Friends, Lovers, Chocolate id-2

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Nile Grove was a Victorian terrace, built in honey-coloured stone that had turned light grey with the passage of time. It was an attractive street, a number of the houses having ornamenta-tion on their façades. Small, well-kept gardens separated the fronts of the houses from the street, and on many of the houses creepers, ivy or clematis, climbed up beside the high sash windows. It was an expensive street; a quiet place to live; a street untroubled by commerce or passers-by. It was not, thought Isabel, a street through which one would imagine a reckless motor-ist careering; nor one which would host the tragedy of Rory Macleod’s death.

  Isabel found the house and opened the small painted ironwork gate that led to the front path. A few moments later she was standing outside the front door. There was a bell pull—one 1 2 6

  A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h of the old-fashioned ones—connected to a wire that caused a tinkling sound somewhere deep inside the house, just audible from without. Isabel pulled this and then waited. She had no idea if anybody was in, and after a minute or so she felt inclined to walk back up the path and give up—with some relief—the idea of seeing the Macleod family. But then the door was suddenly opened and a woman stood before her.

  Isabel looked at the woman. This was the Rose Macleod who had been mentioned in the Evening News. She was a bit older than Isabel—perhaps very late forties—and was wearing a rather shapeless shift in light blue. The face was an alert, intelligent one, a face that was immediately striking and which once would have been described as beautiful. While much of the beauty, in the conventional sense, might have been lost, there remained a quality of peacefulness and calm. This was the face of a musician, perhaps; a violinist, Isabel guessed.

  “Yes? What can I do for you?” Rose Macleod’s voice was very much as Isabel had imagined it would be: quiet, with the slight burr of south Edinburgh.

  “Mrs. Macleod?” Isabel asked.

  Rose Macleod nodded, and smiled uncertainly at her visitor.

  “My name is Isabel Dalhousie,” said Isabel. “I live round the corner—or farther down, actually. In Merchiston.” She paused.

  “I suppose I’m a sort of neighbour.”

  Rose Macleod smiled. “I see.” She hesitated for a moment.

  Then, “Would you care to come in?”

  Isabel followed her into the hall and through a door that led into a downstairs living room. It was a comfortable room, on the street side of the house, with bookshelves up one wall. It was typical, Isabel thought, of the rooms one would find in any of the houses along Nile Grove: a room which spoke to the solid, edu-F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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  cated taste of the neighbourhood. Above the ornate Edwardian fireplace, with its fin de siècle painted tiles, was a painting of a young man’s face in the style of Stephen Mangan—flat, almost one-dimensional, slightly haunting. A pair of Chinese bowls, famille rose, stood on the mantelpiece.

  Isabel was pleased that Rose Macleod had invited her in. It seemed trusting, these days, to ask a stranger in, but it was still done in Edinburgh, or parts of Edinburgh at least. She took a seat on a small tub chair near the fireplace.

  “I’m sorry to descend on you like this,” Isabel began. “We haven’t met, of course, but I know about . . . about your son. I’m so sorry.”

  Rose inclined her head slightly. “Thank you. That was some months ago, as you know, but . . . but it still seems very recent.”

  “Do you have other children?” asked Isabel.

  Rose nodded. “We had three sons. Rory was the oldest. The other two are away at university. One in Glasgow. One in Aberdeen. Both studying engineering.” She paused, appraising Isabel with piercing blue eyes. “I lost my husband some years ago. He was an engineer too.”

  There was silence. Isabel had clasped her hands together and felt the bony outline of her knuckles. Rose looked at her expectantly.

  “The reason why I came to see you,” Isabel began, “is to do with the accident. I was wondering whether the police had made any progress. I saw something in the Evening News—

  something in which they called for witnesses. Did anybody turn up?”

  Rose looked away. “No,” she said. “Not a squeak. Nothing.

