“We should take a seat,” said Duncan, indicating the sofa. “We can gaze at this lovely sight while we talk.”
She sat down at one end of a chintzy sofa, with Duncan at the other.
He did not hesitate. “So you found out,” he began. “Frankly, I wasn’t surprised.”
“No?”
“No, I’d dreaded it. I suppose I suspected it all along, but I didn’t really want to face up to the fact that my own son could have done something like that.”
She was still. “Your son?”
“Yes, Patrick. As I assume you’ve discovered.”
“Why do you think it was him?” she asked gently.
He laughed. “Because it’s obvious. The house was locked last night. This morning the painting was back in its original position, as if nothing had happened. There are four or five copies of the keys—mine, my wife’s, my daughter’s, my son’s, and a spare set we keep in a drawer.”
Isabel asked him where his wife was. He replied that she was in Paris and would be away for the next two weeks. He had spoken to her on the telephone, though—to give her the good news. “Needless to say, she’s delighted.”
“But I still don’t see—”
He interrupted. “I assumed that you spoke to him after you discovered the truth.”
Isabel shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”
“Then he must have realised that you knew.”
She was not sure what to say. “Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
He looked up at the painting. “He’s gone on and on about redistribution—he’s harped on about it for years. But I never thought he’d take his animosity to me and my concerns to such an extent.” He shook his head ruefully. “Never. I would never have dreamed it.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” said Isabel gently.
He looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean? Who else could it be?”
“You have two children,” said Isabel.
He laughed. “Alex? No, that’s out of the question.”
Isabel looked down at her hands. I could tell him, she thought. I could list the factors that pointed to his daughter: her financial need, her attachment to the painting, her deliberate involvement of Isabel through Martha.
Duncan now rose to his feet and took the few steps that brought him close to the painting. He gazed at it, his back to Isabel.
“Do you know something?” he said, without turning round. “When I asked Martha to contact you, I never imagined that you would be able to sort the whole thing out. I hardly dared hope. I expected that you would be a comfort to me in the whole business—as I told you—but I had no idea that you’d bring the matter to a successful conclusion.”
Isabel sat where she was. “When you asked Martha?”
He seemed surprised by her question. “Yes. I got in touch with her. I didn’t want to speak to you out of the blue. I suppose I’m afraid of rejection.” He looked at her and gave a curious, self-deprecatory shrug. “Who isn’t? We’re all a bit weak, I fear.”
“I don’t think it was your son,” said Isabel.
Duncan appeared to weigh this—but not for long. “You don’t have to protect him, you know. I’m not going to do anything about it, as I told you. After all, he’s still my son.”
Isabel stared at him. “Do you love him?”
“Of course I do. In spite of everything. I’ll get over this.”
She was astonished. “So this will make no difference to your relationship with him?”
Duncan sighed. “Probably not. We are very far apart, you see, in many respects. And I don’t think this was directed against me. The painting was going to come back—he was merely going for the insurance company. He hates people like that—fair game, in his view.”
“What if I told you,” said Isabel, “that it was definitely not your son? What if I said that it was somebody else altogether?”
He sat down again. She had his full attention. “Why? What do you mean?”
She closed her eyes briefly, trying to order her thoughts. “It was somebody else, but I cannot reveal who. I’m sorry. But I assure you that I am one hundred per cent sure that it was not Patrick.”
Duncan looked confused. “Then who …?”
“I can’t reveal that,” Isabel repeated. She had made her decision. It had all fallen into place and she knew what she had to do. “You yourself said that the important thing is that the painting is back.”
He corrected her. “You said that.”
“No, you did.”
He looked doubtful. And Isabel thought: Did I say it, or did he? And if we can’t remember who said what, then how could anybody be sure about who spoke to Martha? But one thing was clear: it was right not to tell him that his daughter was behind the theft. If she was, which Isabel thought was probable. Or perhaps not … “I think I should get back to Edinburgh,” she said.
“I owe you a great deal,” said Duncan. “I’m very grateful to you.”
She had been about to stand up, but at this, she remained where she was. “Then I’m going to ask something of you.”
He was guarded. “Yes?”
