44 Scotland Street

She swears by them.”

228

Morningside Ladies

The woman nodded. “And it all goes to a good cause. Every penny we make in this shop is put to good use.”

Matthew cleared his throat. “We’re looking for a painting,”

he began. “We wondered . . .”

“Oh we have several paintings at the moment,” said the woman keenly. “We can certainly find you a painting.”

“Actually, it’s a very specific painting,” said Matthew. “You see, it’s a rather complicated story. A painting that belongs to me was inadvertently given to the South Edinburgh Conservative Association. Then unfortunately . . .”

The woman frowned. “But how can one give a painting to the Conservatives inadvertently?” she interrupted. “Surely one either knows that one is giving a painting to the Conservatives, or one doesn’t.”

Matthew laughed. “Of course. But you see in this case the painting was given by somebody who had no right to give it. He effectively stole the painting – stole it inadvertently, that is.”

The woman pursed her lips. She cast a glance at Pat, as if to seek confirmation from her that there was something strange about the young man with whom she had entered the shop.

Pat responded to the cue. “What my friend means to say is that somebody took the painting, thinking it belonged to nobody, and gave it as a prize at the Conservative Ball at the Braid Hills Hotel.”

The mention of the Braid Hills Hotel seemed to reassure the woman. This was a familiar landmark in the world map of Morningside ladies; like a shibboleth uttered at the beginning of some obscure social test, the name of the Braid Hills Hotel signalled respectability, shared ground.

“The Braid Hills Hotel?” the woman repeated. “I see. Well, that’s quite all right. But how do we come into it?”

Pat explained about the prize and the conversation that she had had with Ramsey Dunbarton. At the mention of this name, the woman smiled. Now all was clear.

“Of course,” she exclaimed. “Ramsey himself came in this morning. Such a nice man! He was once the Duke of Plaza-Toro, you know, in The Gondoliers. And . . .”

“And?” prompted Matthew.

Morningside Ladies

229

“And he was in several other musicals. For quite some time . . .”

Pat stopped her. “Did he bring in a painting?”

The woman smiled. “Yes he did and . . .” she paused, looking hesitantly at Matthew. “And we sold it almost immediately. I put it in the window and a few minutes later somebody came in and bought it. I served him myself. He came right in and said:

“That painting in the window – how much is it?” So I told him and he paid straightaway and took the painting off. I’m terribly sorry about that – I really am. I had no reason to know, you see, that it was your painting. I assumed that Ramsey Dunbarton had every right to have it sold. But of course nemo dat quod non habet. Perhaps if you speak to him about it, perhaps . . .”

Pat glanced at Matthew, who had groaned quietly. “You wouldn’t know who bought it, would you?” It was unlikely, of course, but she could ask. The purchaser might have written a cheque, and they could get the name from that. Or he might have said something which would enable them to identify him.

It was just possible.

The woman frowned. “I don’t actually know him,” she said.

“But I had a feeling that I knew him, if you know what I mean.

I’d seen him somewhere before.”

“In the shop?” asked Pat. “Would anybody else here know who he was?”

The woman turned to her colleague, who was standing at the cash desk, adding a column of figures.

“Priscilla? That painting we sold this morning to that rather good-looking man. The one who hadn’t quite shaved yet. You know the one.”

Priscilla looked up from her task. She was a woman in late middle-age, wearing a tweedy jacket and a double string of pearls. There was an air of vagueness about her, an air of being slightly lost. When she spoke, the vowels were pure Morningside, flattened so that I became ayh, my became may.

“Oh my!” said Priscilla. “The name’s on the tip of my tongue!

That nice man who writes about Mr Rebus. That one. But what is his name? My memory is like a sieve these days!”

230

On the Way to Mr Rankin’s

Matthew gave a start. “Ian Rankin?” he said.

“That’s his name,” said Priscilla. “I don’t read his books personally – they’re a bit noir for me – but I suppose those stronger than I read them. Still, de gustibus non disputandum est, as one must remind oneself, and believe me, I do! How could one possibly survive these days without repeating that particular adage all the time? You tell me – you just tell me!”