The Lost Art of Gratitude

“Either this letter is a forgery,” Isabel said quietly, “or, more likely, it simply failed to reach me. Many letters go missing, and I notice from the address that this person wrote to me from abroad. Letters from abroad are even more likely to get lost in the post, you know.”

Lettuce dabbed at his mouth with his table napkin. “I wish I could share your certainty,” he said. “At any rate, I fear that the matter will look very embarrassing when Christopher Dove makes it public.”

There was now a silence that lasted several minutes. Isabel sat quite still; Lettuce lifted up his napkin again and wiped his mouth, fussily, fastidiously. She saw a small speck of salad dressing on his cheek, missed by the napkin. At last she spoke.

“I have nothing to reproach myself for,” she said. “I have acted quite properly, and I am telling you the truth when I say that I did not receive that letter. But you obviously do not believe me. That is very clear.”

Lettuce shrugged. “It is not a question of whether I believe you, Miss Dalhousie—it’s a question of whether the readers of the Review and the general …”

Isabel supplied his term. “Community of philosophers.”

“Exactly, whether the general community of philosophers will believe you. That’s the question.”

Isabel took a deep breath. “I shall tell you what I am going to do, Professor Lettuce.”

Lettuce smiled. He was enjoying his triumph. “Please do.”

“I am going to write to this person …” She gestured to the letter. “I shall write to him and explain that I never received his letter. I shall, further, tell him that I have received assurances and an apology from Dr. Jones and that I have accepted those assurances and that apology—”

Lettuce interrupted her. “No good,” he said. “Not enough. You—”

Isabel cut him short. “No, certainly not enough. I agree. I shall also be writing to your friend Christopher Dove, and will tell him that I have recently discovered a startling instance of plagiarism in his own work. It occurs in an article that he published some years ago. A piece he wrote on self-interest, in fact. I am sure that it was unintentional. I have noted the chapter and verse and will send them to you immediately when I return after this lunch. Perhaps you might discuss this with Professor Dove.”

She watched Lettuce’s expression. She saw the small eyes open more widely in astonishment; she saw the chin sag suddenly. Her eye was drawn to the speck of salad oil—still there.

“You have some oil on your cheek, Professor Lettuce,” she said. “Just there.”

While Lettuce, flustered, reached for his table napkin, Isabel lifted her fork and began to tackle the small helping of fettuccine she had ordered. “Now, perhaps we should discuss your friend for a moment, Professor Lettuce.”

“My friend?”

“Christopher Dove. You know, I’ve always found it odd that you and he are so close, bearing in mind his reputation.”

Lettuce appeared to have recovered his composure. “He enjoys an excellent reputation, Miss Dalhousie. He is highly thought of by …”

“You,” interjected Isabel. “Yes, but not by many others. Perhaps you’re not aware of his controversial friendship with a young woman who was a doctoral candidate of his. You may not have heard that the external examiner of that particular thesis lodged a note of reservation with the university. He said that Dove had interfered with the report on the thesis, slightly changing the tenor of some of his remarks.”

“I cannot believe that,” said Lettuce. “A typographical error or two, at the most.”

“That’s what the university chose to believe,” said Isabel. “But then I knew one of his colleagues, who said that the departmental secretary had told him that Dove had told her to do it. She was too worried about her job to complain.”

“Nonsense,” said Lettuce. “Vulgar rumours.” He wrinkled his nose. “And I’m surprised to hear you spreading them, Miss Dalhousie, though perhaps I shouldn’t be.” He tried to affect a look of disapproval but failed. He looks dyspeptic, thought Isabel. He’s wilting.

Isabel twirled a piece of pasta on to her fork. “I must say that I’m disappointed that you don’t seem to be ready to accept the very obvious truth about Christopher Dove,” she said casually. “Especially when Cambridge University Press has asked my advice about finding somebody of sound judgement to edit their new edition of Hume papers. I know the commissioning editor there, as it happens.”

Lettuce stopped eating. “Hume papers?”

“A very important new publishing project,” said Isabel. “Five volumes over ten years. And there’s to be a major conference to mark each new volume. Bloomington, Indiana. Tel Aviv. Helsinki. Siena. Sydney.”

She watched him. He was quite still. “Starting off in Bloomington,” she went on. “Have you been there, Professor Lettuce?”

Lettuce shook his head. He had coloured slightly, she noticed.