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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h She led him away from the mantelpiece to stand before a large watercolour of poppies in a garden. “That’s her,” she said.
“Elizabeth Blackadder. Poppies. Garden walls with cats on them.
But terribly well done in spite of the subject matter.” And she thought: I have no pictures of poppies in my house; I have never been stuck at the hips going through somebody else’s window.
This was where Paul Hogg, returning with two glasses in his hands, found them.
“There you are,” he said cheerfully. “What you came to see.”
“It’s a very good one,” said Isabel. “Poppies again. So important.”
“Yes,” said Paul. “I like poppies. It’s such a pity that they fall to bits when you pick them.”
“A clever defence mechanism,” said Isabel, glancing at Jamie.
“Roses should catch on to that. Thorns are obviously not enough.
Perfect beauty should be left exactly as it is.”
Jamie returned her look. “Oh,” he said, and then was silent.
Paul Hogg looked at him, and then looked at Isabel. Isabel, noticing this, thought: He’s wondering what the relationship is. Toy boy, probably; or so he thinks. But even if that were the case, why should he be surprised? It was common enough these days.
Paul Hogg left the room briefly to fetch his own drink, and Isabel smiled at Jamie, raising a finger to her lip in a quick con-spiratorial gesture.
“But I haven’t said anything yet,” said Jamie. “All I said was ‘Oh.’ ”
“Quite enough,” said Isabel. “An eloquent monosyllable.”
Jamie shook his head. “I don’t know why I agreed to come with you,” he whispered. “You’re half crazy.”
“Thank you, Jamie,” she said quietly. “But here’s our host.”
Paul Hogg returned and they raised their glasses to one another.
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“I bought that painting at auction a couple of years ago,” he said. “It was with my first bonus from the company. I bought it to celebrate.”
“A good thing to do,” said Isabel. “One reads about brokers, financial people, celebrating with those awful lunches that set them back ten thousand pounds for the wine. That doesn’t happen in Edinburgh, I hope.”
“Certainly not,” said Paul Hogg. “New York and London maybe. Places like that.”
Isabel turned towards the fireplace. A large gilt-framed picture was hung above it, and she had recognised it immediately.
“That’s a fine Peploe,” she said. “Marvellous.”
“Yes,” said Paul Hogg. “It’s very nice. West coast of Mull, I think.”
“Or Iona?” asked Isabel.
“Could be,” said Paul Hogg vaguely. “Somewhere there.”
Isabel took a few steps towards the painting and looked up at it. “That business with all those forgeries some years back,” she said. “You weren’t worried about that? Did you check?”
Paul Hogg looked surprised. “There were forgeries?”
“So it was said,” said Isabel. “Peploes, Cadells. Quite a few.
There was a trial. It caused some anxiety. I knew somebody who had one on his hands—a lovely painting, but it had been painted the week before, more or less. Very skilled—as these people often are.”
Paul Hogg shrugged. “That’s always a danger, I suppose.”
Isabel looked up at the painting again. “When did Peploe paint this?” she asked.
Paul Hogg made a gesture of ignorance. “No idea. When he was over on Mull, perhaps.”
Isabel watched him. It was an answer of staggering lameness, but at least it fitted with an impression that she was rapidly form-1 4 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h ing. Paul Hogg knew very little about art, and, moreover, was not particularly interested. How otherwise could one have a Peploe like that—and she was sure that it was genuine—how could one have a Peploe and not know the basic facts about it?
There were at least ten other pictures in the room, all of them interesting even if none was as dramatic as the Peploe. There was a Gillies landscape, for example, a very small McTaggart, and there, at the end of the room, a characteristic Bellamy. Whoever had collected these either knew a great deal about Scottish art or had stumbled upon a perfectly representative ready-made collection.
Isabel moved over to another picture. He had invited her to view his Blackadder and so it was quite acceptable to be nosy, about paintings at least.
“This is a Cowie, isn’t it?” she asked.
Paul Hogg looked at the picture. “I think so.”
It was not. It was a Crosbie, as anybody could have told.
These paintings did not belong to Paul Hogg, which meant that they were the property of Minty Auchterlonie, who was, she presumed, his fiancée, and who had been named separatim on two of the invitations. And those two invitations, significantly, were both from gallery owners. George Maxtone owned the Lothian Gallery and was just the sort of person to whom one would go if one wanted to buy a painting by a major Scottish painter of the early twentieth century. Peter Thom and Jeremy Lambert ran a small gallery in a village outside Edinburgh but were also frequently commissioned by people who were looking for particular paintings. They had an uncanny knack of locating people who were prepared to sell paintings but who wished to do so discreetly. The two functions would probably be a mixture of friends and clients, or of people who were both.
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“Minty—” Isabel began, meaning to ask Paul Hogg about his fiancée, but she was interrupted.
“My fiancée,” he said. “Yes, she’s coming any moment. She was working a bit late, though not late by her standards. Sometimes she’s not back until eleven or twelve.”
“Oh,” said Isabel. “Let me guess. She’s a . . . a surgeon, yes, that’s what she is. She’s a surgeon or a . . . a fireman?”
Paul Hogg laughed. “Very unlikely. She probably lights more fires than she puts out.”
“What a nice thing to say about one’s fiancée!” said Isabel.
“How passionate! I hope that you’d say that about your fiancée, Jamie.”
Paul Hogg shot a glance at Jamie, who scowled at Isabel, and then, as if reminded of duty, changed the scowl to a smile.
“Hah!” he said.
Isabel turned to Paul Hogg. “What does she do, then, that keeps her out so late at night?” She knew the answer to the question even as she asked it.
“Corporate finance,” said Paul Hogg. Isabel detected a note of resignation, almost a sigh, and she concluded that there was tension here. Minty Auchterlonie, whom they were shortly to meet, would not be a clinging-vine fiancée. She would not be a comfortable homemaker. She would be tough, and hard. She was the one with the money, who was busy buying these expensive paintings. And what is more, Isabel was convinced that these paintings were not being acquired for the love of art; they were a strategy.
They were standing near one of the two large front windows, next to the Cowie that was a Crosbie. Paul looked out and tapped the glass gently. “That’s her,” he said, pointing out into the street.
“That’s Minty arriving now.” There was pride in his voice.
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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Isabel and Jamie looked out the window. Below them, directly outside the entrance to the flat, a small, raffish sports car was being manoeuvred into a parking space. It was painted in British racing green and had a distinctive chrome front grille. But it was not a make which Isabel, who took a mild interest in cars, could recognise; Italian perhaps, an unusual Alfa Romeo, an older Spider? The only good car to come out of Italy, ever, in Isabel’s opinion.