Yet he found himself on edge, listening for the muffled splash of oars and gruff voices, and felt shameful relief if he found himself walking past the gardens with others.So it was that on Tuesday night, when he left to walk home after a drink with the others – just like the last time, he thought – he was pleased when he realised that the person who’d fallen into step beside him as he walked along George IV Bridge was someone he recognised, and who also recognised him.“Mr Syme, isn’t it?” said the man. It was the old gent with the sketchbook who often sat in the Main Hall.“That’s right – Gordon. I recognise you from the museum, don’t I?”“Yes. John Flowerdew.” He held out his hand to shake Gordon’s own. “I should have introduced myself long before now. Would you mind if I walked with you? I think we’re both going the same way.”“Not at all. The company’s welcome.”“It’s a fine night for walking.” “Beautiful. I often think the town looks its best on a clear night.”“I believe you’re right.