“I’d like you to make some gesture towards your son,” she said. “You said that you loved him. Well, he doesn’t think so.”
He began to protest, but she cut him short.
“Yes, I mean it. He thinks that you disapprove of him.”
“He disapproves of me,” blurted out Duncan.
“Disapproval can sometimes be an act of self-defence,” Isabel pointed out. “And in this sort of situation it’s not necessarily a good idea for people to blame each other for starting things. You have to short-circuit all that. You have to forget about it. Tell him that you value him. Tell him that you are happy with what he is. Don’t deny it. He’s not going to change his nature, you know. Tell him that that’s all right. Say it. Embrace him. Put your arms around him and say that you’re proud of him and you love him.”
He stared at her.
“Or lose him,” she said.
She rose to her feet, glanced one final time at the Poussin and began to leave the room.
SHE WAS BACK in Edinburgh well before lunchtime. Jamie had been practising that morning—he had a demanding concert coming up in which he was playing Mozart’s bassoon concerto, and he was working his way through that, ironing out difficulties, making sure that his playing was as polished as possible. Now he was ready for lunch, which he suggested they have in the garden as it was a warm day—one of the warmest of the year so far—and they could eat on a picnic rug on the shady part of the lawn. Isabel agreed, and prepared a plate of sandwiches and a jug of the slightly tart lime cordial that she had made a few days previously.
Sitting on the rug, she told Jamie about her trip to Munrowe House and about the conversation she had had with Duncan. “So who was it?” he asked.
Isabel picked at a sandwich. “Ham,” she said. “You should have the ham ones and I’ll have tomato. Who was it?”
He took the ham sandwich from her. “Yes. Who was it?”
She extracted a tomato sandwich from the small stack on the serving plate. “Who was it? Sometimes it’s difficult to say. You think you know the answer, then you don’t.”
“But you must have some feeling about it,” pressed Jamie.
“The daughter,” said Isabel. “I may be wrong, but I think it was her. The last thing I wanted to do was to tell Duncan that. He is very fond of her, and I’m not sure that it would be helpful for him to know that she’s dishonest. Frankly, I think it could even be the end of him—that knowledge.”
Jamie understood. “So you kept that from him?”
Isabel nodded. “I did. I think I had to.” She paused for a moment. “But it could have been somebody else. I’m not sure. It could even have been Duncan—I doubt it, he was so obviously delighted about having the painting back that I more or less dismissed the idea, but it’s theoretically possible. Just.”
Jamie was silent.
He had started on the ham sandwich and was making quick work of it. Within a minute, it had disappeared, and he reached for another one.
Once their lunch was over, they lay down on the rug. Isabel, feeling relaxed and relieved that the Poussin was back in its home, reflected on the fact that the best solutions in life are sometimes the vaguest and least clear-cut. That was true, no matter how much we strove for certainty, for the cut and dried, for the harsh truth that admitted of no nuances, no qualifications. I am glad that I do not live in a world that requires such certainty of me, she thought. I am glad.
“Look at those clouds,” said Jamie, gazing up at the sky. “Look at them.”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “They’re very beautiful, aren’t they? Clouds are very beautiful and yet so often we fail to appreciate them properly. We should do that. We should look at them and think about how lucky we are to have them.”
She turned to Jamie, lying beside her. He was still on his back, his hands tucked behind his head, making a rough-and-ready human pillow. Had she been able to write haiku, she thought, she would write one to him now. You beside me / The grass beneath / I think … and so on. But she could not, and what she wanted to say to him now was all jumbled up inside her. She could kiss him perhaps; that might express her feelings every bit as eloquently as if she were to speak at length. But she felt a piece of tomato on her teeth and she did not want to kiss him until that had dislodged itself, or been dislodged.
“Look at the shape of the clouds,” she said. “What do you see in those beautiful clouds, Jamie?”
She thought he might find a shape of the clouds that they could treat as an omen, a portent perhaps, but he did not. Instead, he waited for a few moments, waited until a bee that had been crawling on a nearby flower went on to something else.
“I see you,” he said.
