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

uninteresting. Drugs don’t strike me as boring.
     And isn’t what you do a form of intelligence gathering?”
    He smiled. “I suppose you could look at it that way. We look at pharmaceutical companies
     with a view to putting the investors’ money in them. I suppose that’s intelligence
     gathering. I look at smaller companies—the ones who think they might just invent the
     cure for something big.”
    “And do they?”
    “Sometimes, but very rarely. I’ve recently been looking at one that is trying to find
     an Alzheimer’s drug. There have been one or two possibilities, but at the end of the
     day they’ve fizzled out. Then somebody comes up with something that makes everybody’s
     efforts look a bit expensive. Such as eating oily fish. Apparently that stops your
     brain shrinking and protects you against Alzheimer’s. But there’s no profit in that.”
    Isabel laughed. “Sardines? A tin of sardines a day?”
    “Exactly. And if you’re worried about strokes, then …”
    They were interrupted by Jamie, who had left the group of musicians. He took Isabel’s
     hand and squeezed it lightly.
    “Lovely concert,” said Isabel. And to Patrick, “This is Jamie.”
    Patrick smiled at Jamie. “Yes,” he said. “You played the bassoon, didn’t you?”
    “I did.”
    “I played a curtal once,” said Patrick. “At school. We had a music teacher who loved
     old instruments. He arranged for us to play sackbuts and sordunes and whatever.”
    Isabel asked what the curtal was.
    “The precursor of the bassoon,” Jamie told her.
    “And the racket,” prompted Patrick. “Don’t forget the racket.”
    “That’s another early instrument,” said Jamie. “It looks like a little pot. You blow
     down a crook into the little pot and a deep sound comes out. It’s a sort of bassoon
     for people who were waiting for the bassoon to be invented.”
    Patrick laughed. She saw that his eyes had lit up during this conversation. “Imagine
     people wanting to play instruments that haven’t yet been invented. One might say,
     ‘I really want to play the saxophone, but Adolf Sax hasn’t invented it yet.’ ”
    Isabel smiled. She liked a conversation that went in odd directions; she liked the
     idea of playfulness in speech. People could be so depressingly literal.
    Jamie now turned to her. “I think perhaps we should go home. Grace doesn’t want to
     stay over tonight, she wants to get home.”
    Isabel explained to Patrick, “Grace is our babysitter.”
    She saw Patrick’s eyes move quickly to Jamie and then back to her. It was quick, but
     she noticed. There was a look of disappointment on his face; it was unmistakable.
    “I must be on my way too,” Patrick said quietly.
    Isabel felt a sudden sympathy for him. “Where do you live?”
    “I live in the New Town,” he said. “St. Bernard’s Crescent.”
    “I like it there,” said Isabel.
    “Yes,” he said flatly. “So …”
    “Well, I’m sure we’ll meet again,” said Isabel. “Your father has invited me to the
     house.”
    “You’ll like it there too.”
    He smiled and began to turn away. Isabel took Jamie’s arm and led him through the
     crowd, towards the door. Outside, in the darkness, she looked up at the towering stone
     buildings that lined the narrow thoroughfare of the Cowgate. A soft rain was falling,
     a spitting.
    “Your bassoon?” she asked. “You’ve left your bassoon behind.”
    “They’re looking after all our instruments. They have a van that will bring everything
     back tomorrow.”
    They began to make their way back towards the Grassmarket, undecided as to whether
     to walk home or catch a taxi.
    “That was Patrick Munrowe,” said Isabel. “His father is the man whose painting was
     stolen.”
    Jamie seemed distracted by something. “That second piece we played,” he said. “I’m
     not sure it was a success. The flute—”
    “What did you think of him?” pressed Isabel.
    “Of Patrick?”
    “Yes.”
    “I was