“You can say that again,” said Jamie. “Why do they have to wait until now to tell me? Why didn’t they sort this out earlier? Six months ago?”
Isabel shrugged. “They have a lot of tax to collect. And the public itself can be ghas—” She stopped the word in its tracks. And holding her unopened letter, she was hardly in a position to bemoan the inefficiency of others.
“How much?” she asked.
Jamie closed his eyes. “Eight hundred and fifty pounds.”
Isabel looked out of the window. She would have to handle this carefully. “Are you all right for that?” she asked. “I could …”
He looked up at her. “I’m all right. It’s just that … well, I don’t want to pay.”
“No,” she said. “That’s understandable.”
He sighed. “Oh well.”
She could see that the bad mood was already wearing off.
“I’ve had an interesting day,” she volunteered.
“Really?” His tone was almost normal now; the memories of Barry and the tax demand were clearly fading.
“Yes. I had an idea. A rather interesting one, as it happens.”
He got to his feet. “I must have a shower. But what was this idea of yours?”
“You have your shower,” she said. “I could talk to you about it later on. We could go out for dinner.”
Her suggestion was well received. “Yes, why not?”
“No reason,” said Isabel. “I’ll book that place at Holy Corner. The something-or-other bistro. And I’ll ask Grace to babysit. She offered earlier today. I think she wants to read to Charlie.”
“Not teach him mathematics?”
Isabel laughed. “No, I don’t think so.”
Jamie nodded. “Good.”
Isabel returned to her task of tidying. Jamie’s birthday was coming up. She would put a cheque for eight hundred and fifty pounds in an envelope and seal it with a kiss. He would accept it, she felt, because it was his birthday and such things were permitted on birthdays even if pride, however unreasonably, prevented them on other occasions. She would give him anything, she felt. Everything she possessed. But at least eight hundred and fifty pounds was a start.
JAMIE STARED AT HER over the dinner table in the Bistro Bia. “So,” he said, “you wrote to all three of them and told them that you had worked out …”
“Discovered,” interjected Isabel.
“Discovered what had happened. And yet you say that this isn’t strictly true?” His intonation rose sharply at the end of the sentence, underlining his doubt.
“Not strictly,” said Isabel. “Of course I don’t want to rely on pedantry, but I could argue that the forming in my mind of a theory as to what happened amounts to a discovery. So that means I wasn’t really telling a lie.”
Jamie looked at her uncertainly. “You don’t really mean that, do you?” he said.
Isabel gave a sheepish grin. She had not convinced herself; she had not even tried. “Maybe not. But the point is this—this letter of mine might just flush out the guilty party.”
“If one of them is the guilty party,” said Jamie. “And frankly, it doesn’t seem all that likely.”
“Maybe not to you,” said Isabel. “But if you look at the evidence. One of the men holding the painting called Duncan by the name Alex and Patrick use …”
“And the name millions of other people use for their father,” said Jamie. He saw her face fall, and he immediately added, almost apologetically, “But carry on anyway.”
“Motive,” said Isabel.
“Motives aren’t evidence.”
She bit her lip. “Do you want me to tell you what I think, or not?”
He was placatory now. “I’m trying to play the role that Peter plays when he quizzes you about something.” Peter was Peter Stevenson, a friend who often acted as a critical sounding board for Isabel and whose advice she valued.
“But you’re not Peter,” she blurted out. “You aren’t here to test everything I say like … like a judge. You asked me what I think and I started to tell you and …” She did not finish. Jamie had reached across the table and placed his hand gently on hers.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She forgave him.
“All right,” she said. “Motive: Alex needs money, or rather, her fiancé does. Same thing really. She loves the Poussin. She doesn’t want it to be given away. There’s also that very odd thing, not motive, I suppose, but back to evidence: the fact that she got me involved and then tried to shift suspicion on to her brother. Patrick may need money—we’re not sure. Disagrees with his father on politics and farming and all sorts of things, I imagine, and there’s no love lost between him and his sister.” She paused. “I suppose his motive is probably the weakest—or at least it’s the one we’re least sure about. But then …”
“Yes? But then?”
“Then there’s Duncan himself.”
Jamie looked doubtful. “Surely not.”
“What if he has financial problems?” asked Isabel.
“He could sell a painting. The Poussin could go down to Christie’s and that would be it. Financial problems solved.”
Isabel considered this. “Except that he might not feel able to sell something that he has promised to give to the nation.” She looked at him enquiringly. “Would you? Would you sell something that you had promised to give to somebody in the future?”
Jamie took a sip from his glass of water. “I might—if I needed to.”
“But you’re not Duncan Munrowe. Remember, he’s old-fashioned. He has his reputation to consider.”
Jamie smiled. “But you’re still suggesting that he might try to defraud an insurance company?”
Isabel shook her head. “No, you’re right. I don’t really think that he’s behind this. It wouldn’t be in character, and, for the most part, people act in character, don’t they?”
“Almost always,” said Jamie.
