The Sunday Philosophy Club (18 page)

How utterly shortsighted we had been to listen to those who thought that manners were a bourgeois affectation, an irrelevance, which need no longer be valued. A moral disaster had ensued,
because manners were the basic building block of civil society. They were the method of transmitting the message of moral consideration. In this way an entire generation had lost a vital piece of the moral jigsaw, and now we saw the results: a society in which nobody would help, nobody would feel for others; a society in which aggressive language and insensitivity were the norm.

She stopped herself. This was a train of thought which, though clearly correct, made her feel old; as old as Cicero declaiming,
O tempora! O mores!
And this fact, in itself, demonstrated the subtle, corrosive power of relativism. The relativists had succeeded in so getting under our moral skins that their attitudes had become internalised, and Isabel Dalhousie, with all her interest in moral philosophy and distaste for the relativist position, actually felt embarrassed to be thinking such thoughts.

She must stop this musing on moral imagination, she thought, and concentrate on things of more immediate importance, such as checking the morning’s mail for the review and finding out why that poor boy Mark Fraser fell to his death from the gods. But she knew she would never abandon these broader issues; it was her lot. She may as well accept it. She was tuned in to a different station from most people and the tuning dial was broken.

She telephoned Jamie, forgetting that he would already have caught his train to Glasgow and would be, more or less at that moment, drawing into Queen Street Station. She waited for his answering machine to complete its speech, and then she left a message.

Jamie, yes I’ve phoned him, Paul Hogg. He was happy for us to call to see him tomorrow at six. I’ll meet you half an hour before that, in the Vincent Bar. And Jamie, thanks for everything. I really appreciate your help on this. Thanks so much.

S
HE WAS ANXIOUS
in the pub, waiting for Jamie. It was a masculine place, at least at that hour, and she felt ill at ease. Women could go to pubs by themselves, of course, but she nonetheless felt out of place. The bartender, who served her a glass of bitter lemon with ice, smiled at her in a friendly way and commented on the fine evening. The clocks had just been put forward, and the sun was not setting now until after seven.

Isabel agreed, but could think of nothing useful to add, so she said: “It’s spring, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” said the barman. “But you never know.”

Isabel had returned to her table.
You never know.
Of course you never know. Anything could happen in this life. Here she was, the editor of the
Review of Applied Ethics,
about to go off in search of … of a murderer is what it amounted to. And in this task she was to be assisted, although somewhat reluctantly, by a beautiful young man with whom she was half in love but who was himself in love with her niece, who in turn appeared besotted with somebody else, who was having a simultaneous affair with his sister’s flatmate. No, the barman certainly did not know, and if she told him he would scarcely believe it.

Jamie was ten minutes late. He had been practising, he said, and he had only looked at the clock just before five-thirty.

“But you’re here,” said Isabel. “And that’s the important thing.” She glanced at her watch. “We have about twenty minutes. I thought I might just go over with you how I plan to approach this.”

Jamie listened, eyeing her from time to time over the edge of his beer glass. He remained uneasy about the whole project, but he had to agree that she was well rehearsed. She would raise the issue gently, particularly bearing in mind the apparent rawness of Paul Hogg’s feelings on the matter. She would explain that she was not seeking to interfere, and the last thing that she was interested in was causing any embarrassment for McDowell’s. But they owed it to Mark, and to Neil, who had brought the matter to her attention, to at least take the issue a little bit further. She herself, of course, was convinced that there was nothing in it, but at least they could lay the matter to rest with a good conscience if they had investigated it fully.

“Good script,” Jamie commented after she had finished. “Covers it all.”

“I can’t see that he would be offended by any of that,” said Isabel.

“No,” said Jamie. “That’s unless it’s him.”

“What’s him?”

“Unless he did it himself. He might be the insider trader.”

Isabel stared at her companion. “Why do you think that?”

“Well, why not? He’s the person that Mark must have been working with most closely. He was the head of his section or whatever. If Mark knew anything, it must have been about the stuff that he was working on.”

