Chapter Eleven

Isabel sat in her office, contemplating the in-tray on her desk. A consequence of thinking of other things, she told herself, was plain to see. An in-tray was a barometer, revealing the level of attention one gave to things that needed to be done. And just as one ignored the barometer at one’s peril, so too did overflowing in-trays presage looming angst.

It was not that Isabel was overworked: Her editorial job was not unduly onerous, and could be performed easily enough by one person. The problem, though, was the deadlines that marked out the stages by which particular steps must be taken. Manuscripts sent in by their authors had to be submitted to members of the editorial board—a collection of helpful readers with expertise in the journal’s main areas of concern. Their comments, ranging from minor suggestions to proposals for extensive rewrites, had to be sent back to the authors, some of whom might object to what they saw as unwarranted interference. That required tact and occasional firmness, but, most of all, it needed time.

Then there was the copy-editing, a task farmed out to freelancers, who would return the manuscript adorned with directions to the typesetters. After that came proofs, of which several sets were currently sitting accusingly on her desk. These were dispatched to the author and a proof-reader, as well as being read by herself. Finally, everything would be sent to the printer to allow the presses to roll. That process—the printing of the pages—happened at a time agreed with the printer, and if there was editorial delay, the slot could be lost to other clients. As all printers knew, every client’s order was urgent and could not be delayed.

So now, as she sat at her desk that morning, Isabel knew that she would simply have to tackle the backlog of work head-on if the schedule for the next issue of the Review was not to be delayed. She had been putting it off over the last few days, but now the wells of denial had run dry and she would have to begin. She picked up a manuscript that had completed the review process and was ready for the next stage. “Responsibility for corporate wrongdoing,” read the title, followed by a sub-title that neatly revealed the author’s position: “How to get directors into jail without passing Go.” At least retribution was accompanied here by humour, Isabel thought. Her eye ran to the first footnote, in which the author acknowledged indebtedness. At the foot of the usual acknowledgements of the assistance of various institutions came the poignant line In memory of Aunt Norah, a victim of negligence. For some reason, Isabel thought: run over. It would have been a small tragedy in the scale of things, but a big one for the late Aunt Norah, and one should not make light of such things, but she wondered how it had happened. She thought, again for no particular reason, of a tram. There had recently been a near miss between an Edinburgh tram and a pedestrian; had that been Aunt Norah’s misfortune? The unfortunate lines came to her: “Oh look Mama, what is that there?/That looks like strawberry jam?/Hush, hush, my dear, it’s poor Papa/Run over by a tram.” She stopped herself. The mind could be uncharitable, indeed cruel.

She came back to the paper. There was often a reason why people did the work they did—a reason in personal biography—and the spur behind the quest for corporate accountability in this case was an obvious one. Her smile flickered and then faded as she began the task of preparing the manuscript for the copy-editor.

And then Grace knocked at the door, waited a second or two, and came in. She bore a tray on which a pot of coffee, a jug of hot milk, and two cups were placed.

“I know you’re busy,” said Grace, putting the tray down on the table beside Isabel’s desk. “I told her that you wouldn’t want to be disturbed, but she insisted. I’ve put on an extra cup for her.”

Isabel sighed. “And she is?”

Grace tried to remember. “Gloria Something. I didn’t catch the name. She’s a redhead.”

Isabel frowned. “And did she say why she wanted to see me?”

“I asked her,” replied Grace. “I asked her twice, and she said that she’d prefer not to say. She wouldn’t go away.”

“Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to see her. I’m very busy, though…”

“I told her that,” said Grace. “I said that you were up to your eyes.” She pointed to the in-tray. “Show her that.”

Isabel asked Grace to bring her visitor in. She put aside the manuscript she had been working on and made a quick effort to tidy her desk: Grace had already looked disapprovingly at the clutter and she did not want this uninvited caller to do the same.

Isabel was fairly tall herself, but Gloria was a good few inches taller. She was a young woman, probably in her early twenties, Isabel guessed; a redhead, as Grace had announced; and dressed casually in jeans and an olive-green top. There was a certain elegance in her clothing and her manner—and a poise that Isabel recognised as typical of an expensively educated postgraduate student.

