The Sunday Philosophy Club

“I’m very glad that you could make it,” she said. “I’m not sure that I could face these people on my own.”

Jamie raised an eyebrow. “This is rather like going into the lion’s den, isn’t it?”

“Lioness,” corrected Isabel. “A bit, maybe. But then I don’t think that we shall pursue anything. I’ve decided that I’m not going to get any further into all this.”

Jamie was surprised. “You’re dropping it?”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “I had a long chat with somebody called Johnny Sanderson last night. He worked with these people and knows them well. He says that we won’t be able to prove anything and he also poured cold water on the idea that Minty had anything to do with Mark’s death. I thought long and hard about it.

He rather brought me to my senses, I suppose.”

“You never cease to astonish me,” said Jamie. “But I must say that I’m rather relieved. I’ve never approved of your messing T H E S U N D A Y P H I L O S O P H Y C L U B

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about in other people’s affairs. You’re becoming more sensible by the hour.”

Isabel tapped him on the wrist. “I could still surprise you,”

she said. “But anyway, I accepted this evening out of a sense of horrible fascination. That woman is a bit like a snake, I’ve decided. And I want to see her up close again.”

Jamie made a face. “She makes me uneasy,” he said. “It’s you who called her sociopathic. And I’ll have to be careful that she doesn’t push me out the window.”

“Of course, you know that she likes you,” said Isabel casually.

“I don’t want to know that. And I don’t know how you’ve worked that out.”

“All you have to do is watch people,” said Isabel, as they arrived at the front door and she reached forward to the bell marked hogg. “People give themselves away every five seconds.

Watch the movement of eyes. It says absolutely everything you need to know.” Jamie was silent as they climbed the stairs, and still looked pensive as the door on the landing was opened by Paul Hogg. Isabel wondered whether she should have said what she had said to Jamie; in general, and this was quite against the conventional wisdom, men did not like to hear that women found them attractive, unless they were prepared to reciprocate the feeling. In other cases, it was an irritation—burdensome knowledge that made men uneasy. That was why men ran away from women who pursued them, as Jamie would steer clear of Minty now that he knew; not that she would regret Jamie’s keeping well away from Minty. That would be an appalling thought, she suddenly reflected: Jamie being ensnared by Minty, who would add him to her list of conquests, a truly appalling prospect that Isabel could not bear to contemplate. And why? Because I feel protec-2 1 6

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h tive of him, she conceded, and I cannot bear for anybody else to have him. Not even Cat? Did she really want him to go back to Cat, or was it only because she knew that this would never happen that she was able to entertain the thought of it?

There was no time to resolve these thoughts. Paul Hogg greeted them warmly and led them into the drawing room; the same drawing room with its misattributed Crosbie and its vibrant Peploe. There were two other guests there already, and as they were introduced to them Isabel realised that she had met them before. He was a lawyer, an advocate with political ambitions, and she wrote a column for a newspaper. Isabel read the column from time to time, but found it tedious. She was not interested in the mundane details of journalists’ lives, which seemed to be the stuff of this woman’s writing, and she wondered whether her conversation would be in the same mould. She looked at the woman, who smiled encouragingly at her, and Isabel immediately relented, thinking that perhaps she should make the effort. The lawyer smiled too and shook hands warmly with Jamie. The journalist looked at Jamie, and then glanced back briefly at Isabel, who noticed this quick movement of the eyes and knew immediately that this woman thought that she and Jamie were a couple in that sense and that she was now revising her opinion of Isabel. Which she was indeed doing, for the woman now cast her eyes down, at Isabel’s figure—so obvious, thought Isabel, but it was curiously satisfying to be thought to have a much younger boyfriend, particularly one who looked like Jamie. The other woman would be immediately jealous because her man, who sat up all night working in the Advocates Library, would be worn out and not much fun, and always talked of politics, which is what politicians inevitably did. So there was the journalist thinking: This Isabel woman has a sexy young boyfriend—just look at him—which is T H E S U N D A Y P H I L O S O P H Y C L U B

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what I would really want, if the truth be told, if one were totally honest . . . But then Isabel thought: Is it right to allow people to entertain the wrong impression about something significant, or should one correct a misapprehension in another? There were moments when being the editor of the Review of Applied Ethics was burdensome: it seemed so difficult to be off-duty; difficult to forget, in fact, as Professor . . . Professor . . . might have observed.

Minty now made her entry. She had been in the kitchen, and came into the drawing room holding a silver tray of canapes. She put the tray down on a table, moved over to the lawyer, and kissed him on both cheeks. Rob, I’ve voted for you twice since we last met.

Twice! And then on to the journalist. Kirsty, so good of you to come at no notice whatsoever. Then to Isabel: Isabel! That was all, but there was a change in the light in her eyes, subtle, but observable.

And it’s Jamie, isn’t it? The body language changed now; she stood closer to Jamie as she greeted him, and Isabel noticed, to her satisfaction, that Jamie moved back slightly, as a magnet will do when confronted with the wrong end of another magnet.

Paul had been on the other side of the room preparing drinks, and now he returned. They took their glasses and turned to one another. It was an easy conversation—surprisingly easy, thought Isabel. Paul asked Rob about a current political campaign and he replied with amusing details of a constituency fight. The names of the protagonists were well known: a towering ego and a notorious womaniser engaged in dispute over a minor office. Then Minty mentioned another political name which brought forth a snort from Rob and a knowing shaking of the head from Kirsty.

Jamie said nothing; he knew no politicians.

A little later, when Jamie was talking to Kirsty—about something that had happened in the Scottish Opera