About the Author
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, the Isabel Dalhousie series, the Portuguese Irregular Verbs series, the 44 Scotland Street series, and the Corduroy Mansions series. He is professor emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh and has served on many national and international organizations concerned with bioethics. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe and taught law at the University of Botswana. He lives in Scotland.
Visit: www.AlexanderMcCallSmith.com
Friend: www.facebook.com/home.php#!/alexandermccallsmith
Follow: twitter.com/@mccallsmith
Also available as an ebook by Alexander McCall Smith:
In the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency Series:
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency • 978-1-4000-7765-6
Tears of the Giraffe • 978-1-4000-7767-0
Morality for Beautiful Girls • 978-1-4000-7766-3
The Kalahari Typing School for Men • 978-1-4000-7941-4
The Full Cupboard of Life • 978-0-375-42324-6
In the Company of Cheerful Ladies • 978-0-375-42357-4
Blue Shoes and Happiness • 978-0-375-42426-7
The Good Husband of Zebra Drive • 978-0-375-42479-3
The Miracle at Speedy Motors • 978-0-307-37719-7
Tea Time for the Traditionally Built • 978-0-307-37810-1
The Double Comfort Safari Club • 978-0-307-37900-9
The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party • 978-0-307-37963-4
The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection • 978-0-307-90715-8
In the Isabel Dalhousie Series:
The Sunday Philosophy Club • 978-0-375-42343-7
Friends, Lovers, Chocolate • 978-0-375-42392-5
The Right Attitude to Rain • 978-0-375-42462-5
The Careful Use of Compliments • 978-0-375-42527-1
The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday • 978-0-307-37776-0
The Lost Art of Gratitude • 978-0-307-37857-6
The Charming Quirks of Others • 978-0-307-37945-0
The Forgotten Affairs of Youth • 978-0-307-90679-3
The Common Appeal of Clouds • 978-0-307-90734-9
In the Corduroy Mansions Series:
Corduroy Mansions • 978-0-307-37930-6
The Dog Who Came in From the Cold • 978-0-307-37984-9
A Conspiracy of Friends • 978-0-307-90724-0
In the Portuguese Irregular Verb Series:
Portuguese Irregular Verbs • 978-0-307-42729-8
The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs • 978-0-307-42858-5
At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances • 978-0-307-42488-4
In the 44 Scotland Street Series:
44 Scotland Street • 978-0-307-27679-7
Espresso Tales • 978-0-307-38639-7
Love Over Scotland • 978-0-307-38759-2
The World According to Bertie • 978-0-307-45522-2
The Unbearable Lightness of Scones • 978-0-307-47674-6
The Importance of Being Seven • 978-0-307-90724-0
The Girl Who Married a Lion • 978-0-375-42344-4
La’s Orchestra Saves the World • 978-0-307-37866-8
For Young Readers
The Great Cake Mystery • 978-0-307-74390-9
For more information on Pantheon Books:
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BOOKS BY ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH
IN THE ISABEL DALHOUSIE SERIES
The Sunday Philosophy Club
Friends, Lovers, Chocolate
The Right Attitude to Rain
The Careful Use of Compliments
The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday
The Lost Art of Gratitude
The Charming Quirks of Others
The Forgotten Affairs of Youth
The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds
IN THE NO. 1 LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY SERIES
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
Tears of the Giraffe
Morality for Beautiful Girls
The Kalahari Typing School for Men
The Full Cupboard of Life
In the Company of Cheerful Ladies
Blue Shoes and Happiness
The Good Husband of Zebra Drive
The Miracle at Speedy Motors
Tea Time for the Traditionally Built
The Double Comfort Safari Club
The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party
The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection
IN THE CORDUROY MANSIONS SERIES
Corduroy Mansions
The Dog Who Came In from the Cold
A Conspiracy of Friends
IN THE PORTUGUESE IRREGULAR VERBS SERIES
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs
At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances
IN THE 44 SCOTLAND STREET SERIES
44 Scotland Street
Espresso Tales
Love over Scotland
The World According to Bertie
The Unbearable Lightness of Scones
The Importance of Being Seven
The Girl Who Married a Lion and Other Tales from Africa
La’s Orchestra Saves the World
The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds Page 23