Isabel thought for a moment about her proposition that people acted in character. It was probably true, but if you were to use character as a means of predicting what people would do, you had to know their character very well. And that was the problem: most people had aspects to their character that they concealed—weaknesses, vices, and so on; not most people, she thought—everybody. Everybody had some flaws and these flaws could prompt them to do surprising things.
She looked at Jamie and thought: Was Jamie capable of surprising her? Was he capable of doing something low or mean—something that she would think completely out of character?
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
She looked away quickly. “Was I?”
“Yes,” he said. “You were looking at me in a very strange way.” He seemed amused rather than unsettled.
“I was wondering whether you could ever do anything that would shock me. I suppose that’s what I was thinking.”
He gave her an injured look—but he made it clear that he was not serious. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you. I was just thinking of cases where wives discover that their husband has been doing something shocking. It was mentioning character that made me think about that sort of thing.” She paused. “I don’t believe you would ever shock me, though. I really don’t believe that.”
As she spoke, she thought of all the women who discovered that their husbands were having an affair. It was a very common story—banal really, so frequently did it happen. But it was not those cases that involved the real shock: it was when the woman discovered something utterly out of the ordinary; for instance, that their husband had committed a serious crime. What would she do if she found out that Jamie had robbed a bank, or was a secret blackmailer, or had planted a bomb in a public place, or something like that? Isabel wondered. The men who did those things went back, she assumed, to their wives or girlfriends at night. Mafiosi had their families—they tucked their children into bed at night and exhorted them to do well at school. Peopl
e who plotted the deaths of others bought their wives birthday presents and walked the dog and took the car to the garage. And they had their little tiffs and make-ups and went out for dinner in restaurants just like this one and talked about day-to-day things.
Isabel looked around the restaurant, at the couples at neighbouring tables. Just like us, but were there secrets at every table? There were, she decided. Yes, there were.
“We should talk about something else,” said Jamie, picking up the menu that the waitress had placed before him. “Food, maybe.” He ran his eye down the list of offerings. “One final thing, though: What do you expect to happen next?”
“I’ve already told you,” she said. “Two of them will be very keen to find out. Two will phone me. One won’t. Or …” She hesitated. “All of them will get in touch.”
Jamie laughed. “Oh well,” he said. “Robert Burns.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“The best laid schemes of mice and men,” said Jamie. “Remember?”
“How could one forget?” said Isabel.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THERE WAS NO PHONE CALL the next day, although the letters would have been delivered that morning—if the postal system worked as it was meant to do, which it usually did. Isabel spent the first part of the morning at her desk and the rest of the day at the delicatessen, standing in for Cat, who had a trade fair to attend in Glasgow. “All the food people will be there,” she had said. “Miles of Italian sausage—miles. Tankers of olive oil. Everything.”
“Then you must go,” Isabel had replied. “I’ll help Eddie. You go to Glasgow.”
“Angel,” said Cat, blowing Isabel a kiss.
“Well, I’m not sure …”
“But you are. You’re a rock.”
Isabel had wondered whether one could be both an angel and a rock. Angels were somewhat flighty; rocks were more … well, more rocky. What Cat might have said was that she was a brick; that was a compliment that people paid to those on whom they could rely, but the expression was dying out. Her father had talked about people being bricks—their mechanic, for example, had been a brick because he had been prepared to come and collect the car for its service when her father was too busy at the office to take it to the garage. That was the action of a brick.
She went to the delicatessen shortly after eleven, ready to help Eddie during the busiest period of the day, which was between twelve and two. There was time for a cup of coffee before she got down to work preparing bread rolls for lunchtime, and it was over a cup of coffee that Eddie mentioned Diane.
“Ah, Diane,” said Isabel. “How is she?”
“She’s going to London.”
“Oh. And are you going with her? Have you been to London, Eddie?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never been there. I’ve been to America, but I’ve never been to London.”
“Well, maybe you should go with her. How long is she going for, the weekend?”
Eddie reached for a jar of pickles. “No, she’s going down there to finish her course. She’s transferring to another college.”
Isabel frowned. “But what about you, Eddie? Are you going too?”
He shook his head. “Not me,” he said carelessly. “You wouldn’t catch me living in London. Too big.”
Isabel digested this. “So?”
“It’s not a big problem,” said Eddie. “We’ve finished. It’s over.”
Isabel put down her coffee cup. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Eddie.”
He shrugged, and then extracted a pickle from the jar with his fingers.
Isabel shook a finger. “You’re not meant to do that, Eddie! Use a fork. You don’t put your fingers in jars.”
“Sorry.” He put the pickle in his mouth. “It’s only for me.”
“But your fingers have been in the vinegar. You put germs from your hands into the vinegar. Now all those other pickles could be full of your germs.”
“OK,” he said. “I won’t do it again.”
She returned to the subject of Diane. “What happened?”
“I thought we should cool it,” said Eddie. “So I did. She’s cool with that.”
