Bruce shrugged. “Yes, maybe…”
Katie remembered. “You weren’t at Morrison’s, were you? Crieff?”
Bruce’s face broke into a smile. “Morrison’s? As a matter of fact, I was. And you?”
She did not let him finish. Now she remembered. “You were two years ahead of me. You were the Bruce Anderson who used to live on the road that goes round to the Hydro. In that house near the golf course.”
“Yup,” said Bruce. “That’s me.” He paused. “Grown up now – as you may have noticed.” He laughed. “And you know what? I think I remember you too. Yes, I think I do.”
“And you were friendly with that guy who became a helicopter pilot, weren’t you?”
Bruce’s smile broadened. “Bobby Macleod? Yes, I was. We were great mates.” He turned to Stuart. “Did you ever meet Bobby Macleod, Stuart? He played rugby. Winger. Boy, he could run.”
Stuart shook his head. This conversation was beginning to irritate him. It was not Bobby Macleod’s fault, of course; he may well have been a distinguished rugby player and a good helicopter pilot too, for that matter, but Stuart did not want to go into any of that. He wanted to continue talking to Katie about poetry and art; they had only just started their conversation and then Bruce had turned up, and…
“I knew Bobby’s sister,” said Katie. “Jean – remember her?”
“Yes,” said Bruce. Jean had been in love with him, of course, but they all had been. She was a few years younger than him and had been beneath his notice, but there had been little doubt about it. When you were Bruce, you recognised the look. It was unmistakable.
Bruce looked at his watch. “You know, I was going to have coffee here, but look at the time. How about lunch? Have you got any plans?”
Katie did not hesitate. “No,” she said.
Stuart had been staring glumly at the portrait on the wall above their table, at Ian Rankin, who was staring back at him. They did have a plan – they were going to walk along Queen Street to have lunch at The Chaumer. He looked back sharply. “Actually…”
He did not complete the sentence, as Bruce now said, “Good, well, let’s go to that place on the corner of Dublin Street, the Magnum. Know it? They do lunch.”
And Katie said, “That’s a great idea.” And then turned to Stuart and said, “Stuart? Is that all right by you?”
Stuart took a moment to reply. Then he said, “I’ve forgotten. I have to be back to look after the kids. You go.”
42
Matthew and James Set Off
While Stuart was having his meeting with Katie in the café of the Scottish National Portrait Gallery – a meeting brought to such an unfortunate end by the arrival of Bruce Anderson and by his tactless and intrusive invitation to lunch – Nicola, along with Bertie and Ulysses, was being shown a choice of large spotted handkerchiefs in Stewart Christie’s on Queen Street. And at that very time, Angus Lordie, with Cyril curled up on his studio blanket, was looking critically at his nascent painting of Glenbucket, while Domenica, almost alone now in 44 Scotland Street, was poring over an article on Neanderthal skulls. The Neanderthals were not of particular interest to Domenica; she regarded them, in fact, as somewhat dull country cousins – not people with whom one would look forward to spending the entire afternoon should they present themselves on one’s doorstep. She was, however, now planning to compose an email, with pictures, to be sent to one of the authors featured in the latest issue of Evolutionary Anthropology. She was proceeding with caution: no finder of a skull should ignore the melancholy story of the Piltdown Man hoax, and she was not proposing to fall into that trap. She was not a palaeontologist; nor was she even a palaeoanthropologist, or an anthropo-palaeontologist (if such a thing existed). She knew the limits of her Fach and would stick to them, but that did not preclude her from taking an interest in what might prove to be a very significant find.