“I’m Gloria MacFarlane,” she announced, stepping forward to shake Isabel’s hand. “We haven’t met.”

“No,” said Isabel. “I don’t think we have.” MacFarlane? The name was familiar; she had seen it recently, but could not recall where. MacFarlane? Then it came back to her: This was Lettuce’s assistant.

She invited Gloria to sit down.

“I know you’re busy,” Gloria said. “Your…” She gestured towards the door behind her.

“Grace,” said Isabel.

“Yes, Grace told me that you were snowed under with work.”

Isabel gestured to the papers on her desk—to the piled-up in-tray. “You know how it is,” she said apologetically. “I try to keep on top of things.”

Gloria smiled. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I really wanted to speak to you about something that’s…” She paused. “Something that’s worrying me.”

Isabel nodded. “I saw your name on a grant proposal,” she said. “I take it that’s you.”

“Yes,” said Gloria. “I’m Professor Lettuce’s assistant. I’m actually a postgraduate student—I’m doing a PhD but I have this small job helping him—and Dr. Dove.”

Isabel let her continue.

“Professor Lettuce has been very helpful to me,” said Gloria. “In all sorts of ways. He asked me to index a volume of essays he was putting together. And Christopher has also done a lot. I’m very grateful to them.”

Isabel inclined her head. “It’s so important to have senior people who’ll give you a helping hand,” she said. “I had a lot of help when I was starting off.”

“Yes. Professor Lettuce has helped get a paper I wrote accepted for publication in The Philosophical Quarterly. It comes out next year.”

Isabel offered her congratulations. “Your first publication, I take it?”

Gloria beamed with pleasure. “Yes. I know it won’t seem all that much to somebody like you, but it’s important for me.”

“Of course it is.”

Gloria’s hands were clasped together as she spoke. “You said that you saw the proposal that Professor Lettuce put to the Matheson Trust?”

Isabel said that she had seen it. She said nothing about the figures it contained. “Robert Lettuce is keen for me to publish the papers from the conference. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Gloria. “I was pleased by that. It’s a pity when these conferences take place and then nobody hears anything more of the papers. It’s such a waste.”

“I agree,” said Isabel patiently. She wondered when Gloria would get to the point. There was tension in the air, and she was now fairly sure what its focus would be.

Gloria fixed Isabel with a searching gaze. “You saw the budget?” she asked.

“I did.”

“You saw the amount that was going to be paid to various people?”

Isabel waited a moment. Her reply was measured. “Yes, I did see that.”

Gloria waited for her to say something more, but Isabel was silent.

“It’s a lot of money,” Gloria said eventually. “The overall budget is high, anyway, but the amount that is going in fees seems…well, it seems excessive, in my opinion.” She looked at Isabel apologetically—as if she had overstepped some mark. After all, who was she, a person on the lowest rung of the academic ladder, to question the proposals of somebody as senior as Professor Lettuce?

Isabel felt sorry for Gloria. It was now clear to her that this was a whistleblowing visit, and she felt a rush of sympathy for this young woman. She leaned forward at her desk. “Gloria, listen, I agree with you one hundred per cent. That budget is frankly ridiculous.”

Gloria’s relief was evident. “Oh, thank you for saying that. I was worried that I was sticking my nose into matters that don’t concern me. I was worried that you would consider it a bit of a cheek.”

Isabel reassured her that there was no danger of that. But then she went on to raise the issue of the payment to Gloria herself. “I noticed that there was to be a large payment to you,” she said. “It’s not just Professor Lettuce and Dr. Christopher Dove—you profit too. Eight thousand pounds, I seem to recall.”

Gloria winced. “I never asked for that,” she blurted out. “I’d never ask for that much. I had no idea.”

Isabel watched her. Gloria’s discomfort, and the outrage she now showed, struck her as being entirely genuine. She liked this young woman—she was telling the truth, she thought. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what happened,” Isabel suggested. “What exactly did Professor Lettuce say to you about this payment?”

Gloria was fiddling with a handkerchief as she spoke. She was clearly under considerable strain.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” said Isabel, “I’m on your side on this. And anything you say to me I promise to keep confidential. You have no need to worry.”

“Those figures are imaginary,” Gloria blurted out. “Nobody’s getting anything near that amount. I’m going to get two hundred pounds for my work, and Professor Lettuce says that he’s going to get nothing at all. He’s not doing this for the money.”

Isabel struggled to contain her surprise. “So you’re saying that he’s not claiming twenty thousand pounds?”

“No. That’s…that’s all theoretical.”

“You’ve lost me,” said Isabel. “Twenty thousand pounds is twenty thousand pounds—unless he’s not going to get any of it.”

“He won’t,” said Gloria. “Not a penny, apparently.” She paused. “There’s something going on. That’s why I decided to come and see you.”

Isabel held up a hand. “Let’s have something to drink. Tell me all about it over a cup of coffee.”

She reached for the coffee pot and poured a cup for Gloria, and one for herself.

Gloria wrinkled her nose. “I adore the smell of coffee,” she said. “It takes me back to when I was a student in Siena. I did a six-month exchange there as part of my first degree. There was a coffee bar next door to the student hall I was staying in. The smell drifted through my window when I opened it. They served squares of pizza on greaseproof paper first thing in the morning. Workmen went in and washed these squares down with red wine. At seven a.m.”

“Smells are so evocative,” said Isabel. “Gauloises cigarettes: France. Cinnamon buns: America. Thyme: Greece.”

“And Scotland?” asked Gloria.

Isabel looked thoughtful. That depended. In Gloria’s voice she detected a note of the west of Scotland, even the Highlands. “Seaweed?” she suggested. “Which is a sort of iodine smell, isn’t it?”

Gloria smiled. “I spent part of my childhood in the Western Highlands,” she said.

“That possibility crossed my mind,” said Isabel.

“I can’t go back there,” Gloria went on. “I cry too much.”

Isabel waited. “Nostalgia?”

“Yes. Nostalgia. Because everything was simpler then—far simpler.”

Isabel knew exactly what she meant. “Please tell me about the grant application. You were going to explain.”

“I would do anything for Professor Lettuce,” Gloria began.

Isabel had not intended to say anything, but it slipped out. “I wouldn’t.”

Gloria looked up in surprise. “But Professor Lettuce…”

Isabel did not allow her to finish. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. I suppose it’s just that I would never give anybody complete support. I’d always want to be able to dissent.”

Gloria looked relieved. “I thought you were going to say you didn’t like him.”

Isabel was impassive. “Those payments?” she prompted.

“When Professor Lettuce first showed them to me,” she said, “I was completely astonished—especially over the eight thousand for me. But before I could say anything, he laughed and said that they were just figures on paper and the real payment would be much smaller. He said that he was sorry to disappoint me, but there was an accounting issue that had to be put right, and that this was the way the trust wanted to do it.

“I suppose I looked suspicious, because he went on quickly to ask me if I could keep a confidence. He said that there was nothing illegal about what was going on and that it was being done to protect the chairman of the trust from embarrassment. He was being helpful in supporting the conference, and in return we should do something for him.”

“I think I continued to look doubtful because he was a bit reluctant to explain further, but eventually he did. He said that Marcus Grant had made a bad mistake in investing some of the trust funds in a company that the other trustees had advised him to avoid. He was convinced that it would do well, but it turned out that it had encountered a serious problem—the company had been hit by a tax bill that it should have avoided. As a result, it declared no dividend that year. That meant that trust income was down. He said that if the loss were to be disguised as grant payments, then the other trustees would be none the wiser. So rather than give that money to Professor Lettuce and Christopher Dove—and me, I suppose—it would simply be put back into the black hole that had appeared in the accounts.”

Isabel took a deep breath. Surely this was dishonest, at best, and possibly even criminal. Gloria sensed her reservations, and went on, “Nobody’s stealing anything, you know. All that is happening is that information is being withheld from the other trustees. Nobody is any the worse off. We don’t get any money, of course, but we weren’t really entitled to it. So, by pretending that we have received the grant—or our bit of it—we save Marcus Grant from being embarrassed by his bad choice of investment.”