  The police have said now that although the case remains technically open, it’s very unlikely that they will get anything further 1 2 8

  A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h to go on.” She reached out and took a coaster from a table beside her chair and fiddled with it. “What they’re effectively saying is that we shouldn’t expect them ever to come up with an answer as to what happened. That’s more or less it.”

  “That must be difficult for you,” said Isabel. “Not knowing.”

  Rose put the coaster down on the table. “Of course it is. It leaves things up in the air—unresolved.” She paused and looked at Isabel again. “But, may I ask, why have you come to see me about this? Do you know something, Mrs. . . . Mrs. Dalhousie?”

  “Miss,” said Isabel. “No, I don’t know anything definite, I’m afraid, but I might have some information which could have a bearing on the incident. It’s just possible.”

  The effect of this on Rose was immediate. Suddenly she was tense, and she leant forward in her chair. “Please tell me what it is,” she said quietly. “Even if you think that it’s unimportant. Please tell me.”

  Isabel was about to begin. She had worked out what she was going to say, which would effectively be the story of her meeting with Ian and the story that he had told her. She was not going to say much about the other case—the case which Ian had told her about—but would be prepared to say something about that if Rose appeared unduly sceptical.

  She started to speak. “I met a man completely by chance . . .”

  Outside the room there was the sound of a door opening.

  Rose raised a hand to stop Isabel.

  “Graeme,” she said. “My partner. Could you hold on a moment? I’d like him to hear what you have to say.”

  She rose from the chair and opened the living-room door, which she had closed behind her when they had entered the room. Isabel heard her say something to somebody outside, and F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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  then a man entered. He was a tall man, about the same age as Rose. Isabel looked at him. She saw the high brow, with the scar, and the eyes, which were hooded, markedly so. And she knew, immediately and with utter certainty, that this was the man whose face had appeared to Ian.

  She took the hand which was proffered to her and shook it.

  The act of introduction, the formality of the handshake, at least gave her some time to think, and her mind raced through the possibilities. She could hardly go ahead and say what she had proposed saying now that Graeme had come in. She could hardly sit there and give a description of the man on the other side of the room. Nor could she suddenly claim that she had forgotten what she was going to say.

  For some inexplicable reason, Grace came to her mind, and Isabel knew what she would say. As Rose explained to Graeme that Isabel had come with some information, she refined her story. She would keep Ian out of this now, and would claim the vision herself.

  “I know you’ll think this rather ridiculous,” she said. “People often do. I’m a medium, you see.”

  She saw Graeme glance at Rose. He does think it’s ridiculous, thought Isabel. Good. But Rose declined his look of complicity. “I don’t think that,” she said softly. “The police have often used mediums. I’ve read about it. They can be quite useful.”

  Graeme pursed his lips. He clearly did not think so. But was he anxious? Isabel wondered. If he was the hit-and-run driver, would he be anxious about some eccentric medium coming up with something which might just throw suspicion upon him?

  And why, she asked, would he have left Rory in the street if he had knocked him down inadvertently? The answer occurred to her immediately. If he had been driving under the influence of 1 3 0

  A l e x a n d
e r M c C a l l S m i t h alcohol at the time, then running somebody over could lead to a ten-year jail sentence. Everybody knew that. Of course one would panic in such circumstances.

  “Please tell us,” Rose said imploringly. “Please tell us what you’ve seen.”

  Isabel studied her hands. “I saw a man driving a car down a road,” she said. “And then I saw a young man walk out in front of the car and get knocked down. The man stopped the car and got out. I saw him bending over the young man. I saw that the man in the car was shortish, slightly chubby in fact, and had fair hair. That’s what I saw.”

  Isabel looked up from the study of her hands. She saw that Graeme, who had been standing when she began to talk, was now sitting down. He seemed to have relaxed, and was looking at Rose with a smile on his lips.

  “You don’t believe me, Mr. . . .”

  “Forbes,” he supplied. “No, please don’t be offended. I just don’t see how these things can work. I’m sorry. No disrespect intended to your . . . your calling.”