Isabel considered this. It was possible, she supposed, but she
thought it unlikely. There had been no doubting the genuineness of the emotion he had shown on the occasion of their first meeting, when Mark’s name had come up. He was devastated by what had happened; that was perfectly obvious. And if that were so, then he could not have been the person who arranged to dispose of Mark, which meant that he could not be the person fearing exposure.

“Do you see that?” she said to Jamie.

Jamie did, but he thought it wise to keep an open mind.

“We could be mistaken,” he said. “Murderers feel guilt. They mourn their victims sometimes. Paul Hogg may be like that.”

“He’s not,” said Isabel. “You haven’t met him yet. He’s not like that. It’s somebody else we’re looking for.”

Jamie shrugged. “It might be. It might not. At least keep an open mind.”

PAUL HOGG LIVED
on the first floor of a Georgian town house in Great King Street. It was one of the most handsome streets in the New Town, and from his side, the south side, there was a view, from the top floors at least, of the Firth of Forth, a blue strip of sea just beyond Leith, and, beyond that, of the hills of Fife. The first floor had other reasons to commend it, though, even if the view was only of the other side of the street. In some streets at least, these flats were called the drawing-room flats, as they had been the main drawing rooms of the old, full houses. Their walls, therefore, were higher and their windows went from ceiling to floor, great expanses of glass which flooded the rooms with light.

They walked up the common stairway, a generous sweep of stone stairs, about which there lingered a slight smell of cat, and found the door with
HOGG
on a square brass plate. Isabel glanced
at Jamie, who winked at her. His scepticism had been replaced by a growing interest in what they were doing, and it was she, now, who felt doubtful.

Paul Hogg answered the door quickly and took their coats. Isabel introduced Jamie, and the two shook hands.

“I’ve seen you somewhere,” said Paul Hogg. “I don’t know where.”

“Edinburgh,” said Jamie, and they laughed.

He led them through to the drawing room, which was a large, elegantly furnished room, dominated by an impressive white mantelpiece. Isabel noticed the invitations—at least four of them—propped up on the mantelpiece, and when Paul Hogg went out of the room to fetch their drinks, and they had not yet sat down, she sidled over and read them quickly.

Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey Holmes, At Home, Thursday 16th
(Isabel had been invited too). Then,
George Maxtone requests the pleasure of the company of Ms. Minty Auchterlonie at a Reception at the Lothian Gallery, at 6 p.m., Tuesday, 18th May;
and
Minty: Peter and Jeremy, Drinks in the Garden (weather permitting, probably not), Friday, 21st May, 6:30 p.m.
And finally,
Paul and Minty: Please come to our wedding reception at Prestonfield House on Saturday, 15th May. Ceilidh, 8 p.m. Angus and Tatti. Dress: Evening/ Highland.

Isabel smiled, although Jamie was looking at her disapprovingly, as if she were reading something private. Jamie came over to join her and squinted briefly at the invitations. “You shouldn’t read other people’s things,” he whispered. “It’s rude.”

“Pah!” hissed Isabel. “That’s why these things are up here. To be read. I’ve seen invitations on mantelpieces
three years
out of date. Invitations to the garden party at Holyroodhouse, for instance. Years old, but still displayed.”

She led him away from the mantelpiece to stand before a large watercolour of poppies in a garden. “That’s her,” she said. “Elizabeth Blackadder. Poppies. Garden walls with cats on them. But terribly well done in spite of the subject matter.” And she thought: I have no pictures of poppies in my house; I have never been stuck at the hips going through somebody else’s window.

This was where Paul Hogg, returning with two glasses in his hands, found them.

“There you are,” he said cheerfully. “What you came to see.”

“It’s a very good one,” said Isabel. “Poppies again. So important.”

“Yes,” said Paul. “I like poppies. It’s such a pity that they fall to bits when you pick them.”

