Elspeth asked for details.
“She’s Swedish, I think,” said her friend. “Or maybe Danish. I get these places mixed up. Which is the one at the top?”
“That’s Finland,” said Elspeth. “At the top, on the right. Sweden is in the middle, but it goes quite a way up.”
“This doesn’t go very far up.”
“You mean Denmark then?”
“I think so.”
It had been an unsatisfactory conversation from the geo-graphical point of view, but it promised to be a quick and easy solution to the au pair issue. Having been given the telephone number of the helicopter pilot’s wife, Elspeth called her and was told that the family was already packing up and that Josefine, the young Danish woman who had been with them for four months, would probably leap at the chance of the job of helping with the triplets. “She adores children,” Elspeth was told. “She has them eating out of her hand.”
“And she wants to stay in Scotland?”
“Absolutely. There’s a boyfriend, I believe.” There was then a slight hesitation. “In fact, perhaps more than one.”
“They may be the same boy.”
Again, there was a slight hesitation. Then, “I hope so. But why don’t you come and meet her? She’s in right now, and it would be a great relief to her to know that something’s been fixed up.”
Elspeth lost no time in making her way to the helicopter pilot’s house. This was in a small estate of new houses built just outside West Linton, intended for commuters into Edinburgh.
There, she was greeted warmly by Jenny, the helicopter’s wife, who appeared to be flustered. “I don’t know how we’re going to do it,” she said. “I have to get this place under control and pack up all our things by next Tuesday. Next Tuesday, can you believe it?”
“They haven’t given you much notice,” Elspeth said.
Jenny shrugged. “The man my husband’s replacing out there left them with no warning. He lost his nerve, apparently, refused to take off.”
Elspeth asked whether that was unusual.
“Harry says he’s seen it once. A fixed-wing pilot got out of his seat and said, I just can’t do it.”
“While they were in the air?”
“No. They were still on the ground. But look, come in and meet Josefine. She’s very keen to meet you and to hear about this job. I’ve told her it’s not definite, but I think she’s moved in mentally.”
They went inside, where they found Josefine waiting for them in the living room. Elspeth drew in her breath. The young woman was a grace from Botticelli’s Primavera; there was the same effortless, flowing beauty. But then Elspeth thought, I have triplets in the house, but I also have a husband, and she thought those thoughts, usually unexpressed but often entertained by any wife admitting a young au pair to her house. Men were only human, and there were two men in her household: James, in respect of whom she was surely in loco parentis, and Matthew, in respect of whom she was, in a real sense, in loco uxoris. Just a thought, she thought.
Josefine smiled at her. “I can start tomorrow,” she said, before Elspeth was able to open her mouth. “Or today, if you like.”
Elspeth was not sure how to respond. She needed an au pair, and she needed one quickly. But she knew nothing, or next to nothing, about Josefine, and she would have liked to spend at least a few minutes talking to her before taking her on. But even as she wrestled with this dilemma, Josefine asked her, “Doesn’t James live with you? That nice Scottish boy? The one who…” She did not finish. The helicopter pilot had come into the room, looking harassed. His packing up had revealed that something was missing, and he needed to locate it.
Elspeth thought: how does Josefine know James – and how well?
50
Cheese Scones
When Angus Lordie returned to Scotland Street after his sitting with Glenbucket, he found Domenica in her study, talking on the telephone. She beckoned to him, and he sat down in the chair on the other side of her desk, waiting for her to finish her call. There was always something slightly discomfiting, he thought, about listening to one side of a telephone conversation; one may affect indifference, but one is inevitably drawn into speculation as to what the voice at the other end – the voice one cannot hear – is saying.
“No,” she said to the person at the other end of the line, “I have not phoned about any of the registered sites for which the authorities have responsibility. This is something quite different.”
The voice said something that Angus could not make out. Then Domenica said, “Yes, of course.”
A further unintelligible, crackling sound was all that Angus heard in response to that.
“Neanderthal,” said Domenica.
This was greeted with silence. Then, after a few moments, “In a cave. Near the Water of Leith. My husband’s dog.”
Angus smiled. It would be gratifying if Cyril were to get the credit for the discovery; how many dogs have made significant palaeontological finds?
“No,” said Domenica, in reply to a further enquiry at the other end. “We haven’t.” She sighed. “The reason why we are approaching you, is that we want to do everything by the book.”
Angus made out a clearing of the throat at the other end of the line. Domenica looked at him, as if in a silent plea for sympathy.
There were a few more brief exchanges before the call came to an end.
“Well, really,” exclaimed Domenica. “They were perfectly polite, but it was clear they didn’t believe me.”
“Who?” asked Angus. “Who didn’t believe you?”
