“He’s called Eamonn,” said Cat. “He’s Irish, originally. And he’s lovely. He’s gentle. You’ll like him.”
“I’m sure I shall,” said Isabel. But she was not sure. “What does Eamonn do?” she asked.
There was a further silence, this time quite a long one.
“Well,” said Cat at last, “he’s a bouncer for a bar at the moment, but he’s going to stop being a bouncer and do a stonemason’s apprenticeship. There’s a builder called Clifford Reid who’s taking him on. Clifford has been doing up a building near the delicatessen. He’s the most highly sought-after builder in town. You might have seen the scaffolding. That’s how I met Eamonn. He came in for coffee with Clifford.”
Isabel did not know what to say, but Cat had to cut some cheese and so that brought the conversation to an end. Isabel felt relief over the Dove affair; she had done her duty and confessed, but it had made no difference. And if anxiety should be felt over Eamonn, there would be time enough for that in the future. A former bouncer– stonemason could be an improve-ment, though, on some of the men in Cat’s past; both required solid qualities in their practitioners, contrasting good qualities perhaps, but solid qualities nonetheless. Ireland gave so much to the world; perhaps Cat was learning at last.
The telephone call from Guy Peploe started briskly, but led to at least one silence. “The purchaser of that painting was very understanding,” he said. “I told him that I had reason to think that it was not what I had been led to believe it was. He said that he still liked it, and would keep it. I adjusted the price, of course: a nice painting in the style of another artist is still a nice painting, but shouldn’t cost as much. He was perfectly happy with that. Very happy, in fact.”
“And the consignor?” said Isabel. “Was she happy with getting a smaller sum?”
T H E C A R E F U L U S E O F C O M P L I M E N T S
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“She was very relieved,” said Guy. “She said—” He stopped.
“How did you know it was a woman?”
“I’ve met Mrs. Buie,” said Isabel.
That was when the silence occurred, and Isabel decided that she would have to take Guy into her confidence. He was discreet and she knew that he could keep a secret. But she had involved him, and she would have to give him a full explanation.
“May I see you next week?” she said. “There’s a long and rather complicated story that I have to tell you. But I’m going to tell you only if you give me your word that you won’t tell a soul.
Not a soul.”
“You have my word,” said Guy. “But can’t you give me a hint of what it’s about?”
Isabel laughed. “It’s about a whirlpool,” she said. “And human oddness.”
Now, sitting with Jamie in the kitchen, enjoying a glass of the chilled West Australian wine that he had brought with him, along with the slightly larger pieces of halibut, Isabel recounted the week’s events. Jamie listened attentively, and with increas-ing astonishment.
“So Mrs. Buie gets away with it?” he asked at the end. “And McInnes continues to pretend not to exist? Hardly a very satisfactory conclusion, is it?”
“But Mrs. Buie did no wrong,” said Isabel. “She sold two McInnes paintings painted by McInnes. Nothing wrong with that. Although I think that she won’t try it again.”
Jamie frowned. “But there is,” he said. “She put up for sale two paintings which were meant to be by an artist who was dead. He wasn’t dead. What would the lawyers call that? A material misrepresentation, or something like that?”
“That sounds like a rather fine point,” said Isabel.
“Oh really?” Jamie expostulated. “You’re one to accuse
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h making fine points.” But his tone was one of amusement, and he was smiling.
“What worried me more,” said Isabel, “was the fact that McInnes had ignored his son. That was the real tragedy.”
“You persuaded him otherwise?”
“I think so,” said Isabel. “In fact I’m sure of it.”
She looked at Jamie, silently daring him to accuse her of unjustified interference. But he did not; instead he glanced at her, smiled, and said, “Well, that’s fine then.”
He was thinking of his own son; how could anybody deny love to a child?
“So would you say, on balance, that on this occasion at least it was worth interfering?” Isabel asked.
Jamie hesitated. She should not meddle in the affairs of others; he was sure of that. But when he looked at what had happened here, well, would it be anything other than churlish to deny the good effects? So he merely said, “Yes. You did the right thing in this case.”
“Thank you,” said Isabel. “But here’s something to think about: I realised it was the right thing to do only after I had done it.”
They finished their dinner. And later, upstairs, lying still wakeful with the moonlight falling through the chink of the curtains that did not quite meet, they suddenly heard outside the yelping of Brother Fox. “He’s out there,” whispered Isabel. “That was him.”
Jamie remembered a line of song:
