42

Matthew and James Set Off

While Stuart was having his meeting with Katie in the café of the Scottish National Portrait Gallery – a meeting brought to such an unfortunate end by the arrival of Bruce Anderson and by his tactless and intrusive invitation to lunch – Nicola, along with Bertie and Ulysses, was being shown a choice of large spotted handkerchiefs in Stewart Christie’s on Queen Street. And at that very time, Angus Lordie, with Cyril curled up on his studio blanket, was looking critically at his nascent painting of Glenbucket, while Domenica, almost alone now in 44 Scotland Street, was poring over an article on Neanderthal skulls. The Neanderthals were not of particular interest to Domenica; she regarded them, in fact, as somewhat dull country cousins – not people with whom one would look forward to spending the entire afternoon should they present themselves on one’s doorstep. She was, however, now planning to compose an email, with pictures, to be sent to one of the authors featured in the latest issue of Evolutionary Anthropology. She was proceeding with caution: no finder of a skull should ignore the melancholy story of the Piltdown Man hoax, and she was not proposing to fall into that trap. She was not a palaeontologist; nor was she even a palaeoanthropologist, or an anthropo-palaeontologist (if such a thing existed). She knew the limits of her Fach and would stick to them, but that did not preclude her from taking an interest in what might prove to be a very significant find.

If this did turn out to be a genuine early skull, it would undoubtedly attract wide attention. For a few moments, she allowed herself to imagine what name might be given to the find: there were the obvious descriptions of such things, of course: Homo erectus, Homo habilis, Homo rudolfensis and so on, and if this specimen were to be distinguished in any way from other examples of early man, then it too might be given a name of its own. That was a delicious prospect: homo Angusus would be a nice tribute to Angus, even if a slight mouthful, but then she thought that Angus’s well-known modesty might preclude that. That was a pity but one would not wish to saddle anybody with an eponymous fossil unless they willingly signed up to it. Professor Higgs, of course, had his Higgs Boson, but a boson was a rather different thing. It was no burden, she imagined, to have an invisible particle named after one. And then she remembered Pope Pius XI who had a South American glacier named in his honour – the Pio XI glacier in Chile – a dubious compliment, Domenica had always thought, bearing in mind the essentially chilly nature of glaciers. Had Pius XI been a cold personality? Had his normal manner been icy? Did he mind being a slow-moving river of ice?

No, if the skull were sufficiently distinguished to merit a name, then it would have to be something that reflected its Edinburgh origins. Homo Edinburgensis, perhaps? Edinburgh man…That was a possibility, but was not very imaginative. Homo urbe novo – New Town man? A bit of a mouthful, perhaps, and she was not sure about the locative case, which was a tricky case; in third declension nouns it was the same as the dative – or she hoped it was. Homo watsoniensis? Watsonian man? Domenica smiled. That had possibilities; yes, that had distinct possibilities.

While all this was going on in Edinburgh, just outside town, at Nine Mile Burn, Matthew and the au pair, James, were setting off on a mission they had discussed and decided upon the previous evening. They were heading for Single Malt House, the home of James’s uncle, the soi-disant Duke of Johannesburg and previous owner of the house now occupied by Matthew, Elspeth and their three sons.

“Tell me again why you’re worried,” Matthew said as they drove past the encroaching rhododendrons.

As he asked the question, rhododendron branches, springy and lush in leaf, seemed to wrap the car in their embrace.

“I must do something about these wretched rhodies,” Matthew muttered. “They’re all over the place.”

“Let me try,” said James. “I was reading an article about them in Scottish Field. There’s a way of controlling them.”

“I’d appreciate it,” said Matthew. “If you need to get any chemicals or anything, just let me know.”

“I don’t approve of that,” said James. “Let’s stick to the Geneva Convention. I think you have to do something to their roots.”

Matthew brought the conversation back to the Duke. “So, what makes you think there’s something wrong?”

“I haven’t seen him,” said James. “I used to go round there once a week. He used to phone me and invite me round. He usually had some work he wanted done in the garden or the steading or whatever. Then he stopped calling me.”

“Did you try to contact him?”

“I got his answering machine. I left messages, but he never got back to me.” He paused. “I sent him an email.”

“And did that get a response?” asked Matthew. “Or was he away?”

They were now at the road end; traffic shot past, liberated from Edinburgh, heading on the undulating road for the freedoms of West Linton and Biggar and the blue hills beyond.

“People drive far too fast here,” said Matthew.

“They’re stupid,” agreed James.

“And rude,” added Matthew.

“Not everybody, though,” said James. “I’m not saying everybody’s stupid.”

“No, of course you aren’t.” Matthew thought: particularly you. You have the nicest manners and you’re bright and everybody loves you because you give every appearance of loving them. Matthew allowed his mind to wander: the loved are loved because they love; the hated are hated because they hate…That was true, but only to an extent: there were many who did nothing to provoke the hate that came their way.

He glanced at James. “Did he reply to your email?”

“Yes and no.”

Matthew frowned. “What am I to make of that answer?”

“I had an email from his address,” James answered. “It was definitely from dukeofjohannesburg@whatever dot whatever…That’s his address, all right, and it was signed by him, but there was something about it that made me suspicious.”

Matthew was intrigued. “All right,” he said. “You were suspicious. But why?”

James hesitated. “You’ve heard of Bletchley Park?”

“The place where they decoded signals? Where they had the Enigma machines?”

“Yes, there was a film about it. Did you see it? It was about that guy who worked there who was a seriously good mathematician, and he invented a machine – the first computer actually – and he managed to crack the Enigma code.”

Matthew knew about that. “Him and the Poles,” he said. “People forget to give the Poles the credit they deserve.”

“Okay, and the Poles. But there were people there who did all sorts of things with the messages they intercepted, not just Enigma transmissions. They could tell who was operating a Morse key, for instance, from the style that was used, from the pace, the gaps. It was like listening to an accent. They could tell.”

“I’ve read about that,” said Matthew.

“Well, it’s the same with email. People have a particular style – you get to know who’s at the other end from their choice of words, their greeting, and so on.”

Matthew nodded. “I suppose so. And?”

“Well, my uncle never says Hi, James. He just doesn’t.”

“And this email did?” asked Matthew.

“Almost,” said James. “This one said Hi, Seamus.”

Seamus, thought Matthew. Seamus.