“A donation in one case—for his clinic in Morocco. And in the other case, it was a payment for a painting—a Peploe, properly valued and all above board. The money for that was also going to the clinic.”
“I’m going to take another deep breath,” said Bea. “There. That’s it. Are you sure about this?”
“As sure as I can be,” said Isabel. “I’ve already made some enquiries to check up on what I heard.”
“How did you do that?”
“I asked a couple of questions—just to make doubly sure that Tony MacUspaig was doing what he claimed to be doing. I checked with the charity regulator. And he does have a registered charity that runs a clinic in Morocco. They file accounts with the charities office—and the accounts are all in order.” She paused. “And I checked, too, that the Peploe he sold was the real thing. I spoke to Guy Peploe himself, who confirmed it. He gave me the details of when his grandfather had painted it and who had owned it. The painting definitely has its papers.”
“You’ve been very thorough,” said Bea.
“It’s better that way,” said Isabel. “And so at the end of the day there seems to be no evidence—nothing at all—to suggest that Tony MacUspaig is anything other than a rather kind plastic surgeon who gives his time to helping children with hare-lips in places where that help is needed. Nobody has a bad word for him, it seems, except…”
They both uttered the name at the same time: “Rob McLaren.”
“Why?” asked Bea.
“Why did Rob make the accusation?”
“Yes,” said Bea. “Why was he so specific? It wasn’t as if he was just passing on tittle-tattle—he made it unambiguous. He presented it all as fact.”
“People can do that,” said Isabel. “They can treat surmise as certainty. They can fail to mention a lack of proof. They can promote speculation to fact.”
Bea was unconvinced. “I still don’t see why he’d be so firm.”
Isabel was thinking. “Did Rob know Connie before that dinner party of yours? Or did they meet there?”
Eddie delivered coffee, and then returned to the counter. Bea thanked him and reached for her cup. “Let me think…Yes, I think she did. In fact, now that I come to think of it, she said something about him. What was it?”
Isabel waited. Bea took another sip of her coffee. “I could phone her,” she said. “I could phone her right now and ask.”
Isabel thought this a good idea. “Just ask her whether she knows much about him.”
Bea extracted her phone from her bag and dialled a number. Connie did not take long to answer.
“Connie,” said Bea. “Just a quick question. I’ve got sixteen people coming for dinner this evening—sixteen!—and I have to get back. But I’m sitting here with Isabel Dalhousie, and I was telling her about Rob McLaren. I seem to recollect that you said something about him to me, but I can’t remember what it was. Was it about how well you know him? Something like that?”
Isabel could not make out what was being said at the other end of the line. But she did hear what Bea said next, which was, “That’s very interesting, isn’t it?”
There was a further tinny indistinguishable sound. Isabel had always thought that the sound of a distant caller on another person’s mobile phone was the sound that ants would make if they talked. Then Bea brought the conversation to an end, rang off and replaced the phone in her bag.
“That was very revealing,” she said. “Would you like to hear about it?”
“Of course,” said Isabel.
“Apparently Rob has had a thing for Connie for some time. At first she encouraged him, and then she went off the idea because she thought he was a gold-digger. He kept asking her about her investments. She didn’t like it.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, and she feels that he still hasn’t given up. She keeps away from him, but she thinks he still feels he has some sort of chance.”
Isabel sat back in her chair. Of course, of course! When we criticise the behaviour of others, we often accuse them of doing the things that we ourselves do or would like to do. So if Rob accused Tony MacUspaig of being interested in other people’s money, it was because that was exactly what he himself was interested in. And then she remembered her own conversation with Rob over lunch in the Café St. Honoré; his interest in her financial affairs had been revealed by his prying into her funding of the Review. She had felt at the time that his questions were perhaps a bit personal, but she had not put two and two together. Now she had.
Isabel explained her theory to Bea, who nodded as she spoke. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? We should have seen it.”
“Well, we didn’t,” said Isabel. “And now the question is: Do we have to do something about it?”
“I’m not sure. What do you think?”
“Is he dangerous?” asked Isabel.
“I don’t think so. He’s been a bit persistent with Connie, perhaps, and he’s tried to sabotage Tony’s relationship with her. Is that dangerous behaviour?”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “It could have harmed Tony. It could have been very upsetting for Connie.”
“So what do we do?”
“We tell him,” said Isabel. “We tell him that what he said was not only wrong but was actually potentially harmful. My impression is that he’ll slink away. I don’t think he’ll cause any further trouble, especially if he knows that people know what he’s been up to. I get the impression that he’s a rather sensitive, unhappy man underneath. He’ll learn his lesson.”
“Poor Rob,” mused Bea. “You know, I think he’d make a good husband for somebody—when all is said and done.”
“Don’t,” said Isabel.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t matchmake for him.”
Bea laughed. “You think not?”
“Definitely not.”
