Isabel wondered why. The outgoing principal, she had been told, had nothing to do with the appointment of his successor, and so it was difficult to see what difference it could make for her to meet him. But she was keen to see Abbotsford again after so many years, having visited it last as a schoolgirl when the sisters were still in residence. These sisters, direct descendants of Scott, had kept the house going as best they could, but a roof so large and walls so rambling had eventually defeated their resources. Living in Scotland was like that: a battle against the elements; against the rain that would eventually wash away even the hardest stone; against wind that could lift the heaviest slate and curl the thickest roofing lead; against cold that would shrink the snuggest mortar.
Jillian now led Isabel to the other side of the room. Her husband, a tall man with aquiline features, emanated an energy that impressed itself immediately. Committee man, thought Isabel; a natural chairman.
Alex met her gaze as they shook hands. She noticed his eyes, which were pale blue, filled, it seemed, with an intense light. It was curious how it happened, and she had sometimes wondered about it: some eyes appeared to have the light within them rather than without. And yet eyes should reflect rather than emit light.
He drew her aside, leading her to one of the large windows that looked out over Scott’s grounds.
“We obviously won’t have the opportunity to talk very much,” he said quietly. “Not with this mob.”
A mob of donors, she thought. That could be the collective noun. Or should it be a prospect of donors? Or a wealth of donors? The latter—clearly.
“Jillian has filled me in,” he continued. “So I understand you—how shall I put it?—look into certain matters for people. Delicate matters. Jillian has convinced us that one of those firms, you know, who look into fraud and such things, would be less discreet, and all this could somehow get out.” He paused. “So we need somebody tactful. Like you.”
She looked down at her glass. He saw her do this.
“That sounds a bit like parody,” he said. “Sorry. But then parody often makes exactly the point one wants to make.”
She realised that she had misjudged him. Alex Mackinlay was not a typical bluff businessman, full of clichés and superficialities; there was a subtle intelligence at play.
“I understand,” she said. “And I’m happy to help.”
He looked at her appreciatively. “I’m very grateful. Although I must say that it crossed my mind to ask you why.”
It was a well-tried technique. If there was something that one wanted to know but did not want to ask directly, then the simplest thing was to announce that this was a question that one had no intention of asking. It always paid off; just as it worked when politicians said that the one thing they were not going to raise about a candidate was his past. That put everybody on notice to look for scandal.
“I do this sort of thing because I can’t find it in myself to refuse,” said Isabel. “That is my weakness. I freely admit it.”
Alex smiled. “Well, at least that’s honest. I’m not sure I would own up to my weaknesses quite so freely.”
Isabel raised an eyebrow. “Really? Of course I shall resist the temptation to ask you what those weaknesses are.” It was his service returned.
He did not answer. “Those three names,” he said. “As Jillian will have told you, we fear that one of them is not quite what he claims to be. Or is otherwise unsuitable for appointment. But we don’t know which one it is.”
Isabel thought about this. If he was as shrewd as she thought he was, then surely he would have his views on who the rotten apple might be. If the apple was rotten, of course.
She asked him directly. “Who do you think it is? You must have your suspicions.”
He thought for a moment. “I’m very reluctant to say.”
“Because you’re unsure?”
He nodded. “Yes. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have a view, but I’m afraid I’ve learned not to trust my own judgement when it comes to people.”
This surprised her. “But how can you not? You’re a businessman, I believe; you must have to form an opinion of people every day of the week. You must trust your own judgement.”
He was adamant. “Not people. Facts and figures—yes, especially balance sheets. But when it comes to people—I’m just not sure. I used to think I could tell, but not any more.”
“You’ll have to tell me why,” Isabel said. “You can’t leave it at that.”
He hesitated, but then he decided. “All right. I’ll tell you. I used to be chairman of a company based in Glasgow. We had a problem with embezzlement—money went missing. We didn’t want to get the police involved, and so we tried to sort it out ourselves. I asked the manager to give me his views on who was doing it. I had a high opinion of him and I thought that he would probably have a fairly good idea of his staff and what was going on. So he gave me a name, and I called this chap in. I looked at him and I decided that he looked dishonest. So I asked him outright if he knew anything at all about the missing funds. He was all over the place. He mumbled. He looked up at the ceiling. He avoided eye contact.”
“You decided it was him?”
“Yes. I did.”
“So what did you do?”
Alex looked down at the floor. He was himself avoiding eye contact, thought Isabel. “I had no proof, and so I just warned him and said we were watching him. I didn’t say anything more than that—I couldn’t, and so I left it there. He left the room, and that was it.”
“And?” asked Isabel.
“And he went away that night and threw himself off the Erskine Bridge. That was it. Left three children, and one on the way.”
Isabel winced. “These tragedies happen,” she said. “Guilt can be very powerful.”
“Except he wasn’t guilty,” said Alex, looking back at her again. There was no light in his eyes now. “He was completely innocent. I’d made a huge error of judgement, hadn’t even realised that he was suffering from very serious depression. I mishandled it totally. A few weeks later the manager was caught more or less red-handed. I’d misjudged him too—as well as that poor man who jumped off the bridge.” He paused. “There you have it.”
She was silent for a while. It was an appalling story, and she could not ask him again to give his views. But now he did. “Tom Simpson,” he said. “The third name on that list of yours. There’s something about him that makes me suspicious.”
Isabel thought: A guilty look? Wrong colour of tie?
“Stupid,” said Alex. “He’s stupid, that man. Nobody else at the interview thought so—nor did his referees. But I think he’s not very bright.”
“But he could be a good administrator,” suggested Isabel. Did principals of schools have to be intellectuals? Surely what counted was the ability to motivate staff and students—and keep the parents happy. None of that relied entirely on intellectual ability.
Alex smiled. “Yes. They used to have school heads like that, but not any more. It’s changed a lot since our day. No, what worries me is that he claims to have a first-class honours degree—and a master’s with distinction. I somehow feel that’s just not possible.”
“You could check,” said Isabel. It would be a simple business to get in touch with the universities in question and ask.
“I have,” said Alex. “I took it upon myself to contact the registry of the University of Bristol. They said that he’d been there, but they wouldn’t reveal the class of his degree—something to do with data protection. You know how people won’t tell you what time of day it is because of data protection.”
Isabel laughed. “I heard of somebody who refused to give his name when asked. He said it was on the grounds of privacy.”