The Lost Art of Gratitude

He narrowed his eyes. As he spoke, he spluttered slightly, as if the indignation he was experiencing was too much for him. “You write to me with that crude threat—a threat I was almost minded to take to the police—and then you have the audacity to come to my house. That is why I said ‘How dare you?’ And I would say it again. You …” Isabel’s astonishment must have made an impression on George Finesk, as he faltered towards the end of his tirade.

“I think we need to talk about this,” said Isabel. “There’s obviously been a very major misunderstanding.”

He led her into the drawing room and gestured to a chair. A subtle change had occurred in his manner now, and a natural politeness seemed to be reasserting itself.

“Now, what is this letter?” Isabel asked. “I have never written to you, you know.”

He stared at her. “But you …”

“I repeat what I said. I have never written to you.”

“Then …”

“Then any letter purporting to come from me will be a fake.” She felt in command of the situation now, and was able to glance at the paintings on the wall. Another Cadell, she observed, and a Redpath Mediterranean hillside, viewed through a window.

Her gaze reverted to her host. “What did this letter say?”

“That you have been engaged by Minty Auchterlonie to look into incidents at her house. You went on to say that you have photographic evidence linking me with these incidents and that you would be passing these on to Minty’s solicitors for action unless …”

“Unless what?”

“Unless what you call ‘commercial disagreements’ are brought to an end.”

“What I call ‘commercial disagreements’?”

Isabel’s irritation had a yet further effect on George Finesk’s manner. Now he became apologetic. “Sorry. It’s what the letter said. Maybe not you.”

“Certainly not me,” said Isabel forcefully.

“Very well.”

It interested Isabel that George Finesk should have been so quickly mollified. He did not know her, and he had no means of telling whether she was speaking the truth—and yet he appeared to have made that assessment remarkably quickly. And then she realised what it was: they both belonged. The thought made her feel slightly uncomfortable: it was precisely the sort of assumption that led to unfairness in society, to that state of affairs where social cosiness brought special consideration and the conclusion that somebody who belonged would be incapable of lying or cheating, or, as in this case, writing a letter like the one that George Finesk had received.

They talked. Isabel told him about the approach from Minty and the request that she should help her in “another matter”—she did not reveal what it was. Minty had misrepresented her on that matter, she said, or so she suspected; and now it seemed that she had done it again.

“It’s clear to me what happened,” she said. “And I must say I find it hard to believe. Minty wanted to scare you off. She used me to do that by cooking up this letter.”

“But why?” asked George. “What’s the point?”

“It covers her tracks,” said Isabel. “If you’re threatening somebody, it’s usually better, I’d have thought, to get somebody else to do your threatening for you. It’s more sinister, of course, but safer. You’re not implicated in the paper trail, so to speak.”

George Finesk looked down at the floor. Isabel waited for him to speak, but he merely gazed mutely at his feet. “Could you tell me what happened between you and Minty Auchterlonie?” she asked.

He looked up. His face had coloured. “She’s a thief,” he said. “It’s as simple as that.”

Isabel waited for him to continue.

“You evidently don’t believe me,” he said.

“You haven’t told me much,” she said. “It’s difficult to reach a conclusion when you don’t have the facts.”

George stared at her, as if in disbelief that she could be unaware of something very obvious. “You know that she runs an investment bank?”

Isabel nodded. “She’s quite high-powered, I’ve been told.”

He cast his eyes upwards. “So is an electric chair. And about as pleasant.”

Isabel smiled. She was picturing Minty wired into the mains, sparks of malice coming from staring eyes.

George now began to explain. “I bought shares in that bank of hers. Quite a lot. The shares were part of her own holding in the bank. Then, a few weeks after I had agreed to the purchase, she went and sold some of the bank’s assets. Some of the things she got rid of were pretty ordinary investments, but one of them was a major holding in a company that had a renewable energy licence. This was quite valuable.”

Isabel asked what a renewable energy licence was.

“In this case, it was the right to position turbines on a bit of seabed,” George said. “The coast of Scotland has very strong tides.”

Isabel remembered the Corryvreckan whirlpool. “Jura,” she said. “The Corryvreckan.”

“Exactly. Not that anybody was proposing to put a generator there. But think of the energy—just imagine it.” He paused. “It’s a big thing these days. If we could get even a quarter of our energy needs from renewable sources, then …”