But Bea had further ideas. “What if I matched him up with somebody who had very little money,” she said. “Then, if he fell for her, even in spite of her indigent circumstances, we’d know that it was real love, not cupidity.”
“Leave that to Cupid,” said Isabel.
They both laughed.
Eddie watched them from the counter. “Laughing over nothing,” he said to himself. “Listen to them.”
—
IT WAS TEMPTING to put off a further meeting with Rob, or even to leave it to Bea to speak to him, but she did not. Immediately after Bea had left the delicatessen, Isabel telephoned him and announced that she was coming to see him. He had tried to put her off, saying that he was about to go out, but she brushed his objection aside.
“I’ll take no more than ten or fifteen minutes of your time,” she said firmly. “And this is something that can’t wait.”
He did not live far away—in a street behind the Dominion Cinema—and she was there within twenty minutes of making the telephone call. He looked anxious as he let her into his flat, and she imagined that he knew exactly why she was there.
“I have to talk very frankly to you,” she began, as they sat down in his living room.
He was staring down at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know why you’re here, and I’m sorry.”
He did not meet her gaze, and she understood that he was ashamed.
“Why did you do it, Rob?”
He looked up and their eyes met, but only for a moment.
“Desperation,” he said.
“Emotional desperation?” she asked. “Or financial?”
This stung him into a response. “Not financial. Definitely not financial.”
“Are you sure?”
He had been slouched in his seat—now he drew himself up. “Yes, of course I’m sure. Did you think that…” He seemed wounded, and it seemed to Isabel that he was telling the truth.
“It crossed my mind,” she said.
“That I’m a gold-digger?”
She hesitated. “Frankly, yes.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m comfortably enough off. I don??
?t need anybody else’s money.”
She made a gesture of acceptance. “Then why?”
“Because I fell in love with Connie, and that man took her away.”
Isabel was silent for a moment. “You need to take a more mature view of these things, Rob. And that man, as you call him, Tony MacUspaig, could have been harmed by what you did. In fact, he was harmed—his reputation was called into question.”
Rob shook his head. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Well, you did. But it’s going to end, isn’t it?”
He nodded miserably.
“You’ll meet somebody,” said Isabel. “Look at yourself. You’re a very attractive man. You’re intelligent. You’re a good listener.”
He was staring at her in what seemed like incomprehension. “Me? Attractive?”
“Of course you are.”
She remembered their lunch. “Though that doesn’t mean anything to me,” she said hurriedly. “But there are plenty of women who would be very pleased to go out with you.”
Isabel watched him. It was almost unbelievable, but there were people who slipped through the net; people who had never had anything nice said about them, and Rob, she decided, was one of those. It was perfectly possible that nobody had ever said anything to make him feel good about himself, and now this inconsequential remark on her part seemed to be having a profound effect on him.
“I’m not just saying this, Rob,” she told him. “I mean it.”
His eyes said everything that had to be said, she decided, and so she stood up to leave.
He saw her out wordlessly, and she began to walk back to the house. That had not been too hard, and she was glad that it was done. In fact, she was glad that the whole matter was now safely settled. It crossed her mind that she could have avoided everything by simply not getting involved in the first place—but had that option really been available to her? She had applied her own test to the issue of involvement in this case—the moral proximity test—and it had pointed to a duty to intervene. But perhaps the test itself needed calibration, because whenever she applied it, she tended to get the same answer—that she should get involved. She would have to think about this further before she did anything the next time…and then she thought, Why should I assume there’s going to be a next time? She answered her own question: there would be a next time because of something that John Donne had famously said about being an island and she was the way she was and the world was the way it was. That was an end to the matter; it just was.
—
SHE AND JAMIE shared the cooking that evening. With Charlie and Magnus safely in bed, Isabel searched her recipe books for something suitable. She leafed through Delia Smith and her mother’s copy of Julia Child. She consulted Jamie Oliver and Elizabeth David, and eventually decided on a cheese soufflé. Jamie would make a starter—a rather complicated terrine involving tomatoes and chopped olives.
They sat at the kitchen table together, two glasses of wine in front of them, the recipe books spread out over the scrubbed pine surface.
“Eddie was going on about olives this morning,” said Isabel.
“Oh yes?”
“He said that he knew of somebody who’d turned green by eating too many olives.”
Jamie laughed. “Eddie has an imagination. And he believes everything he hears. He really does.” He took a sip of his wine. “I went to the doctor this morning, by the way.”
Isabel held her breath. “And?”
“And it’s not gout.”
She exhaled. “Oh, Jamie—that’s wonderful.” And then she asked. “What is it then?”
“He thinks I may have broken a bone in the toe. He says that can happen. The problem was that I told him I hadn’t injured it at all. That’s why he didn’t suggest an X-ray.”
“Good. That’s such good news. I never thought it was gout; I just didn’t.”
“The blood tests,” Jamie continued, “showed that my uric acid levels are quite normal. Apparently if you’re prone to gout, they’ll be higher.”
