CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SHE TELEPHONED ROB MCLAREN the next morning. He sounded weary when he answered—a late night, he said.

She apologised for the early call. “I’m sorry if I woke you up, but I wondered if you could give me some information.”

His weariness became wariness. “Possibly.”

“You mentioned that you’d heard a story from a lawyer. It was about another of these women who had got themselves mixed up with Tony MacUspaig.”

There was a brief silence. Then, “Yes. I heard something, but I think I told you everything I know. I didn’t hear much.”

“But the lawyer would know?”

He made a clicking sound. “Lawyers won’t talk about their clients.”

“This one did. You told me he spoke to you about money that had been paid to the good doctor.”

“Yes, but…”

“I’d like to speak to the lawyer. I’d like to find out who the woman was. You said that she was called Tricia—I take it you don’t know her surname?”

For a few moments he said nothing, then, “No, I don’t know it. But if you contact him, he’ll know that I’ve spoken to you about something he told me in confidence.”

She assured him that she would not mention his name. “I’ll leave you out of it. I’ll simply say that I’ve heard from somebody. I won’t say who.”

“I don’t think he’ll talk.”

“Perhaps you could let me see,” said Isabel. “You may be right. He may clam up. But at least let me try.”

There was further hesitation, and then Rob gave the lawyer’s name, and the name of his firm. It was a well-known firm that had its offices in the Georgian New Town. They were a private-client firm, adept at dealing patiently with the affairs of well-off Scottish families. The firm’s motto was “Preserve,” which made it quite clear that their energy and talents were directed to the keeping of things exactly as they were. This drew comment from rivals, who saw them as being too conservative. “ ‘Preserve’ is an entirely suitable motto for a jam-making company,” said one. “Marmalade and so on—I’m not so sure it’s quite right for a firm of lawyers.”

—

AND THERE IT WAS: PRESERVE, written in italic capitals underneath a framed photograph of the founding partner, a comfortable-looking Edwardian figure wearing a wing-tip collar and a pair of unframed spectacles. Isabel stared at the picture from her seat in the waiting room and reflected on destiny and its effect on our appearance. A person who looked like that could not have been a farmer or a fisherman; he was a lawyer as conjured up by the casting department. And in so far as he had any message to impart, it was surely “Preserve.”

It had been simple to arrange her appointment. She had telephoned the lawyer whose name had been given to her by Rob McLaren, and he had been amenable to an appointment later that morning. A meeting he was due to attend had been cancelled. “We settled,” he said.

Isabel liked that expression. She knew that lawyers used it in a technical sense to refer to an agreement not to pursue a claim, but it seemed to her that it was a word that could be used in many other contexts. One might settle with one’s friends when there had been a misunderstanding or a tiff; one might settle with a neighbour after arguing over the height of a hedge; one might settle with the weather when one decided to stop complaining about it.

The lawyer came into the reception area.

“Isabel Dalhousie?”

Isabel stood up.

“My name is Tam Fraser.” He extended a hand. “We’ve actually met, you know. My little boy’s in your son’s nursery class. You have Charlie, don’t you?”

She tried to place him. She thought that she knew most of the parents of Charlie’s playmates, but she could not remember this man.

“I picked him up one afternoon,” he said. “My wife was in London, and I was holding the fort.”

She was still looking blank when he told her, “My son’s Douglas. The little redhead.”

Now she knew: Douglas was collected by a woman who always arrived punctually, spent very little time chatting to the other parents and then disappeared in a small blue car. “Of course,” said Isabel. “I’m sorry I didn’t put two and two together.”

“There was no reason for you to do so,” said the lawyer. He gestured towards the corridor. “My office is down there. Shall we?”

He ushered her into a surprisingly large room. In the days when the building was a private house, this would have been the drawing room, with its three large windows spanning almost the whole distance between floor and ceiling. The view from these was over the bank that dropped down to the gorge below. The higher branches of the broad-leaf trees that clung to the descending slope were just below the lower level of the window—a sea of dark green that moved slowly in the wind. Drawn to the view, Isabel crossed to the window and looked out over the treetops.

