44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [152]
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?”
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A Most Remarkable and Important Discovery
“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,