The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds: An Isabel Dalhousie Novel (9) by Alexander McCall Smith

gratefully; in a room full of people talking, we do not wish to be
     by ourselves. “Yes. A lot. I love early music and we don’t get enough of it, I think.”
    “I like it too.”
    He transferred his glass from right hand to left to be able to shake hands. “I’m Patrick
     Munrowe.”
    It took a moment for the name to register. But then, in aninstant, she saw the resemblance. Of course he was Patrick Munrowe; there was Duncan’s
     forehead, and the same eyes; the same presence.
    The coincidence struck her sharply. “Your father’s Duncan Munrowe?”
    He nodded, somewhat surprised. She looked at him appraisingly. He was slightly taller
     than his father with the same good looks, but had an air of vulnerability about him;
     the air that some men have of being slightly lost.
    “I had lunch with him yesterday, you see.”
    He looked thoughtful. “Here? In Edinburgh?”
    “Yes, he was in town.”
    “I see. I didn’t know.”
    There was nothing in his tone to suggest that he was aggrieved to hear that his father
     had been in Edinburgh and had not told him, and yet Duncan had made a point of saying
     that he always saw his daughter when he came to town. If the daughter, then why not
     the son?
    “I think it was a pretty brief visit,” she said hurriedly. “It was business.”
    He started to enquire. “You’re a …?” He did not finish the sentence.
    “It was about the loss of the painting.”
    “So you’re with the insurance company?”
    “No.” She was not sure how to proceed, being uncertain as to whether the approach
     from Duncan was meant to be confidential. She had already given it away, if it was.
     “No. I’ve got nothing to do with that side of it. I was asked by Martha Drummond to
     speak to him about it.”
    The mention of Martha’s name had an immediate effect: he looked incredulous. “Her?”
    “Yes. I believe that she’s a friend of your father’s.”
    “I suppose so. It’s just that, well, frankly, I find that woman rather difficult to
     take. Sorry.”
    “She may not be everybody’s cup of tea.”
    He took a sip of his wine. “Has he asked you to help him?”
    Isabel felt that she could hardly decline to talk about it now. “He has. I’m not sure
     what I can do—if anything. But I think your father needed a sounding board, so to
     speak.”
    He nodded. “Fair enough. He was very upset by it, you know.”
    “I know.”
    “And it wasn’t because of the money side of it. Pop is very unworldly. He’s one of
     the least materialistic people I know.”
    Isabel said that she had formed the impression that it was the painting that counted
     rather than its monetary value.
    “Dead right,” said Patrick. “With him, it’s a question of … well, there’s no other
     word for it but
honour
. It’s a question of honour that he promised the painting to the Scottish National
     Gallery. That’s what’s really hurt him—the possibility that the painting might never
     be recovered or could be damaged.”
    “I can understand that.”
    He looked at her with interest. “May I ask what you do? Are you a psychologist?”
    “No. I’m a philosopher.”
    He seemed impressed. “There aren’t many people who can answer that question that way.
     That’s what you actually do—philosophy?”
    She explained about the
Review
and about the sort of articles she published. And then she turned the question back
     on him. “And you?”
    His reply was delivered in a tone of self-deprecation. “Nothingnearly as interesting, I’m afraid. I work for a company that advises on investment
     in pharmaceutical companies. I’ve been doing it for the grand total of six years so
     far.”
    She wondered about his age. Duncan had told her, but she had forgotten. Twenty-something—twenty-seven?
     So he must have gone straight from university into the job. And that left another
     forty years to do it. Forty years of working on drug companies. Forty years.
    “I’m not sure that I’d say that was