Stevenson had told her to stop thinking about it; perhaps he was right.
“All right, Isabel,” he had said. “You have to stop worrying. We have. We thought when you began this that it might not last. But it has, hasn’t it? And Charlie changes everything. So even if it’s true that an age difference can lead to people drifting apart because they have different interests, that doesn’t need to happen. All that the age difference might do is to put a little bit of extra strain on things. That’s all.”
And perhaps this was exactly the strain that Peter had in mind. And she was the one who was creating it, by doubting Jamie, by turning him down when he wanted to cement things between them by asking her to marry him. She fulfilled the prophecy because she was doing precisely the thing that Jamie sometimes accused her of doing: thinking too much. Perhaps a philosopher should not think so much.
“I’m sorry. I’ll stop. And if—” She was about to say: “And if you want to ask me again to marry you, then ask me, and the answer will be different this time,” but before she could say this, Jamie interjected, “Good. So let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about Marcus Moncrieff.”
The moment had passed. Bad timing, thought Isabel, can change everything. There had been bad timing before—in 1708, to be precise, when the French ships carrying the Jacobites had arrived off Fife just a little bit too late for those ashore, who had melted away; but how absurd that she should think of that now.
Jamie, of course, had no idea that Isabel was thinking about the rising of 1708. “I’ve been thinking about that poor man,” he went on. “Are you going to be able to help him?”
She was not sure of her answer. She explained to Jamie about Stella’s disclosure. Jamie thought it possible that Norrie Brown was responsible for what had happened, but he said, quite forcefully, that he did not think that it would have been out of personal animosity; the pharmaceutical company, in his view, was the likely villain.
“That lawyer who came to see you,” he said, “David…”
“McLean.”
“Yes, him. He would have come to see you only if they had a real interest in stopping you. They wouldn’t do it out of sympathy for Marcus Moncrieff. Why would they?”
Isabel nodded. “So what do I do?”
“You go and see him. Tell him.”
“Who?”
“Marcus Moncrieff. Tell him that you suspect he was the innocent victim of a plan by the manufacturers of the drug to get the heat off them for a while. Those high figures suited them fine—it kept the drug on the market.”
“And then?”
Jamie shrugged. “You bow out. You will have done what you set out to do—you will have come up with the information that he needs to clear his name. You can’t do more than that.”
Isabel thought that Jamie was probably right. But she doubted whether she could really be said to have done very much; and it was unlikely that he did not now know about Norrie. Surely Stella would have told him that— although she would have put Norrie’s intervention down to personal animosity. At least Isabel would be able to correct that impression.
She smiled at Jamie. “You make it sound so simple,” she said. And then she was about to say, “And as for marriage, well…” But Jamie, looking down at the menu again, said, “What exactly is the difference between langoustines and crayfish?” and again the moment passed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JAMIE SAID TO ISABEL the next morning, “You’re going to go and see Marcus Moncrieff this morning. Remember?”
He was standing in his pyjamas in the kitchen, and Isabel, seeing that the pyjamas were immodest, said, “Grace could come in, you know.”
Jamie hitched up the pyjama trousers, struggling with the cord, and Grace arrived, having let herself in silently. She looked away, but Jamie caught Isabel’s eye.
“The bus was late again,” said Grace. “And there was that man at the bus stop again. The peculiar one. The one who hands out leaflets about the second coming.”
Isabel rose from her seat. “I’ll go tomorrow,” she said, taking up the thread of their conversation. “I’ll phone and ask them if they’re going to be in.”
“Of course they’re going to be in,” said Jamie. “He never goes out. You told me.” He paused, looking at her knowingly. “You’re putting it off, aren’t you, Isabel?”
“What?” asked Grace.
“A visit to an unhappy man,” said Jamie.
Isabel grimaced. “This morning then?”
“I’ll drive you,” said Jamie. “Charlie and I will drive you, and then we can wait in the car on Johnston Terrace. Afterwards we can go somewhere. The Botanics, maybe.”
Isabel agreed. Jamie was right; she had been putting it off because she felt reluctant to face Marcus with bad news about his nephew. Should she go? Or should she just forget about the whole affair? She could do that; she was under no moral obligation to tell Marcus that he was the victim of deliberate manipulation by a pharmaceutical company. And yet, even as she thought this, she knew that she would not be able to rest until she had done all that she could to lighten his burden of shame. So she would go; she had to.
Charlie was still sleeping, and it was not until ten thirty that they were in the green Swedish car and ready to leave. Grace had hinted broadly that she would be quite happy to look after Charlie and that he would surely enjoy himself more at home.
