dream, did she?’
The psychiatrist leafs through the pages. ‘I suppose not, no. Of course it was a dream, though.’
‘Isobel related this account to you as something that had actually happened to her, didn’t she?’
‘I think that would be taking it very literally,’ the psychiatrist says.
‘Well, it’s your job to listen to what your patient says and report accordingly, isn’t it? Not interpret things as you think they should be.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ the psychiatrist says. Her lips are tight.
‘I’d suggest that you have got this entirely wrong,’ Miss Goodly says. ‘It’s quite clear that what Isobel was describing to you in the run-up to Christian’s tragic death demonstrated that she was in the throes of a psychotic breakdown.’
‘I don’t agree,’ the psychiatrist starts to say, but Miss Goodly keeps talking through.
‘I will be presenting evidence to the court to support this assertion, but suffice to say that you have given a diagnosis that is entirely wrong, haven’t you?’
‘I stand by my findings.’
‘And that rather than finding that someone who believes she has flown cross-country to pay homage to the Devil is entirely mentally healthy and operating within a normal parameter of acceptable beliefs, you should rather have found that this was evidence of mental illness such that she was not responsible for her actions at the time.’
Mr Alexander rises to his feet, his hand upraised. ‘My lady . . .’ he says to the judge, who nods.
‘Miss Goodly, I need to remind you that this is ground that we have covered already.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Miss Goodly says, ‘I’m not seeking to reopen the question of fitness to plead. I am, however, raising the fact that in the run-up to the time of Christian’s death, Isobel was extremely unwell.’
The court falls quiet while the judge digests what Miss Goodly has said.
Matthew is trying to keep up with the argument, the fear that gripped him so close fading, but not entirely.
It’s clearly only the tip of the iceberg of arguments between the lawyers, but he knows that jurors are the last people to be kept informed of any legal disputes.
The sub-text is there but not for him to read, especially not when he’s feeling as shaken as this.
As the judge starts to speak again, there’s a commotion from the dock. Isobel.
‘I told you not to do this,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t mad. I’m not mad. There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘Silence in court,’ the judge says.
‘You can tell me to shut up as much as you like. But the Devil is real. The magic is real. You just don’t want to see it.’
‘If you do not stop interrupting your advocate, I will have to order you to be removed from court. You will have the opportunity to give instructions later,’ the judge says.
Isobel subsides back into her seat. Her cheeks had gone pink with the intensity of her emotion, but the colour drains away from her almost as Matthew watches.
She seems to shrink into herself, huddled inside her hooded top.
Miss Goodly takes a moment before addressing herself to the psychiatrist again. ‘There is a difference between religious belief and religious delusion, is there not?’
The psychiatrist nods. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And religious delusion can be a symptom of an impending mental health crisis, such as a psychotic breakdown or schizophrenic episode. That’s correct, isn’t it?’
‘It is correct,’ the psychiatrist says. ‘But—’
‘You cannot rule out the possibility that at the time of Christian’s death, Isobel was suffering from such an episode, can you?’
‘I can’t rule anything in or out at that time given that Isobel was not then my patient.’
A triumphant expression creeps across Miss Goodly’s face.
Only a twitch of her mouth, but Matthew can tell she’s delighted with the reply she’s received.
‘So you would agree then that it is a possibility, given the account that Isobel gave to you of what she says she was experiencing in terms of astral projection and devil worship, that this went beyond belief into delusion? Even if when she later described it to you, she presented as being of sound mind?’
‘It is a possibility, yes.’
‘No further questions.’
They’re free to go. Most of the jury members head back into their room to collect anything they’d left earlier, but Matthew only brought his hangover to court with him today, and mercifully this has gone.
He’s a thirst on him now, a craving for a pint and a chat with someone who knows what he’s been going through the last couple of days.
He wants a reality check, someone else to talk to about what bullshit it is to believe in the occult.
Looking at the other members of the jury, though, there’s no one he wants to spend any more time with now.
Instead of hanging round in the room to see if anyone else fancies the pub, he takes off immediately.
If he’s quick, maybe he’ll run into the blonde.
He can’t explain why, but he’s drawn to her.
He wants to know what she thinks of the case.
Sure, there’s a risk she’s there to spy on him, but he can charm her out of it.
He knows how charismatic he can be. They could go back to the Devil’s Advocate for a drink – it was a nice bar; he was impressed with it.
She’d like it, he’s sure of it. He gets out to the top of the stairs and sees her head bobbing in front, about to leave the court building.
Taking the steps two at a time, he bounds past an old man who’s taking it very carefully, clinging on to the banister. But she stays maddeningly ahead, out of reach. By the time he’s at the bottom of the steps, she’s out of sight, too.
Baulked of this solution to his evening, Matthew stops walking, pulls his phone out of his pocket.
He’ll call Olivia. She’ll be nice to him; give him the TLC he needs.
But his call goes straight through to voicemail – she must be in theatre.
He leaves a message, telling her to call back whenever she can, however late it is.
As soon as he’s finished speaking, though, he regrets his tone. Too keen. Too needy.
Too late to do anything about it.
Today can do one. He’s had enough. Between hangover, evidence, the weird hallucination on the Esplanade; he’s done in.
He starts his walk home, shaking his head.
That demonic moment was a warning from his sub-conscious, his conscience asserting itself.
It’s the only logical explanation for it.
Time to stop trying to talk to beautiful women in court, to stop cavorting with Olivia too.
He needs to start being decent. He’s not like Dominic, he should remember that.
If he’s nicer to Rosalind, maybe she’ll be nicer to him.
A virtuous cycle. He’s going to shake the Devil off his back, be a better man.
He practically skips down the Playfair Steps, a chorus of angels singing in his mind.