“It’s a great distraction for me,” said Tam. “You’ll see that I have my desk facing the other way. It’s the only way to get any work done.”

Across the gorge, beyond the roof line of the terraces on the other side, was a thin sliver of silver sea and the hills of Fife. The sky was largely cloudless, a pale blue intersected by the thin cotton-line of a vapour trail. Tam noticed her looking up. “I wonder where those jets go,” he said. “Somewhere far away, I suppose. Iceland. America. Helsinki.”

She turned away from the window, allowing her gaze to fall on the lawyer’s face. She saw that he had grey eyes and that these eyes were kind. Waiting in the reception area, she had flicked through a news magazine that had been lying on the table for clients to read while waiting for their appointment. On the cover there had been a picture of a well-known politician, a man famous for his rudeness and aggression. She had looked at the eyes—the piercing, accusing eyes, and had seen only an impenetrable, defensive anger. Nothing—no forced smiles nor rehearsed protestation of concern, could cancel out the cold selfishness of those eyes. The eyes are the window of the soul…it was such a well-worn adage, a cliché by now, but Isabel had read that neuroscience, which was validating so many intuitive, ancient beliefs about who we were and how we lived our lives, now confirmed this insight too. The part of the brain that was most closely associated with self-awareness, the ventromedial prefrontal cortex, lay directly behind the eyes. So that was where we were located—that was where the soul was to be found, if it were to be found anywhere.

Tam’s eyes were the polar opposite of the vain politician’s, and Isabel felt a strong sense of security in his presence. This was a man who would understand what she said to him—not just in a superficial sense, but at a much deeper level.

“Now then,” he said, as she sat down. “What can I do for you, Ms. Dalhousie?”

She felt encouraged to be direct. “I want you to break a professional confidence.” She might as well start with his likely objection, she thought.

His mouth fell open. “Did I hear you correctly?”

Isabel smiled. “You did.”

He recovered his composure. Now he looked bemused. “You can hardly expect me to do that.”

“I know,” said Isabel. “But there must be exceptions to the rule.”

He thought for a moment. “Occasionally. You know, I serve on the Law Society of Scotland committee that considers matters of that sort. We were discussing the issue the other day, as it happens.”

“And?”

“And we reaffirmed the rule that there were certain circumstances—certain very limited circumstances—when the very strong obligation to keep matters confidential may have to…how shall I put it? May have to yield to a greater good of some sort.”

Isabel was on familiar ground. A few issues ago, the Review and one of the contributors had given close attention to the Tarasoff case. Isabel had been intrigued.

“Have you heard of the Tarasoff decision? It’s an American court case.”

Tam shrugged. “No,” he said. “But remember: the law in the United States is very different from ours here in Scotland.”

Isabel knew that, but the case was still an important illustration of an issue that could arise anywhere. “The things that happen are more or less the same everywhere.”

“True enough, but…”

Isabel continued, “Miss Tarasoff, you see, was a student at the University of California. This was back in the late 1960s.”

“A heady time out there,” said Tam.

Isabel smiled. “Yes, it was. Haight-Ashbury. The Summer of Love. Flowers in your hair…”

“Of course.”

“But not everybody was happy,” Isabel said. “There was a student from Bengal, a Mr. Poddar. He became friendly with Miss Tarasoff. She didn’t realise that she might have misled him as to her feelings. He didn’t really mean very much to her. It was a time when people were very friendly.”

“It was the sixties after all,” said Tam wryly.

Isabel nodded. “A time of innocence.”

Tam allowed himself a glance out of the window. “I was just a child.”

“And I didn’t exist,” said Isabel. “It’s odd. I think of myself as having been alive in the sixties, but I wasn’t.”

“It’s because we know the period so well. We think we were there. Sometimes I imagine I remember the Battle of Britain.”

“A lot of people think that. We relive the war an awful lot in this country. I think the Germans find it a bit frustrating. They want to move on, and we keep making films that show them in the wrong.”