Isabel shook her head. “I don’t like the sound of that at all,” she said. “Who are the victims here? The other trustees, surely. They are effectively being hoodwinked. That may not be illegal—as far as I know, of course, and I may be mistaken—but it’s definitely wrong. Professor Lettuce isn’t profiting by it—I’ll give him that—but he’s party to a deception. It’s flagrant dishonesty in my view.”

Gloria sighed. “That’s what I’ve decided,” she said. “At first I agreed to it because I thought Professor Lettuce wouldn’t approve of anything underhand, but then I started to think more about it and I realised that it was, as you say, a scheme intended to deceive others. And then I started to worry.”

She looked at Isabel in mute appeal.

“You’ve done the right thing,” Isabel reassured her. “You’ve decided not to be a part of it.”

“But what do I do next? You’re the only person I’ve told about this.”

Isabel drew in her breath. The burden now fell upon her: She was older than Gloria and she was implicated because of her being part of the conference project. This was quite different from the book-club problem, where she was an outsider being drawn into a problem: She was part of this one.

She met Gloria’s gaze. “I’ll deal with this,” she said. “You needn’t worry.”

“What will you do?”

“I’m not sure,” said Isabel. “Sometimes solutions take some time to suggest themselves.”

“You won’t tell Professor Lettuce I came to see you?” asked Gloria.

“I won’t,” said Isabel. “I won’t even mention you.”

“I don’t want him to be angry with me, you see. My job…”

“Of course, I understand. And you mustn’t worry. All that I would say is that in future, you might perhaps be a little careful about Robert Lettuce. I don’t want to discourage you too much—and he’s clearly been very helpful to you. But there are some people who have—how shall we put it?—flaws. I’m not saying that they don’t have good qualities—they do—but at the same time they may have fairly significant flaws. Professor Lettuce may be one of these. I’m not suggesting that he is; I’m merely raising the possibility that he may be.”

Gloria sat back in her chair. “Will the conference take place, do you think?”

Isabel hesitated. It would have been an interesting meeting, and she would have enjoyed publishing the papers. But she doubted now whether there would be much enthusiasm on the part of Marcus Grant—particularly in view of his impending resignation from any involvement in the affairs of the Matheson Trust, which she was confident would shortly come. He would submit his resignation, she thought, after her conversation with him, which would be a frank one. And as for Professor Lettuce, she imagined that he would be withdrawing his application to the trust in its entirety after receiving a letter that Isabel proposed to write to him that evening, at the latest.

“I don’t think that this conference will go ahead,” said Isabel. “But here’s an idea—we could hold a small conference ourselves—under the auspices of the Review. It would be on a much smaller scale, of course—just a day of meetings in one of the smaller venues at the university. But it could be worthwhile. Same subject, of course: the virtues and vices brought up to date.”

Gloria smiled. “Can I help you with it?”

“Of course you can,” said Isabel. “And the Review will pay you—in real money this time.”

“Thank you.”

“But not eight thousand pounds,” Isabel added quickly. “Two hundred, perhaps.”

“That’ll be fine,” said Gloria. “That’s about right, I think.” She swept her hair back from her forehead as she spoke. It was beautiful hair: russet in shade, not ginger, and it had a sheen to it that such hair can sometimes have. Isabel thought: If one had hair like that, would one feel the need to do anything? One might just sit all day and let people admire one’s hair. Or brush it endlessly. And she remembered the russet-coloured shawl that Fredricka had worn at the book-group meeting. That would go so well with this Gloria’s hair. It would create a symphony. There is still beauty in the world, thought Isabel—and that is a great consolation. There is hardship and mistrust and all the things that go with those, but there is still beauty.

“Smaller things—and smaller amounts—are almost always about right,” said Isabel. I’ve coined an aphorism, she thought—not a particularly good one, but one that fitted the circumstances rather well. But was it true? She was not sure: largeness of spirit, generosity of gesture—these were usually better than their meaner equivalents. But then it occurred to her that aphorisms might not have to be true: A pithy observation might be wrong and still have an aphoristic quality to it. The essence of an aphorism was that it made a general observation within a very small compass. If the observation were to be flawed, would that be a false aphorism or a misleading aphorism? She would have to think about that. But not now.