44 Scotland Street (46 page)

108. Action Is Taken

One of Matthew’s problems, thought Pat, was that he seemed unwilling to make decisions. The way he had behaved over the Peploe? – now the non-Peploe – was an example of his chronic lack of decisiveness. Had it not been for the fact that Big Lou had met Guy Peploe, with the result that Matthew had been pushed into action, it was doubtful whether they would have identified the painting as being by somebody other than Peploe. Nor would they have discovered that it was probably an overpainting. That had been established by Guy Peploe himself, who had spotted the shape of an umbrella above a mountain.

Now that some progress had been made with the painting, the matter should be taken further. If it was indeed an overpainting, then what lay underneath could be of some interest – although still probably no more than the work of some gauche amateur. Pat had asked Matthew whether he was planning to do anything about it, but he had simply shrugged.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I can’t think of who would paint an umbrella.”

“A French impressionist?” suggested Pat. “They were always painting people with umbrellas. There’s that famous one in the Art Institute of Chicago. I saw it when we went there with the Academy Art Department. They were very good, you know, the art people at the Academy. Mrs Hope. Mr Ellis. Remember them? They took us to all sorts of places. They were inspirational. That’s where I learned to love art.”

She saw Matthew shift in his seat as she spoke. There was something funny about Matthew. He had got up to something at school – she was sure of it. But what? So many people had their secrets – secrets that we are destined never to find out. People had a past – she had Australia, but the least said about that the better. It was not her fault – she had never thought that – except for one or two people who had said that she should not have spoken to that person in the café and that she should have realised that the man with the eye-patch was not what he claimed to be. She reflected for a moment – now that she was home, it did not seem quite so bad. Indeed, it had been something of an adventure. Perhaps she should tell Domenica about it one of these days. She liked stories like that.

Matthew had changed the subject and nothing more was said about the non-Peploe until that afternoon, when the doorbell rang and Angus Lordie came into the gallery, followed by Cyril. When he saw Pat, Cyril wagged his tail with pleasure and winked.

“Passing by,” said Angus Lordie. “I was taking Cyril for a stroll and I thought I might pop in and see what you have on the walls. Interesting stuff. That over there is a worth a quid or two, you know. You didn’t? Well, I think it’s a James Paterson.”

Matthew stood up and joined Angus Lordie in front of a large painting of a girl in a field. “Are you sure?” he said.

Angus Lordie smiled. “Absolutely. If I had the wall space I’d buy it myself.”

Matthew turned and glanced at Pat. “I thought it might be,” he said.

“Well, it is,” said Angus Lordie. “He lived in Moniaive, I think. Or somewhere down …” He paused. He had seen the non-Peploe, which was stacked casually against the side of Matthew’s desk. “Well! Well! Look at that. Very intriguing!”

“Not a Peploe,” said Matthew, smiling. He was warming to Angus Lordie now, having disliked him when he first met him in the Cumberland Bar with Pat. The identification of the Paterson had cheered Matthew. He had no idea who James Paterson was, but he would soon find out. And Matthew was not sure where Moniaive was either, but he could look that up too.

“Oh, I can tell it’s not a Peploe,” said Angus Lordie, walking across the room to pick up the painting. “What interests me is the shape I can make out – very vaguely – underneath.”

“An umbrella,” Matthew said quickly. “Rather like the umbrellas that the French impressionists painted. You’ll know that one in Chicago, of course. The Art Institute. Wonderful place.”

Pat said nothing. It was good to see Matthew’s confidence growing. She looked at Cyril who was sitting near the door, his mouth half-open, the sun glinting off his gold tooth. Cyril was perfectly confident – quite at ease in the space he occupied, as every animal is, except us.

Angus Lordie held the painting at an angle to the light. “Fascinating,” he said. “The painting on the top is rubbish, of course, but a deft application of paint-stripper might show something rather interesting. Would you like me to do it for you? We could do it in my studio.”

Matthew hesitated. “Well …”

“What a good idea!” exclaimed Pat. “Don’t you agree, Matthew?”

Matthew turned and looked at Pat, reproach in his eyes. He did not like people making decisions for him, but this is what they inevitably did. One day I’m going to say no, he thought. I’m going to become myself. But then he said: “I suppose so. Yes, I suppose it would be good to see what’s underneath.”

“What about this evening?” said Angus Lordie. “You two come round to the studio. And bring Domenica. We’ll make a party of it.”

The time was agreed, and Angus Lordie, with Cyril at his side, set off up the road. As he walked, he thought of the painting. It was really very exciting. He had his ideas, of course, as to what lay underneath, and if he were proved right, then that would have major implications for Matthew. And it would be nice, too, to be credited with the discovery, just as Sir Timothy Clifford had got a lot of credit when he discovered a da Vinci drawing under a sofa in the New Club. (That had made the papers!) There would be mention of his own discovery in the newspapers and perhaps a photograph of himself and Cyril. He would be modest, of course, and would downplay the significance of what he had done. Anybody could have seen it, he might say. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

“But it required your expert hand to reveal the secret!” the reporter would say. And he would smile, and say, self-effacingly: “Yes, perhaps it did. Perhaps it did.”

109. A Most Remarkable and Important Discovery

“Angus is an extremely good host,” Domenica had said, and she was right. He welcomed his guests with a tray of devils on horseback and small oat-cakes on which thick-cut slices of smoked salmon had been balanced. Then there were crackers with boiled egg, ersatz caviar, and small circles of mayonnaise. All of this was provided in generous quantities.