“Well they were,” said Tam. “As were so many other people at various points in history. Lots of people, ourselves included, have done shameful things. At least the Germans have expressed their regret.”

“Yet there comes a time, surely, when you should refrain from mentioning the wrongs of others. Forgiveness may mean not mentioning the thing forgiven. You may have to draw a line under the past.”

He looked doubtful. “It may be difficult to decide when to draw that line. We still talk about Culloden, don’t we? That’s still a live issue for some I could mention.”

“1746. Only yesterday,” said Isabel.

“Not to mention Bannockburn.”

“1314,” said Isabel. “The day before yesterday, as far as much of Scotland is concerned.”

Tam shook his head in disbelief. “Our countrymen have long memories.”

Isabel was about to say, Yes, I agree, but her response, when it came out, was quite different. “Perhaps they do—but then that’s better than having no memory.”

Her reply clearly intrigued Tam. “Interesting,” he said, and then, smiling, continued, “This is a rather unusual consultation, Ms. Dalhousie. But rather welcome—on a day that was going to be somewhat mundane.”

“Perhaps I should return to Mr. Poddar.”

“Ah, yes the unfortunate Mr. Poddar from…”

“Bengal.”

“I can just see him,” said Tam. “An earnest, serious young man, expecting this California girl to return his devotion; not realising, of course, what he was up against…”

Isabel mentioned another detail. “It was rather pathetic, in fact. This Poddar person was an Untouchable, as they used to be called. The word now is Dalit, I believe. It was pretty remarkable for an Untouchable to be given a scholarship to study abroad—unheard of, even. Imagine being somebody from the lowest drawer of Indian society—somebody outside their caste system, a pariah—and finding yourself in Berkeley just when free love and magic mushrooms and all the rest of it was in the air.”

“It must have been very confusing for him.”

“It was—so much so that he became unhinged. He started to stalk this Tarasoff woman—although I don’t think that people used the word stalking very much in those days. But the behaviour existed, and in due course he ended up seeing a psychologist employed by the university.”

Tam was absorbed in the story. “This isn’t going to end well, is it?” he said. “In spite of flower power and all the rest, this story is going to end badly.”

“I’m afraid it does. Very badly.”

“Very badly for Miss Tarasoff?”

“Yes. For both of them, I suppose. Murder is bad for the victim but also for the perpetrator.” She paused. “Like most bad acts.”

“I see what you mean.”

Isabel noticed Tam glancing at his watch. He was being discreet, but she saw it, and she blushed. “I’m sorry if I’m taking up your time,” she said. “I’ll get to the point.”

He held up a hand. “Please. There’s no hurry—and I’m enjoying our conversation. Most of the time I sit here talking about very dull matters. Wills, executries, trust—that sort of thing. Tell me what happened.”

“Miss Tarasoff went off to Brazil,” said Isabel. “While she was away, Poddar told his therapist that he was planning to kill a young woman. He did not mention her name, but from what he said, she could be easily identified. The therapist was alarmed and told the campus police, who interviewed Poddar and took the view that he posed no real danger.”

“So when she came back…”

“When she came back, Poddar shot her with a pellet gun and then pulled out a knife and stabbed her to death.”

Tam winced. “Not a pleasant tale.”

“No. But the point of the whole thing was that her parents felt that she—or they—should have been warned. They weren’t, you see, because of the obligation of confidentiality. Doctors and therapists are told very firmly that what they hear in the course of treatment is not to be communicated to anybody else.”

“And priests,” said Tam thoughtfully. “And lawyers.” He paused. “I see where our discussion is going, by the way. But tell me: What happened? I take it that they sued the therapist?”

“They sued his employers, the University of California.”

“And what happened?”

“The Supreme Court of California said that there was a duty to warn. They didn’t say that it applied in every case, but it did where there was a real danger of violence. So a psychiatrist—or a therapist—could ignore his duty of confidentiality in order to protect somebody at risk. Not only could he do that, but he should do it.”

