44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [110]
The mention of the Braid Hills Hotel seemed to reassure the woman. This was a familiar landmark in the world map of Morningside ladies; like a shibboleth uttered at the beginning of some obscure social test, the name of the Braid Hills Hotel signalled respectability, shared ground.
“The Braid Hills Hotel?” the woman repeated. “I see. Well, that’s quite all right. But how do we come into it?”
Pat explained about the prize and the conversation that she had had with Ramsey Dunbarton. At the mention of this name, the woman smiled. Now all was clear.
“Of course,” she exclaimed. “Ramsey himself came in this morning. Such a nice man! He was once the Duke of Plaza-Toro, you know, in The Gondoliers. And . . .”
“And?” prompted Matthew.
Morningside Ladies
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“And he was in several other musicals. For quite some time . . .”
Pat stopped her. “Did he bring in a painting?”
The woman smiled. “Yes he did and . . .” she paused, looking hesitantly at Matthew. “And we sold it almost immediately. I put it in the window and a few minutes later somebody came in and bought it. I served him myself. He came right in and said:
“That painting in the window – how much is it?” So I told him and he paid straightaway and took the painting off. I’m terribly sorry about that – I really am. I had no reason to know, you see, that it was your painting. I assumed that Ramsey Dunbarton had every right to have it sold. But of course nemo dat quod non habet. Perhaps if you speak to him about it, perhaps . . .”
Pat glanced at Matthew, who had groaned quietly. “You wouldn’t know who bought it, would you?” It was unlikely, of course, but she could ask. The purchaser might have written a cheque, and they could get the name from that. Or he might have said something which would enable them to identify him. It was just possible.
The woman frowned. “I don’t actually know him,” she said.
“But I had a feeling that I knew him, if you know what I mean. I’d seen him somewhere before.”
“In the shop?” asked Pat. “Would anybody else here know who he was?”
The woman turned to her colleague, who was standing at the cash desk, adding a column of figures.
“Priscilla? That painting we sold this morning to that rather good-looking man. The one who hadn’t quite shaved yet. You know the one.”
Priscilla looked up from her task. She was a woman in late middle-age, wearing a tweedy jacket and a double string of pearls. There was an air of vagueness about her, an air of being slightly lost. When she spoke, the vowels were pure Morningside, flattened so that I became ayh, my became may.
“Oh my!” said Priscilla. “The name’s on the tip of my tongue!
That nice man who writes about Mr Rebus. That one. But what is his name? My memory is like a sieve these days!”
230
On the Way to Mr Rankin’s
Matthew gave a start. “Ian Rankin?” he said.
“That’s his name,” said Priscilla. “I don’t read his books personally – they’re a bit noir for me – but I suppose those stronger than I read them. Still, de gustibus non disputandum est, as one must remind oneself, and believe me, I do! How could one possibly survive these days without repeating that particular adage all the time? You tell me – you just tell me!”
82. On the Way to Mr Rankin’s
Ian Rankin! This revelation took Matthew and Pat by surprise, but at least they now knew where the painting had gone and whom they would have to approach in order to get it back. Once the name had been established, the third woman in the shop was able to tell them where Ian Rankin lived – not far away – and they prepared to leave. But Pat hesitated.
“That painting,” she enquired, pointing at the window display.
“Would you mind if I looked at it?”
Priscilla went forward to extract the painting from its position in the window and passed it to Pat. “It’s been there for rather a long time,” she said, fingering her pearl necklace as she spoke.
“It was brought