His flat, which occupied the top two floors of a Drummond Place stair, was built with a generosity which escapes modern builders; the ceilings soared up to fifteen feet, the dark pine wainscoting reached waist-level, and the floor boards were a good twelve inches wide. And everywhere on the walls there were paintings and hangings – portraits, landscapes, figurative studies. A Cadell picture of a man in a top hat, raffish as the proprietor, smiled down above the fireplace in the drawing room. A large Philipson, crowded with cathedrals and ladies, occupied the expanse of wall to its side, and a magnificent Cowie, schoolgirls in a painter’s loft, hung beside that.

And then there were the bookshelves, which filled the hall and the dining room; towering constructions with books stacked two and three deep. Domenica, drink in hand, stopped beside one of these and exclaimed with delight as she drew out a volume.

“Ruthven Todd!” she said. “Nobody reads him these days, and they should. Look at this.
Acreage of the Heart
, published by William McLellan. The Poetry Scotland series.”

Angus Lordie came to her side, licking mayonnaise off his fingers.

“That contains a very fine poem, Domenica,” he said. “
Personal History
. Do you know it?”

Domenica turned a page. “
I was born in this city
,” Domenica began to read aloud. “
Where dry minds …
”

“
Grow crusts of hate/ Like rocks grow lichen
“, Angus Lordie took it up. “Such powerful, powerful lines.”

Pat looked puzzled. “Why did he write that?”

“Because it’s true,” said Angus Lordie. “Or, at least it used to be true. Todd was born into haut-bourgeois Edinburgh, which used to be just like that. Brittle. Exclusive. Turned in on itself. And immensely snobbish.”

“And still is a bit like that,” said Domenica quietly. “In its worst moments.”

“But much better than it used to be,” Angus Lordie countered. “You very rarely see those real, cold Edinburgh attitudes these days. The arrogance of those people is broken. They just can’t get away with it. That horrid disapproval of anything that moves – that’s gone.”

Domenica did not appear to be completely convinced. “I’m not sure,” she said. “What makes Edinburgh different from other cities in these islands? It is different, you know. I think that there is still a certain hauteur, a certain intellectual crustiness. It’s not nearly as marked as it was in Todd’s day, but …”

Angus Lordie smiled. “But Domenica rather likes all that,” he suggested mischievously. “She’s a bit of a Jean Brodie, you see.”

Pat looked at Domenica, wondering whether she would take offence. Hadn’t Jean Brodie been a fascist? Wasn’t that the whole point about Spain and the betrayal and all the rest? Matthew simply looked confused. What was this man talking about? And where was that peculiar dog of his?

They were all standing in the drawing room overlooking the Drummond Place Gardens. It was about nine o’clock, and the sky was still light. The branches of the trees moved gently against the sky and the stone of the buildings opposite, for there was a slight breeze. Pat sipped at the drink that Angus Lordie had given her – a gin and tonic flavoured with lime; she was happy to be here, with these people, with Matthew, whom she liked more and more for his gentleness; with Angus Lordie, who amused her and seemed so grateful for her company, and who was not a threat to anyone; and with Domenica, whom she admired. What a difference, she thought, between this company, interesting and sympathetic, and the company of Bruce and his friends in the Cumberland Bar. What a profound mistake to fall in love with that man – she realised that now. She had no feeling for him, not even revulsion; she felt nothing. At that crucial moment, when she had seen him awake and smiling at her, she had realised that she was free.

Angus Lordie interrupted her thoughts. “We should do something about the picture now,” he said. “Let’s go into my studio and get to work.”

They followed him from the drawing room, down a booklined corridor, and into a large room, two floors high, with large skylights set into the ceiling. Matthew, who had been clutching the painting, now handed it over to Angus Lordie and watched anxiously as their host laid it down on a table and reached for a large, opaque bottle. He placed the bottle beside him and then raised his glass of whisky to Matthew.

“Paint-stripper,” he said. “In the bottle that is – not the glass! Hah!”

Matthew said nothing, but narrowed his eyes as Angus Lordie took the top off the bottle and sprinkled a viscous liquid across the painting. Then he rubbed this gently with a cloth.

“Draw near and see,” said Angus Lordie. “We’ll give this a moment to act, and then I’ll give it a wipe. All should be revealed.”

Slowly the surface of the painting began to blister and bubble. The shore of Iona disappeared, and then the coast of Mull. Next went the sea; those blue waves which had rather impressed Matthew became grey and then brown.

“Now a gentle wipe,” said Angus Lordie. “That’ll get rid of all this superfluous paint. Here we go.”

They were all huddled over the painting now. Pat noticed that Matthew looked pale, and that his breathing was shallow. Domenica, catching Pat’s eye, gave her a conspiratorial nod. And Angus Lordie, absorbed in his task, looked only at the surface of the painting, which was now changing colour markedly.

“Now then,” Angus Lordie said, dabbing at a section of the painting. “Gently does it. Gently.”

“An umbrella,” whispered Domenica. “Look. An umbrella.”

“Yes!” said Angus Lordie, triumphantly. “Yes! And look what we have here. A beach. Yes! And do we have people in evening

suits dancing under that umbrella, which is being held up, is it not, by a butler? Yes we do! We do!”

Angus Lordie straightened up. “Yes!” he shouted. “Exactly as I had suspected! A Vettriano!”

110. Gain, Loss, Friendship, Love

Matthew was quietly pleased. He had lost a Peploe (which he had never really had, anyway) but he had gained a Vettriano (which he had never known he had). After the initial shock of the discovery, he turned to Angus Lordie and embraced him warmly. “I’m so glad that you offered to do this,” he said. “I would never have imagined it. A Vettriano!”

Angus Lordie smiled, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. “I was alerted by the shape of the umbrella,” he said. “I just had a feeling that it was our friend Mr Vettriano underneath. I don’t know why, but I had this feeling.”

“Never underestimate the power of intuitions,” said Domenica. “They are a very useful guide. They can show us the way to all sorts of things – including the way to being good.”