Tam thought about this. “And Mr. Poddar? What happened to him?”

“He was charged with murder, but the conviction was set aside because of legal technicalities. He was then sent back to India, where apparently he met a lawyer and was happily married.”

Tam sat back in his chair. “I take it that the point of this is that you think I have confidential information that affects in some way the safety of somebody else. Am I right in thinking that?”

“Not safety, perhaps. But certainly welfare—and at a stretch that may affect safety.”

“How so?”

She felt that if somebody was capable of exploiting another, then that same person might be capable of harming them physically. This, though, seemed too tenuous a connection for Tam, who looked sceptical.

“I don’t know of any client of mine who is planning to kill somebody,” he said.

“But you do know that one of your clients has been at risk.”

He frowned. “You seem to have a good grasp of my business.”

“You have a client—a fairly wealthy woman, I gather—who made a transfer of money to a man she was seeing.”

Tam’s eyes narrowed. “These are client affairs, you know.”

“But you know what I’m talking about?”

He hesitated before replying. Eventually he said that he did, but his entire demeanour now was guarded.

“May I ask, how do you know about this?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential,” said Isabel.

Tam burst out laughing. “But that’s a bit rich. I don’t mean to be rude, but don’t you see a certain inconsistency here?”

Isabel did indeed. “I know. I came in with the intention of asking you to break a confidence, and then I claim…”

“You claim confidentiality yourself,” completed Tam; his tone was bemused now, and the suspicion of a few moments ago seemed to have abated. He shrugged. “Oh well, I suppose this place is as leaky as everywhere else in this city.”

Isabel sensed that this was her opportunity to make her request. Tam had obviously been interested in the Tarasoff story; he was well aware of the issues, and she suspected that a public interest argument might not fall on deaf ears.

“I’d like to tell you exactly why I need to talk to you about that transaction,” said Isabel. “There’s a man in this city who I think may be preying on vulnerable women. Preying in the financial sense.”

Her instinct was right. Tam’s expression tightened. “Tell me more,” he said.

“This man has been introduced to somebody who is particularly well off. Now the person who made the introduction is really worried because she subsequently discovered there were two cases in which he appeared to have wormed his way into the affections of wealthy women. Both of these cases—of which one involves a client of yours—led to money being given to this man. I’ve looked into one of them…”

“And?”

“And I’m not sure about what happened. I was given an innocent explanation, but there’s something that makes me feel that the story I was given by the woman in question may not be true.”

“Why? What puts you on your guard?”

“I think that the woman in question may have been suicidal. I think she’s possibly trying to make the best of a bad situation and wants to avoid thinking the worst of the man. It’s possible—I’m just not sure. So I really need to look at the other case—which is yours.”

“And then?”

“Then I’ll know whether I can approach the woman who I think may now be at risk. I want to be able to show her something concrete. Or, better still, get one of the victims to talk to her.”

Tam sat back in his chair. He thought for several minutes before he spoke again. “You know something?” he said. “One of the things that I feel strongly about—really strongly—is the protection of the people I look after. That’s what I do, you know—every day of the week in this office. Every day. My job is to look after people—as their trustee, as their adviser, as the executor of their husband’s, father’s, mother’s will—whatever my role may be.” He fixed her with an intense look. “And I take that really seriously, believe me.”

“I don’t doubt that you do.”

“Thank you. And if there’s one thing that really gets to me, it’s the thought of somebody getting in under the radar and defrauding or stealing—for that’s what it is—from one of the people I look after. So if I tell you anything now, it’s for that reason. The thought that this man—whoever he might be—is going to take advantage of some other poor woman fills me with…well, frankly it fills me with anger.”

Isabel knew that she had made her case and had won. Tam was exactly the person she had judged him to be when she entered his office—a man of principle, a kind man, an old-fashioned lawyer who was not interested in charging high fees and doing elaborate deals, but wanted only to look after those entrusted to his care.

“I take it that you’ll need to speak to my client,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I have one stipulation,” he said. “I go with you. Is that acceptable?”

It was.