If this did turn out to be a genuine early skull, it would undoubtedly attract wide attention. For a few moments, she allowed herself to imagine what name might be given to the find: there were the obvious descriptions of such things, of course: Homo erectus, Homo habilis, Homo rudolfensis and so on, and if this specimen were to be distinguished in any way from other examples of early man, then it too might be given a name of its own. That was a delicious prospect: homo Angusus would be a nice tribute to Angus, even if a slight mouthful, but then she thought that Angus’s well-known modesty might preclude that. That was a pity but one would not wish to saddle anybody with an eponymous fossil unless they willingly signed up to it. Professor Higgs, of course, had his Higgs Boson, but a boson was a rather different thing. It was no burden, she imagined, to have an invisible particle named after one. And then she remembered Pope Pius XI who had a South American glacier named in his honour – the Pio XI glacier in Chile – a dubious compliment, Domenica had always thought, bearing in mind the essentially chilly nature of glaciers. Had Pius XI been a cold personality? Had his normal manner been icy? Did he mind being a slow-moving river of ice?
No, if the skull were sufficiently distinguished to merit a name, then it would have to be something that reflected its Edinburgh origins. Homo Edinburgensis, perhaps? Edinburgh man…That was a possibility, but was not very imaginative. Homo urbe novo – New Town man? A bit of a mouthful, perhaps, and she was not sure about the locative case, which was a tricky case; in third declension nouns it was the same as the dative – or she hoped it was. Homo watsoniensis? Watsonian man? Domenica smiled. That had possibilities; yes, that had distinct possibilities.
While all this was going on in Edinburgh, just outside town, at Nine Mile Burn, Matthew and the au pair, James, were setting off on a mission they had discussed and decided upon the previous evening. They were heading for Single Malt House, the home of James’s uncle, the soi-disant Duke of Johannesburg and previous owner of the house now occupied by Matthew, Elspeth and their three sons.
“Tell me again why you’re worried,” Matthew said as they drove past the encroaching rhododendrons.
As he asked the question, rhododendron branches, springy and lush in leaf, seemed to wrap the car in their embrace.
“I must do something about these wretched rhodies,” Matthew muttered. “They’re all over the place.”
“Let me try,” said James. “I was reading an article about them in Scottish Field. There’s a way of controlling them.”
“I’d appreciate it,” said Matthew. “If you need to get any chemicals or anything, just let me know.”
“I don’t approve of that,” said James. “Let’s stick to the Geneva Convention. I think you have to do something to their roots.”
Matthew brought the conversation back to the Duke. “So, what makes you think there’s something wrong?”
“I haven’t seen him,” said James. “I used to go round there once a week. He used to phone me and invite me round. He usually had some work he wanted done in the garden or the steading or whatever. Then he stopped calling me.”
“Did you try to contact him?”
“I got his answering machine. I left messages, but he never got back to me.” He paused. “I sent him an email.”
“And did that get a response?” asked Matthew. “Or was he away?”
They were now at the road end; traffic shot past, liberated from Edinburgh, heading on the undulating road for the freedoms of West Linton and Biggar and the blue hills beyond.
“People drive far too fast here,” said Matthew.
“They’re stupid,” agreed James.
“And rude,” added Matthew.
“Not everybody, though,” said James. “I’m not saying everybody’s stupid.”
“No, of course you aren’t.” Matthew thought: particularly you. You have the nicest manners and you’re bright and everybody loves you because you give every appearance of loving them. Matthew allowed his mind to wander: the loved are loved be
cause they love; the hated are hated because they hate…That was true, but only to an extent: there were many who did nothing to provoke the hate that came their way.
He glanced at James. “Did he reply to your email?”
“Yes and no.”
Matthew frowned. “What am I to make of that answer?”
“I had an email from his address,” James answered. “It was definitely from dukeofjohannesburg@whatever dot whatever…That’s his address, all right, and it was signed by him, but there was something about it that made me suspicious.”
Matthew was intrigued. “All right,” he said. “You were suspicious. But why?”
James hesitated. “You’ve heard of Bletchley Park?”
“The place where they decoded signals? Where they had the Enigma machines?”
“Yes, there was a film about it. Did you see it? It was about that guy who worked there who was a seriously good mathematician, and he invented a machine – the first computer actually – and he managed to crack the Enigma code.”
