“Neil MacLean! The Shadow!” Sir James had sounded stunned. “Well, he could be, I suppose, but I doubt it. In fact,” he paused, counting back the days, “I’m sure he isn’t. I was on my way to the distillery the day of the train crash and saw Neil and Clara at the foot of the High Street near the Palace.”
“Thank goodness, for that,” Archie Thompson sank back in his chair with a sigh of relief. “I didn’t really think so but what other young lad is there in Edinburgh that has anything to do with magic and magicians?”
“The Shadow might not live in Edinburgh,” Sir James pointed out. “He’s been rescuing people here, there and everywhere as far as I can gather. Mind you, if it’s the low-down on the world of magic you’re after, you could always ask Kitor,” he suggested.
“That’s an idea,” the Chief Constable’s voice brightened at the thought.
“He once belonged to Prince Kalman, remember,” added Sir James, “so he must know a lot about what goes on. There are probably wizards and magicians round the place that we’ve never heard of.”
“That’s true,” the Chief Constable nodded. “Er … could we meet at the MacLean’s cottage, do you think, James? It’s more informal and … well, I can hardly question a crow here at HQ without causing a sensation!”
“Actually, I’m going to the cottage this afternoon. I’ll be there just after three. The MacLeans are quite involved in the pantomime, you know. Janet’s been working backstage, ironing all the costumes, and the Ranger’s made a lot of papier mâché food for the banqueting scene … that sort of thing. Why don’t you give Janet a ring? I’m sure she’d love to see you and I bet they’ve got all sorts of theories about the Shadow!”
That afternoon, as the Chief Constable relaxed by the fire in the MacLean’s living room, nursing a cup of coffee, he brought up the subject. “I’ve really come to pick your brains about the Shadow,” he admitted with a smile, “to see if you have any ideas.”
There was an awkward silence as the MacLeans looked at one another doubtfully. Archie Thompson sipped his coffee and shot a keen glance at Sir James. Surely it wasn’t Neil after all?
“The thing is,” said the Ranger apologetically, “we know who the Shadow is.”
The Chief Constable spluttered into his coffee and Mrs MacLean reached for a box of tissues.
“You know who the Shadow is?” he repeated, mopping coffee from his uniform.
The Ranger nodded. “Yes,” he said. “We think we know. I can’t think why I didn’t tell you about it! How stupid of me!”
“Who is he, then? Is it someone you know? A friend of Neil’s, maybe?”
The Ranger shook his head. “No, nothing like that. The boy’s a complete stranger. Actually, it was Kitor who saw him,” he said, nodding to where Kitor perched on Clara’s shoulder. “Apparently, the MacArthurs left a protective barrier round the hill when they left. Kitor says it only keeps out magicians and the like and … well, when he was out on the hill, he saw it stop this boy in his tracks. He couldn’t get through it at all, so he knew he must be a magician of some sort.”
“Well, Kitor?” asked the Chief Constable, turning to look at the large, black crow that perched on Clara’s shoulder. “What can you tell us about him?”
“I followed him home,” Kitor said, ruffling his feathers.
“Wonderful! Where does he live?”
“His name’s Lewis and he lives in Heriot Row with his mother and father.”
“Lewis Grant! Well, well,” the Chief Constable sat back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction.
“You know him, then?” the Ranger said, looking at Sir Archie in surprise.
“There’s a report about the family sitting on my desk at the office,” the Chief Constable replied. “This is confidential information that I’m going to give you. Neil, Clara,” he looked at them in turn, “you mustn’t repeat any of it, you understand?”
They nodded seriously.
“Do you remember all the art thefts that took place a few weeks ago?” he asked. The Macleans nodded, looking puzzled. “Sir James already knows this, but all the valuables stolen, including the Mona Lisa, had one thing in common. They all appeared in a book called Famous Collections of the World. Only five hundred copies of the book were printed and there were three in Edinburgh. One was owned by a Mr Robinson, so naturally my men checked out the address in Heriot Row.” He shook his head. “They didn’t have much luck. Mr Robinson is in America and the Grants seemed quite a respectable couple. They’ve lived in and around the Middle East for years. Lewis was born out there. Robert Grant’s an oil-executive and since he’s been here, has spent most of his time in Aberdeen. Mrs Grant’s mother has been in hospital for months and, well, we found nothing to connect them with the thefts at all.”