  “That’s fair enough,” said Isabel, rising to her feet. “I wouldn’t wish to impose my vision on those who do not want to receive it. That’s not the way we work. Please forgive me.”

  Rose was quick to get to her feet too. She took a step forward and reached out for Isabel’s hand.

  “I appreciate your having come to see us,” she said. “I really do. And I can pass on what you’ve said to the police. I promise you that.”

  Isabel now wanted nothing more than to leave. Graeme’s arrival had disturbed her greatly, and the subterfuge to which she had then resorted had hardly improved the situation. It was a serious matter to deceive a bereaved mother in this way, F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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  she felt, even if she had not had much alternative in the circumstances.

  “Please don’t feel that you have to go right away,” said Rose.

  “I haven’t offered you anything yet. What about a cup of tea? Or coffee?”

  “You’re very kind,” said Isabel. “But I’ve taken up enough of your time already. I don’t think I should have come in the first place.”

  “Of course you should have come,” Rose said quickly. “I’m glad you did, you know. I’m really glad you did.” She stopped, and then, releasing Isabel’s hand, she asked, through tears, “Did you see . . . did you see my son’s face in this dream of yours? Did he come to you?”

  Isabel took a deep breath. She had intervened in the life of this woman without being asked. And now she had com-pounded the potential harm by leading her to believe that she had seen her son. What had been intended as a quick response to an unexpected development—a story designed not to be taken seriously—had touched this woman in an unexpectedly profound way.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t really see his face. He didn’t speak to me. I’m sorry.”

  Graeme had now got up from his chair and had placed a protective arm round Rose’s shoulder. He glared at Isabel.

  “Please leave this house,” he said, the anger rising in his voice. “Please leave now.”

  I S A B E L W E N T T H AT A F T E R N OO N to Jamie’s flat in Saxe-Coburg Street. She had returned home after her visit to the house in Nile Grove, but had been unable to settle. Grace had 1 3 2

  A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h sensed that something was wrong, and had asked if she was all right. Isabel would have liked to have spoken to Grace, but could not. What prevented her was embarrassment over the ridiculous claim that she had made, the claim that she was a medium. She came out of that rather badly, she thought, even if it had been a lie dreamt up to deal with a totally unexpected situation. So she reassured Grace that nothing was amiss—

  another lie, although a very common one—and decided instead to see Jamie as soon as possible: that afternoon, in fact.

  It was one of Jamie’s afternoons for teaching in his flat.

  Isabel knew that he did not like to be disturbed while teaching, but this was an extraordinary situation that called for extraordinary action. So she crossed town on foot, walking down Dundas Street and stopping briefly at the galleries to pass the time before Jamie might be expected to be on his last pupil. There was nothing to interest her in the gallery windows, and nothing inside either; she was too uneasy to appreciate art.

  On Henderson Row, groups of boys were coming out of the Edinburgh Academy, clad in their grey tweed blazers, engaged in the earnest conversation which boys seem to have in groups.

  In the distance, somewhere within the school buildings, the Academy Pipe Band was practising and she stopped for a moment to listen to the drifting sound of the bagpipes. “Dark Island,” she thought; like so many Scottish tunes a haunting melody, redolent of loss and separation. Scotland had produced such fine laments, such fine accounts of sorrow and longing, whereas Ireland had been so much jauntier . . .

  She continued walking, the sound of the pipes gradually becoming fainter and fainter. Saxe-Coburg Street was just round the corner from the Academy; indeed the windows at the back of Jamie’s flat gave a view down into the school’s grounds F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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  and into the large skylights of the art department. One could stand there, if one wanted, and watch the senior boys painting in their life class, or the younger ones throwing clay, making the shapeless pots which would be taken back to admiring parents and consigned after a decent interval to a cupboard. She did not ring the bell at the bottom of the mutual stair, but walked up the several flights of stone stairway to Jamie’s front door. She paused there and listened. There was silence, and then a murmur of voices and the sound of a scale being played on a bassoon, hesitantly at first and then with greater speed. She looked at her watch. She had thought he might be finished by now, but she had misjudged. She decided to knock anyway, loudly, so that Jamie might hear her in the back room that he used as his studio.