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it. Everything is back to normal.” He paused. “You know, I felt quite euphoric on the way back from the doctor, and I did something rather odd.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Treated yourself to something?”
“Yes, I suppose you could call it that. I went into the Camera Obscura, near the castle. I hadn’t been there since I was about seven.”
She imagined the seven-year-old Jamie. “I wish I’d known you then.”
“And I watched the show. I watched the whole town being projected into the table in the middle. Our city. It gave a wonderful view…”
“A distant view of everything?”
“Yes.”
She thought for a moment. “That’s what we need.”
Neither spoke for a few minutes. Then Isabel said, “I was in the deli this morning. I had two important chats. One with Bea and one with Eddie.”
“Have you sorted out the business of that chap—what’s his name—the one with the odd surname?”
“MacUspaig. Yes. All sorted.”
“And he’s not after that woman’s money?”
“No, he’s not. In fact, he’s the opposite of what I thought he was. He’s a good man.”
“Oh well, that’s a relief.”
“But there’s something going on with Cat,” said Isabel.
Jamie shrugged. “There’s always something going on with Cat. She’s one of these people who attract things.”
Isabel struggled to put her question delicately. Jamie and Cat had been together—years ago—although the relationship had not lasted long. Isabel had never discussed this, and had certainly never quizzed Jamie on what had happened between them. She did not intend to start now. But the new situation could hardly be ignored; sooner or later Jamie would hear something and would be surprised if Isabel had not mentioned it to him.
“Do you think it possible that Cat is not all that interested in men?” she asked.
Jamie looked surprised. “Cat? Not interested in men? No, the opposite. I think Cat is seriously interested in men. I think men are her hobby.”
“Are you sure?”
“One hundred per cent.”
“You see,” Isabel continued, “she has a new assistant. She’s a girl called Peg.”
“Oh her,” said Jamie. “I know about her.”
“You’ve met her?”
“Yes. Once or twice.”
“Cat wouldn’t tell me where she met her,” said Isabel. “And nor would she.”
“Peg wouldn’t?”
“No, they both were deliberately vague. So I assumed that it was online. Perhaps on a dating site.”
Jamie gave a start. “What?”
“On a dating site. You know how it is. Everybody seems to meet these days on a dating site. It’s how people find their partners.”
Jamie tossed his head back and let out a peal of laughter. “No, no, no…You’ve got it all wrong, Isabel. Cat met her in prison. She told me.”
“Cat was in prison?”
“No…well, yes, in a sense. Cat’s been doing prison visiting. It’s her good work. I knew about it because a flautist I know does it too. She met Cat at an induction course for new prison visitors. They help prisoners with their education, with problems of various sorts—it’s pretty useful if you’re in the jug.”
“Why was Peg in prison?”
“Cat said it was something to do with drugs. She did three months. Often users supply other people, and that gets them into trouble. But Peg, apparently, is clean now and is enrolled on all sorts of support schemes. I saw Cat the other day, and she told me all this. She’s proud of what she’s been doing for her. She’s really proud. They’ve been reading things together, and Cat has been helping her do some sort of life-review book that will help her to see her life in perspective. Apparently Peg’s really talented, but just got mixed up in the wrong, druggy crowd.”
“So they’
re not lovers?”
Jamie laughed again. “It would be simpler if they were, I think. Cat’s had so much trouble with men that it would somehow simplify matters if she found out that men weren’t for her after all. But I’m afraid they are.”
Isabel wondered why Cat had not told her about this, but perhaps she had wanted to keep it to herself. Then Isabel thought of something else. “Could you go and explain all this to Eddie? You know what he’s like. He listens to you. You could explain things to him and get him to be a bit…a bit kinder.”
Jamie said he would try.
“And now I’m going to start on the soufflé. How long will your terrine take?”
“Forty minutes,” said Jamie. “If I start right now.”
“So I shall sit here while you do that. I shall sit here and think. Then I’ll start the soufflé.”
“Timing is all when it comes to soufflés,” said Jamie.
“And to so many other things in life,” observed Isabel.
She watched him as he chopped olives. There is nobody else in the world I would like to watch chopping olives more than you, she thought. My beautiful man. My kind man. My friend. My lover.
She allowed her gaze to drift—to drift out of the window, to the garden, where the evening sun had touched the wall, the tops of the rhododendrons, the ornamental giant thistles, with gold, with gold. Her other friend, the vulpine one, the cunning one, had appeared on the top of the wall, and he, too, was bathed in the golden light of evening. He raised his nose into the air, as if picking up a scent—and then, quite unexpectedly, he did a somersault off the wall, to land, perfectly, on his feet on the ground below. “Bravo,” whispered Isabel. “Bravo.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency books, the Isabel Dalhousie books and a number of other series of novels. His books have been translated into more than forty languages and have been best sellers throughout the world. He lives in Scotland.
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