Matthew knew about that. “Him and the Poles,” he said. “People forget to give the Poles the credit they deserve.”
“Okay, and the Poles. But there were people there who did all sorts of things with the messages they intercepted, not just Enigma transmissions. They could tell who was operating a Morse key, for instance, from the style that was used, from the pace, the gaps. It was like listening to an accent. They could tell.”
“I’ve read about that,” said Matthew.
“Well, it’s the same with email. People have a particular style – you get to know who’s at the other end from their choice of words, their greeting, and so on.”
Matthew nodded. “I suppose so. And?”
“Well, my uncle never says Hi, James. He just doesn’t.”
“And this email did?” asked Matthew.
“Almost,” said James. “This one said Hi, Seamus.”
Seamus, thought Matthew. Seamus.
43
At Single Malt House
They arrived at Single Malt House, the principal, indeed the only, seat of the Duke of Johannesburg. It was not a comfortable-looking house – the sort of house that would, in the country, and in the past, have been described as a tacksman’s house, a house suitable for one who took a lease on a substantial piece of land but who was not considered the social equal of the local laird. Such houses were serviceable as farmhouses, but would have, in addition, a few good rooms that could be used for entertaining. A tacksman might even have a library and a gunroom, but could take family meals in a simple, rather than a formal dining room. Single Malt House had long since slipped out of that antique social order, and would now just as likely to be in the hands of a lawyer or accountant who wished to live out of town but who could not be bothered with fields and livestock. Such a household would be on nodding terms with mud, with certain breeds of dogs, and with pheasants, of course, but would be well-heated and draught-proofed – both features markedly absent from real working farmhouses.
Matthew parked the car under an oak tree at the end of the drive. Not far away, under a lean-to built against an old steading, was the car that he and James both recognised as the Duke’s. This was the car that the Duke had bought from a man at Haymarket Station – a strange, canoe-sterned vehicle of no recognisable make, although there was a possibility that it might be Belgian.
“At least your uncle’s car is here,” remarked Matthew, as he switched off the ignition. “He must be in.”
Matthew looked doubtful. “Sometimes he goes off in an ancient Land Rover,” he said. “I don’t see that around. But then the farm manager uses that a lot to go into Penicuik. He may have it.”
“What about that Gaelic-speaking chauffeur of his?” asked Matthew. “What was his name again?”
“Pàdruig,” answered James. “He never drives the Land Rover: he only drives the…the…”
“The Belgian car?” prompted Matthew.
“Yes,” said James.
Matthew began to get out of the car. “Where does Pàdruig live?” he asked. “Does he stay here?”
James shut the passenger door behind him. “He has a small flat at the back of the house. He lives there, I think. He comes from Stornoway. He’s the real McCoy. And before that, his people came from St Kilda. My uncle told me that. He said Pàdruig’s grandfather had been one of those people who were lowered on ropes down the cliffs to harvest seabirds’ eggs.”
“It was a hard life,” said Matthew. “I went there once, you know. When I was at school. A friend’s father had a boat that he kept at Ardfern. We sailed over to Barra and then on to St Kilda. It took us ages, but we managed to get into Village Bay. I found it really moving – the thought of all those people – the whole community – being taken away, off the island. A whole culture ended.” He paused. “That wouldn’t happen today.”
They began to follow a path that, skirting a somewhat unkempt lawn, led to the front door.
“Does your uncle normally cut his lawn?” asked Matthew.
James glanced at the uneven sward. “He usually does,” he said. “Sometimes it gets a bit long, but he usually cuts it. Or he gets the stockman to do it.”
“Well, he hasn’t done that for a while,” said Matthew.