“In that case,” he said, “we can probably get this over and done with rather quickly. My client is just a couple of blocks away. She lives on Drummond Place. She’s likely to be in; she ruptured her Achilles tendon two weeks ago, and she’s still pretty immobile. Would you be able to go there more or less directly?”

Isabel nodded. “I’ll need to make a telephone call. I also have a baby, and I’ll need to tell the woman who helps me that I’ll be a bit late.”

“Please go ahead. And then I’ll get my secretary to see if my client’s in.”

“Great,” said Isabel.

“Her name is Tricia Ferguson,” Tam added. “I’ll tell you about her before we go over there.”

—

TAM GAVE ISABEL the background details as they made their way out of the building and began the walk to Drummond Place. Tricia Ferguson, he explained, was the widow of Graeme Ferguson, a man who had owned a large architecture firm. Graeme had been a keen yachtsman who had a classic sailing boat on the Clyde. He was a member of a racing team and competed not only in Scotland but also down on the Solent. In the late summer he sailed mainly in the Western Isles, and often spent weeks going from island to island in the Hebrides. It was on one of these trips, when he was sailing with a couple of friends from Glasgow, that he was caught in a sudden and very violent storm while sailing back to Lewis by night. A reefing line had become stuck, and Graeme had gone forward to deal with it, fastening himself—or so he thought—to a jack line. Something went wrong with the clip—a small thing, but enough to mean that when a rogue wave hit the boat and swept him off the deck, he was quickly lost in the darkness.

Graeme left Tricia well provided for. He had established a trust that would give her an income and deal with all expenses. “He was very cautious,” said Tam. “Tricia could make large payments from the disposable income of the trust fund, but the cheques had to be issued by me. I suppose he wanted me to keep an eye on things without spelling it out. Tricia’s pretty independent in her outlook, and she never really liked that provision.

“Most of the time, of course, there was nothing to worry about. Even so, I very quickly learned that she did not like me to question any payment she requested. Not that she ever asked for anything much; there were a few charitable donations—Scottish Opera, the National Galleries and so on. There were a few gifts of a couple of thousand—mostly to nephews or nieces. I put all these through knowing that she did not like me to question them. It was pride, I think. She didn’t like the idea of being looked after, or watched over, perhaps. And I can understand why.

“But then there was this sudden request for a cheque for fifty thousand to a Dr….I don’t remember the name. It was something very unusual.”

“MacUspaig.”

“Yes, that’s it. MacUspaig. And I felt I had to ask her about it. I got a real flea in my ear. She was very upset, and I backed off. But, frankly, I was worried. We put it through—as we had to.” He looked searchingly at Isabel. “I take it that this MacUspaig is the man you’re talking about?”

“It is.”

“Mmm, I don’t like the sound of him, I’m afraid.”

“The jury’s still out,” said Isabel. “But I suspect your instinct’s right.”

It took them no more than ten minutes to reach Drummond Place. Tricia Ferguson lived in a complete Georgian house with a front door painted in high-gloss black paint, the house number in brass Roman numerals on its central panel. Tam sounded the bell and then turned to Isabel. “Let me talk to begin with,” he said. “I think that would be best.”

She agreed. “I’ll leave it up to you. Do you think, though, that you might be able to ask her to speak to the woman whom MacUspaig’s currently seeing? She hasn’t listened to anybody so far, but a fellow victim, if that’s what she is, might just get her to see reason.”

The black door opened, and Tricia Ferguson invited them in. Her right foot was in a cast, and she was walking with a stick.

“Your secretary phoned,” said Tricia. “But she didn’t say what it was about.” She looked at Isabel with undisguised curiosity.

Tam made the introduction. “Could we have a word?” he said. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”

The drawing room was on the ground floor—a typical, elegant room with the characteristic Palladian proportions of the Georgian New Town. An Adam fireplace in light pine dominated one side of the room, while the facing wall was shelved from floor to ceiling with books. They sat before the fireplace, a low rectangular upholstered table in front of them, also stacked with books. Isabel noticed a book she had herself—a history of the mapping of Scottish islands. She saw, too, a book on the art of the Scottish Colourists.