“A clever defence mechanism,” said Isabel, glancing at Jamie. “Roses should catch on to that. Thorns are obviously not enough. Perfect beauty should be left exactly as it is.”

Jamie returned her look. “Oh,” he said, and then was silent. Paul Hogg looked at him, and then looked at Isabel. Isabel, noticing this, thought: He’s wondering what the relationship is. Toy boy, probably; or so he thinks. But even if that were the case, why should he be surprised? It was common enough these days.

Paul Hogg left the room briefly to fetch his own drink, and Isabel smiled at Jamie, raising a finger to her lip in a quick conspiratorial gesture.

“But I haven’t said anything yet,” said Jamie. “All I said was ‘Oh.’”

“Quite enough,” said Isabel. “An eloquent monosyllable.”

Jamie shook his head. “I don’t know why I agreed to come with you,” he whispered. “You’re half crazy.”

“Thank you, Jamie,” she said quietly. “But here’s our host.”

Paul Hogg returned and they raised their glasses to one another.

“I bought that painting at auction a couple of years ago,” he said. “It was with my first bonus from the company. I bought it to celebrate.”

“A good thing to do,” said Isabel. “One reads about brokers, financial people, celebrating with those awful lunches that set them back ten thousand pounds for the wine. That doesn’t happen in Edinburgh, I hope.”

“Certainly not,” said Paul Hogg. “New York and London maybe. Places like that.”

Isabel turned towards the fireplace. A large gilt-framed picture was hung above it, and she had recognised it immediately.

“That’s a fine Peploe,” she said. “Marvellous.”

“Yes,” said Paul Hogg. “It’s very nice. West coast of Mull, I think.”

“Or Iona?” asked Isabel.

“Could be,” said Paul Hogg vaguely. “Somewhere there.”

Isabel took a few steps towards the painting and looked up at it. “That business with all those forgeries some years back,” she said. “You weren’t worried about that? Did you check?”

Paul Hogg looked surprised. “There were forgeries?”

“So it was said,” said Isabel. “Peploes, Cadells. Quite a few. There was a trial. It caused some anxiety. I knew somebody who had one on his hands—a lovely painting, but it had been painted the week before, more or less. Very skilled—as these people often are.”

Paul Hogg shrugged. “That’s always a danger, I suppose.”

Isabel looked up at the painting again. “When did Peploe paint this?” she asked.

Paul Hogg made a gesture of ignorance. “No idea. When he was over on Mull, perhaps.”

Isabel watched him. It was an answer of staggering lameness, but at least it fitted with an impression that she was rapidly forming.
Paul Hogg knew very little about art, and, moreover, was not particularly interested. How otherwise could one have a Peploe like that—and she was sure that it was genuine—how could one have a Peploe and not know the basic facts about it?

There were at least ten other pictures in the room, all of them interesting even if none was as dramatic as the Peploe. There was a Gillies landscape, for example, a very small McTaggart, and there, at the end of the room, a characteristic Bellamy. Whoever had collected these either knew a great deal about Scottish art or had stumbled upon a perfectly representative ready-made collection.

Isabel moved over to another picture. He had invited her to view his Blackadder and so it was quite acceptable to be nosy, about paintings at least.

“This is a Cowie, isn’t it?” she asked.

Paul Hogg looked at the picture. “I think so.”

It was not. It was a Crosbie, as anybody could have told. These paintings did not belong to Paul Hogg, which meant that they were the property of Minty Auchterlonie, who was, she presumed, his fiancée, and who had been named
separatim
on two of the invitations. And those two invitations, significantly, were both from gallery owners. George Maxtone owned the Lothian Gallery and was just the sort of person to whom one would go if one wanted to buy a painting by a major Scottish painter of the early twentieth century. Peter Thom and Jeremy Lambert ran a small gallery in a village outside Edinburgh but were also frequently commissioned by people who were looking for particular paintings. They had an uncanny knack of locating people who were prepared to sell paintings but who wished to do so discreetly. The two functions would probably be a mixture of friends and clients, or of people who were both.