They approached the door; this dominated a small porch built out from the main façade of the house and of a different, lighter stone. On either side of the porch there was a large window, with astragals. Sun-blanched curtains were evident at the side of these windows, but these were drawn back, affording a view of the rooms within. One was a drawing room, the other contained a large table on which papers and books were spread, as if to serve a working session that had suddenly ended. That’s how it must have been on Hirta, out at St Kilda, Matthew thought: tables left with the things still upon them, the interrupted notes of a song still hanging in the air.
James pressed the doorbell, glancing at Matthew as he did so, giving a shrug, as if he already expected no response. The bell was surprisingly loud, and could be heard from somewhere within the house.
“Give it two rings,” suggested Matthew. “Two rings always show you’re serious.”
James pressed the bell again, but once more there was no response. James tested the door handle: it was locked. “He never locks the door,” he said to Matthew.
Matthew looked up. On the floor above, a window was open. He pointed to it. “Somebody’s in,” he said. “Look up there.”
James shrugged again. “I don’t know…” He stopped. “There’s a window at the back, you know. The catch is broken. Once my uncle locked himself out and we crawled through the window. It’s quite large.”
Matthew was not sure. “I don’t know about breaking into people’s houses. I’m not sure that we should go that far.”
“He could be ill,” said James. “He could be lying on the floor somewhere.”
Matthew hesitated. James was right, and there were times when people had to get into houses without the owner’s consent. This, he decided, was probably one of those.
He had an idea. “Have you got his phone number?” he asked.
James nodded. “It’s on my phone.”
“Well, why don’t you phone him – just on the off-chance? See what happens.”
James took his mobile from his pocket and tapped at the screen. Almost immediately they heard a phone ringing within the house. And almost immediately the ringing stopped.
“Uncle?” James said, in a surprised tone.
There was a silence, and then a click as the receiver at the other end was put down. James turned to Matthew in astonishment. “He’s inside.”
Matthew made up his mind. “Show me this window,” he said.
They walked round to the back of the house, the gravel crunching beneath their feet. They disturbed a bird that had been perching on a wind
owsill, a thrush, in a speckled waistcoat, thought Matthew. It swooped off into the foliage of a garden shrubbery.
“That’s the window,” said James, pointing to a window that was a good eight feet above the ground.
“I’ll give you a leg-up,” said Matthew. “Then you reach down and give me a hand.”
He thought, as he crouched, his hands cupped to provide a lifting stirrup for James: when did I last do this? Did I ever do this before?
44
Something Very Odd
As James had predicted, the window, unsecured by a working catch, had opened at the merest touch. Once he had manoeuvred himself inside, he turned round and leaned over the sill to extend a hand to Matthew. With one hand grasped by James and the other scrabbling for purchase on the sill, Matthew managed to pull himself up to join his co-housebreaker. Then, with a squeeze and a certain amount of pulling and pushing, they were both safely in a small scullery. This room, lined with shelves, had a Belfast sink and several stacked and unopened wooden cases of claret.
Matthew felt his heart racing within him. This was, technically, a criminal intrusion. The fact that you were in a house with the permission of the occupant’s nephew presumably made no difference to the fundamental illegality of the entry. Of course, you could claim that you were only in the house in order to check up on the householder, but Matthew suspected that such an excuse might be difficult to assert. The Duke could reasonably point out that he had not answered the door simply because he did not want to admit anybody to the house. You were entitled to do that, after all, in your own house.
James picked up Matthew’s nervousness and sought to reassure him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “My uncle won’t mind. I regularly let myself in.”
“But,” said Matthew. “But…”
He did not finish. James had touched him on the forearm and placed a finger to his lips: he had heard a noise within the house, although he was unsure what it was – the clearing of a throat, perhaps; the scraping of a chair against a floorboard; the tapping of a branch against a windowpane. No house is entirely silent: the small sounds of a building’s respiratory system, its circulation, the creaking of its bones, are there to be heard if one stops to listen for them. But this was more than that – this was the sound of human presence, and now it was repeated.
A Promise of Ankles Page 17
