The Lost Art of Gratitude

bank’s assets. Some of the things she got rid of were pretty ordinary investments, but one of them was a major holding in a company that had a renewable energy licence. This was quite valuable.”

Isabel asked what a renewable energy licence was.

“In this case, it was the right to position turbines on a bit of seabed,” George said. “The coast of Scotland has very strong tides.”

Isabel remembered the Corryvreckan whirlpool. “Jura,” she said. “The Corryvreckan.”

“Exactly. Not that anybody was proposing to put a generator there. But think of the energy—just imagine it.” He paused. “It’s a big thing these days. If we could get even a quarter of our energy needs from renewable sources, then …”

Isabel prompted him to return to the subject of Minty. “Yes, of course. But should she not have sold that company?”

George coloured again. “Oh, you can sell assets all right. Banks are doing that all the time. But if you sell them to yourself, you have be very careful. You have to sell them for the proper value, for a start.”

Isabel frowned. “She sold them to herself?”

“Yes, using the money she had raised from the sale of her shares in the bank. In other words, the money I’d paid her. And then it transpires that the company in question had a licence that nobody knew about. Or so she claimed. That licence suddenly became very valuable and so Minty Auchterlonie ended up with something that was worth a lot of money. It would have been completely different had she told me that she was going to dispose of those particular assets. But she didn’t.”

He gazed out of the window, over the garden, as if searching for some visible manifestation of the outrage he was describing. Then he turned to face Isabel again. “She claims, of course, that she was unaware of the licence when she bought the shares. Lies.” He spat the word out. “Lies.”

For a few moments neither said anything. The word lies hung in the air between them, infecting the room with vituperation. Anger serves no point, thought Isabel. It happened—of course it did— and it was humanly understandable, but it disfigured us.

Then Isabel broke the silence. “Do you have a legal claim?”

George sighed. “We took counsel’s opinion. And the answer was that it would be very difficult to prove that she knew of the licence. So I was advised not to pursue it. The advocate told me, though, that he felt I had a strong moral claim. Some consolation. A moral claim means nothing to a woman like that. Less than nothing.”

“Moral claims depend on a shared sense of morality,” observed Isabel. “And that is something we do not share with psychopaths.” She paused. “Do you mind if I see the letter?”

He did not, and he went to fetch it, returning a few minutes later with a folded piece of cream-coloured stationery. Isabel read the letter quickly and stared for a moment at the signature at the bottom of the page. It was hers. She looked away, then looked at it again and thought: the visitors’ book. Minty showed attention to detail—even unnecessary detail.

“And this came with it,” said George, handing Isabel a photographic print of a shot from a security camera.

Isabel studied the photograph. It showed George Finesk against a background of lawns and trees. There was a time printed at the bottom of the picture; the camera recording the moment that he had crossed its line of vision.

“Where is this?”

George Finesk glanced at the photograph. “Taken outside her house. I admit I did go there—but I went to see her. I wanted to ask her about the transaction. She wasn’t there. That’s all.”

“And this date?”

“It was the day on which one of the incidents occurred. I chose a bad day to go.”

Isabel nodded. “So it seems.”

She saw the pulse in his throat; a small movement under the skin. His eyes were fixed on hers. “But I didn’t set fire to her greenhouse, or whatever it is that she accuses me of doing.”

“Of course not.” Isabel paused. “But she’s persuaded you to give up your … campaign against her?”

“Yes. I can’t risk the scandal of a police investigation—even if it’s for something I didn’t do.”

Isabel told him that she could understand that. Edinburgh was a small place when it came to reputations; what was said at dinner parties would be believed by some, and repeated, even if it was untrue—and demonstrably so.

She rose to her feet. He stood up, his natural politeness fully restored. “Please let me get you some tea,” he said.

She thanked him, but explained that she had to get on her way.

He demurred. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Please forgive my rudeness.”

“Of course. I can understand how you felt.”

She began to walk to the door, and as she did so a woman appeared from the landing outside the drawing room. She was a tall woman and Isabel noticed immediately that she had very similar eyes to George’s— sister, she thought.

George introduced them. “My wife, Angela,” he said.

Angela shook hands with Isabel. “I think I know who you are,” she said, and mentioned a mutual acquaintance.

“When we lived in India, we lived outside a village,” George Finesk said. “Now we come home and we find ourselves living in a village.”