Isabel was somewhat surprised by this abrupt change of heart and was about to say something but stopped herself. She had not interfered before in the issue of the two of them living together and would not do so now. He was just too young.
“You’ll miss her,” said Isabel, largely out of a want of anything else to say.
“Maybe,” said Eddie. “Maybe a bit.”
Men don’t miss women, thought Isabel. More women miss men than men miss women. That was probably right. It was depressingly right.
Work resumed, and it was not until three o’clock that things slackened off sufficiently for Isabel to telephone the house and ask if there had been any calls for her. Grace answered, and said that the glazier had called about a window that needed repairing but there had been nothing else.
She went home at five, leaving Eddie to do the last hour or so by himself. Again there had been no message, and there was no call either that evening. The next morning, though, shortly after eight, the telephone rang. It was Duncan.
“Astonishing news,” he blurted out even before giving his name. “The Poussin’s back.”
Isabel started to say something, but was interrupted.
“This morning,” said Duncan. “I went down this morning and it was back in its place. Somebody had put it there last night. Astonishing. But it’s safe—that’s the important thing.”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “That’s the important thing.”
“I’ve told the insurance people,” Duncan continued. “I woke that chap up, I’m afraid. I called him at six.”
“I doubt if he minded,” said Isabel. “It’s rather good news for them.”
“Yes,” said Duncan. “He sounded pretty chipper. So that’s it. Case closed. There’s no claim from me, and that makes them extremely happy. Nothing more to be done.”
Isabel had her doubts. “Do you think so? Surely the police will want to pursue the matter.”
There was silence at the other end of the line.
“Have they said anything?” pressed Isabel.
“I haven’t informed them yet,” said Duncan. He sounded guarded.
“But you’ll have to,” said Isabel. She was thinking quickly; he seemed reluctant to inform the police and there had to be a reason for that. He was the one; that was the reason. Why else would he not wish to speak to the police? They would have to know eventually, but presumably he felt uneasy about talking to them himself. “After all,” she went on, “this is a crime. A very valuable item was stolen. The police aren’t going to want to let that go.”
Again he was silent. Then: “I don’t see what interest the police will have in dealing with something that’s no longer a problem. They have better things to do with their time, don’t you think?”
She did not get time to answer. Had she been able to say what was on her mind, she might have said that the issue was not so much theft as it was insurance fraud.
“Look,” Duncan said. “Do you think you could come down here this morning? I know it’s an imposition, but it would be much better to speak face-to-face. There’s rather a lot to discuss.”
Yes, thought Isabel. There was a great deal to discuss, but she did not see how she could discuss it with him. How could she? Would she accuse him of attempting to defraud his insurers? And if that was what she thought, was she not morally bound to go to the police with her suspicions?
She agreed to go. Jamie offered to accompany her, but she declined his offer. “It will be better for me to go by myself,” she said. “I shall be perfectly safe.”
She drove up to Doune in the Swedish car, not noticing the skies this time, nor paying much attention to the countryside unfolding on either side of the road. Her mind was occupied with what she might say to Duncan—that is, if she were to say anything, which was
far from sure. Her earlier certainty that Duncan was responsible for the theft had been replaced by a measure of doubt. Now she thought: I really don’t know. I know very little here, and I should simply leave the whole issue where it is. It was no business of hers to bring anybody to justice, nor to interfere in the affairs of a family that she barely knew and that had difficulties enough without her adding fuel to the flames of their dysfunctionality. By the time she arrived at Munrowe House, she had decided that her visit would be a brief one. She would listen to whatever it was that Duncan wished to say and then she would withdraw.
Duncan greeted her on the steps in front of the house. He was smiling broadly, and ushered her in warmly.
“Let’s waste no time,” he said. “Come into the drawing room. The painting is back where it belongs.”
She followed him into the room, which was cold, in spite of the summer weather outside. Old Scottish houses were inevitably cold, she realised; it was the thickness of the stone walls. He saw her shiver. “I make a fire, even in summer,” he said.
Isabel did not say anything; her eyes had gone straight to the Poussin.
“Back home,” said Duncan.
Isabel walked forward and stood before the painting. She felt as she always did when she stood in front of a great work of art: a sense of marvel that she was so close to an artefact that was once worked upon by an artist of such stature as Poussin. He did this, she mused: he thought this painting, he touched this canvas.
She went a step closer. Duncan was now standing beside her. She heard his breathing. She felt his presence.
She turned her head, just slightly, so that she could see Duncan’s face. His eyes were bright; there was joy in his expression. This man, it occurred to her, could not have engineered the disappearance of this painting. He could not be dissembling; he simply could not.
She looked at the sky in the painting. She saw the clouds, and behind them the blue of the void. Beyond the range of hills that the artist had painted in the background she could make out a glow in the sky that was the sun, and she remembered being in the Metropolitan Museum in New York and seeing Poussin’s picture of Celadion standing on the shoulders of the giant, Orion, and guiding him towards the sun, that his sight might be restored. On the shoulders of great men we go towards the light …