“Isabel is somebody who acts on behalf of various people,” began Tam, Isabel having explained to him how she became involved in the matter. “She acts voluntarily—helps them.”

Tricia looked at Isabel and smiled. “I see.”

Tam now spoke gingerly. “She thinks that there is a possibility that there is a man in this city who is seeking out well-off women. She thinks he might be targeting them.”

Tricia said nothing.

“And it occurred to me,” Tam continued, “that you might have met this man.”

Tricia stiffened. “Oh? Why do you say that?”

Isabel heard Tam take a deep breath. “Because you made a direct transfer of money to the very man she’s interested in.”

It took a few moments for Tricia to react. Isabel and Tam exchanged glances, ready for a strong reaction.

But Tricia did not appear to be angry. “You really need to let me get on with my own financial life,” she said quietly. “It’s my money, after all.”

“I know that,” said Tam. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering. I know how you feel.”

“Do you?” asked Tricia. “Do you really?”

He stuck to his guns. “Yes, I think I do. And the only reason I’m even raising this with you is because I think that other people might be at risk.”

Tricia examined her fingernails. “You do, do you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re referring to Tony MacUspaig, aren’t you?”

Tam nodded.

“Tony is a very nice man,” said Tricia. “One of the finest men I know.”

Tam looked to Isabel for support.

“You did give money to him?” asked Isabel.

“Yes,” said Tricia. “Fifty thousand pounds. Tam has probably already told you that—along with goodness knows what other details of my private affairs.”

“None,” said Isabel firmly.

Tricia digested this. Then she turned to Tam. “You know, Tam, I really resent being treated like an irresponsible adolescent. But I do accept that Graeme set up the system, and I respect his wishes.”

“He only wanted to protect you,” said Tam.

“My husband,” said Tricia, now addressing Isabel, “was one of the finest, kindest men in Scotland.”

“I’m sure he was,” said Isabel.

Now came the surprise. “And I suspect that what he would have wanted me to do in these circumstances is give you the information you want.”

Tam reacted with relief. “I think that’s right,” he said.

The decision made, Tricia became businesslike. “Here’s what you need to know. Tony MacUspaig is a very fine man. He and I were never lovers. He was a friend, and I still see him from time to time. It was a purely platonic friendship; I might have been prepared for more, but it was not to be.

“You may know that he does charitable work in North Africa—in Morocco, to be precise. He runs a clinic there that does operations on kids with hare-lips and so on.”

“I’d heard that,” said Isabel.

“But of course that eats up money. So last year he came to see me and told me that they needed some new piece of equipment and that he was going to sell a painting he owned to fund that. His father was something of a collector and had a few fairly valuable Scottish Colourist paintings. Peploe, Cadell and, of course, Fergusson—no relation. Tony inherited these, and still has most of them.

“Anyway, he had a very nice Peploe—quite a small painting, but a lovely one nonetheless. He was going to put that up for auction. He said that he had had it valued by Guy Peploe himself, and Guy had said it was worth fifty thousand. The auction house agreed, but of course if it went up for auction, then he would have to pay fifteen per cent seller’s premium, and so he would get less. If it were sold privately, though, he would get the full amount. So the clinic would get more if he sold it privately.

“Tony then said to me, ‘That’s all very well, but I don’t know anybody who wants to buy a Peploe.’ I said nothing at first, but then I had an idea. I love Peploe’s work—so I would buy it directly from Tony. He’d get the full amount, I’d not have to worry about auction prices being upped by other bidders, and I’d have my Peploe. Everybody would win.”

Tricia rose to her feet. “Come with me. I’ll show it to you. It’s in the dining room.”

Tam made his relief apparent. “Well, there you are,” he said. “That explains it.”

They stood in front of the Peploe.

“It’s very lovely,” said Isabel. “Mull, from across the Sound of Iona?”