  He came to the door, clutching a music manuscript book.

  “Isabel!”

  He was surprised to see her but not discouraging.

  “I’m still teaching,” he said, his voice lowered. “Come in and wait in the kitchen. I’ll be another”—he took her wrist, gently, and glanced at her watch—“another ten minutes. That’s all.”

  “I wouldn’t have disturbed you,” she said as she entered the hall. “It’s just that . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, pointing in the direction of his studio. “Later.”

  Isabel saw a boy in an Academy jacket sitting in a chair near the piano, holding a bassoon. The boy was craning his neck to see who had arrived. Isabel gave a wave and the boy, embarrassed, nodded his head. She went through to the kitchen and sat down at Jamie’s pine table. There was a copy of Woodwind magazine on the tabletop, and she paged her way idly through it.

  There was an article on contrabass instruments and the illustra-1 3 4

  A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h tions caught her eye. A man stood beside a contrabass saxophone, one hand supporting it, the other pointing to it in a tri-umphant gesture. It was as if he had captured a rare specimen, which the instrument appeared to be, according to the article. It had been made by a factory in Italy which was still prepared to make such large instruments, in return for—she was shocked by the price. But what a beautiful piece of construction with all its gleaming keys and rods and great leather hole pads, like inverted saucers.

  Jamie stood in front of her, the boy by his side.

  “That’s a real stunner, isn’t it?” he said to the boy.

  Isabel looked up. The magazine was laid flat on the table and the boy was looking at the picture of the contrabass saxophone.

  “Would you like one of those, John?” asked Jamie.

  The boy smiled. “How do you lift it?”

  “They come with stands,” said Jamie. “I know somebody who has an ordinary bass saxophone, which is slightly smaller.

  He has a stand for it. A stand with wheels.” H
e paused. “This is Isabel Dalhousie, John. Isabel is a friend of mine. She’s quite a good pianist, you know, although she’s too modest to say much about that.”

  Isabel rose to her feet and shook the boy’s hand. He was at the easily embarrassed stage and he blushed. It must be very hard, she thought, to be so in between; not a man yet, but not a little boy either. Just something in between, and struggling with bassoon lessons.

  The boy left, nodding politely to Isabel. Jamie saw him out of the front door and then returned to the kitchen.

  “Well,” he said. “That’s the last adolescent for the day.”

  “He seems nice enough,” said Isabel.

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  “I suppose he is,” said Jamie. “But he’s lazy. He doesn’t prac-tise. He says he does, but he doesn’t.”

  “Ambitious parents?” asked Isabel.

  “Pushy mother,” said Jamie. “Edinburgh is full of pushy mothers. And most of them send their sons to learn bassoon with me.” He smiled. “All my bills are paid by pushy mothers. I thrive on maternal push.”

  He moved over to the end of the kitchen and filled a kettle with water.

  “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” He looked at her, almost dolefully. “Come on. Tell me.”

  Jamie was good at detecting Isabel’s moods; he could read her, she had always thought that. And it was a slightly alarming thought, because if he could read her as well as she imagined he could, then would he have had some inkling of her feelings for him—those feelings, as she called them—which she had now got quite under control and which were not a problem any longer? She was not sure if she would want him to have known; we do not always wish for those for whom we long to know that we long for them, especially if the longing is impossible, or inappropriate. It was so easy, for instance, for a middle-aged man to fall for a young woman because of her beauty, or her litheness, or some such quality, and in most cases the response from the young woman would be one of horror, or rejection; to be loved by the unlovable was not something that most people could cope with. And so feelings should be concealed, as she had concealed her feelings from Jamie—or so she hoped.