“I think so,” said Tricia. “And yes, it is lovely. Look at the green of the sea—that lovely, almost emerald green. It’s like that, you know. I was there earlier this summer. We drove through mist on Mull, and then suddenly we were there and could see the abbey and the sea beyond the abbey, and the water was that green, that green that stops the heart for its sheer beauty.”

Isabel remembered what Tam had said about Graeme’s sailing. “You must have sailed through there many times.”

Tricia continued to stare at the painting. “We did,” she said. “Our last sail together, in fact. We spent the night anchored off Erraid, where Robert Louis Stevenson had David Balfour shipwrecked in Kidnapped. Then we went up through the Sound, although you have to be careful to keep well to the east because it’s so shallow in the middle. You’d run aground.”

Isabel saw Tam reach out and lay a hand gently on Tricia’s forearm. He gave it a squeeze, and she turned to him in appreciation of the gesture. This is what a lawyer should be, thought Isabel.

“Tony loved this painting,” said Tricia. “It must have been a real wrench for him to part with it, but I think the clinic means more to him than anything else.”

“I think I’ve done him a great injustice,” muttered Isabel.

“And so have I,” said Tam.

“We all get things wrong,” said Tricia. It seemed to Isabel that Tricia was deriving a certain amount of pleasure from allaying Tam’s concerns about the payment. It was, she felt, a “told you so” moment, and everybody enjoyed those. There’s no greater pleasure, she thought, than being shown to be right.

Now in a position to be magnanimous, Tricia proposed a cup of tea; she had made her point. “Have you got the time, Tam?”

“Always,” he said. “Priority number one is tea, then clients.”

“That would make a good motto,” said Tricia, smiling. “You know, I’ve never liked that ‘Preserve’ thing, Tam. ‘Tea first, then clients’ would be far better.”

“More Brechtian,” said Isabel.

“Yes, that too,” said Tricia.

“I shall speak to the partners,” said Tam. “But I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

—

WHEN SHE ARRIVED back at the house, Grace had put Charlie down for his nap. Magnus, though, was wide awake, and Isabel picked him up, embraced him tenderly and then carried him in her arms to look out of the window.

“I don’t know how far you can see,” she murmured. “But that’s the world out there.”

“He can’t see very far,” said Grace from behind her. “Babies can’t.”

Isabel nodded. “I know. They see in three dimensions only after about five months.”

“He’ll be able to see the trees,” said Grace.

Isabel bit her tongue. She did not need to be lectured on these matters by Grace, but then she thought: I am the fortunate one here; I am the one who is blessed. “You’re right,” she said.

They were in the kitchen, and Grace now attended to some dishes that had been stacked in the sink. As she did so, she spoke over her shoulder to Isabel. “Charlie went on and on about his little brother today. There was no stopping him. My baby brother this; my baby brother that.”

Isabel was surprised. “Oh?”

“Yes. And he even asked if he could make him some porridge.”

“Well, that’s progress.”

Grace laughed. “And you know what he said? He suddenly announced that he had a list of people he loved. He said he loved Magnus best, and Jamie was second, and then—”

Isabel frowned. Why had Grace broken off? Because it was Grace who came third. Isabel was sure that Charlie had said he preferred Grace to herself.

“And then?”

“And then you,” said Grace.

“I was third?”

“Yes,” said Grace. “I didn’t want to upset you—just in case you didn’t want him to love Jamie more than you.”

Isabel laughed. “Oh, heavens, no—I don’t mind. Children say ridiculous things. And they don’t know their own minds half the time. Only a few days ago he was very resentful of Magnus. Now that all seems to have changed.”

“They’re very fickle, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” agreed Isabel. “But what a privilege to have them in our lives. You, me…we’re both so lucky.”

She could tell that Grace was touched by being included, and she was pleased that she had made the remark.

Grace was staring at her. “You know, I’m not sure if I ever thanked you for sharing your children with me.”

Isabel shook her head. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” said Grace. “I have to thank you for lots of things, and that’s one of them.”

Isabel smiled. There was nothing more to be said, she felt.