“The National Museum of Scotland,” said Domenica, rising to her feet. She moved to the window and looked out over the street. A brief shower of rain, unexpected, a passing thought from an innocent sky, had left the setts glistening. The figure of a young man came around the corner at the top of the street and glanced up at her window. Instinctively, she drew back. It was Torquil, the student from downstairs. He transferred his gaze to the window of his own flat and she saw him open his mouth to shout something. Then he cupped his hand to his ear in an effort to make out what was being said.
“That young man from downstairs is shouting out something to one of his flatmates,” said Domenica.
Angus joined her at the window. He glanced at what was happening down below, and then turned back to face Domenica. “What did the museum say?” he asked.
“They wanted to know where we found the skull,” she said. “They asked me whether I was sure it was a skull.”
Angus shrugged. “You told them because it looked like a skull, I take it.”
“More or less,” said Domenica. “But they said that they very much doubted that it was Neanderthal.”
“How do they know?” asked Angus.
“They don’t,” replied Domenica. “That’s the point. So they’re coming to take a look.”
“Here? To the flat?”
“Yes. This afternoon. At three-fifteen. They said that was the only slot they had.”
Angus laughed. “What did Jean Brodie say of the school principal who had summoned her at such a time? She thought to intimidate me by the use of quarter hours?”
“Something to that effect,” Domenica said. “But I shall not be intimidated. We’ve done nothing wrong. They seemed to imply that we were…well, grave robbers, I suppose.”
Angus raised an eyebrow. “Burke and Hare,” he said.
“Exactly. Anyway, somebody from the Department of Neanderthal Affairs of the Chambers Street museum will be here this afternoon to take a look at the skull.”
Angus clapped his hands in delight. “The Department of Neanderthal Affairs!” he cried. “What a splendid conceit. Are they serious?”
Domenica shook her head. “They are, but I’m not. I think it was really the Department of Brochs and Early Pictish sites – that sort of thing.
But I’m just assuming that the people who do all of that are also in charge of Neanderthal finds, of which there have been none in Scotland – thus far.”
He smiled. “I take it that Neanderthal affairs are a devolved matter? I assume that Westminster has no jurisdiction over Scottish Neanderthals.”
“I imagine so,” said Domenica. “London is slow to let go of powers, but they’re probably quite happy to give us Neanderthals.”
“Shall I make some cheese scones?” asked Angus. His cheese scones, which he baked with a good dose of cayenne pepper, were popular, and he often prepared a batch if there was to be an important visitor. And what more important occasion could there be, he asked himself, than the visit of an official palaeontologist – if that was who was coming that afternoon at the very precise – not to say intimidating – time of three-fifteen?
“Cheese scones would be ideal,” said Domenica. “After all, this is a fairly important occasion.”
Angus nodded. “Of course it is.” He paused. “But I must confess: I fear a resounding rebuff.”
Domenica did not share his anxiety. “We’re not trying to mislead anybody, Angus,” she said. “We’re not making any ridiculous claims. It’s not as if we’re coming up with anything like…” She searched her memory for examples of historical hoaxes – they were common enough, but the only one that came to her was the case of Piltdown Man.
“Piltdown Man?” Angus prompted.
“Precisely.”
Angus smiled. “People were more gullible then, I suppose. What did they do again?”
“It was a fraudster,” said Domenica. “He wanted to establish the so-called Missing Link between apes and Homo sapiens. So he got hold of an orang-utan jaw and combined it with a bit of modern skull. People fell for it for years.”
Angus shook his head. “Presumably wishful thinking played a part?”
“Of course. People believe what they want to believe – in so many respects. Look at our human beliefs about a lot of things – from economics to cosmology. You find something that appeals to you – some notion – and then you construct a supporting rationale for it. Astrology, for instance. People actually believe in that – they really do. But you don’t even have to resort to such fanciful territory to find examples of human wishful thinking.”
Angus was quiet. “I should hate to be lumped in with those Piltdown people,” he said.
Domenica sought to reassure him. “All that we’ve said is that we’ve found a skull that looks Neanderthal. That’s all. And when this museum person comes, that’s the first thing I’ll tell him.” She paused. “I suggest you make your scones now.”
Angus went to the cupboard. He took out the cayenne pepper.
51
A Cayenne Kick
“Very tasty scones,” said Dr Ruaridh Colquohoun, senior Neolithic curator of the National Museum of Scotland. “People usually offer us shortbread – at best. Scones are a distinct improvement, if I may be permitted to say so.”
Domenica nodded towards Angus. “Don’t thank me, Dr Colquohoun. The scones were made by my husband.”
The curator made an apologetic gesture. “An assumption on my part,” he said. “Please forgive me.”
Domenica smiled. “Quite understandable. I’m not one to blame people for making assumptions that are based on their experience. I suppose it’s still the case that there are more women making scones than there are men.”
“But we shouldn’t assume that,” said Dr Colquohoun. “These automatic assumptions – even if based on statistical probability – can confirm stereotypes.”
“Well, possibly,” agreed Domenica. “But people should not be frightened to open their mouths…We’ll soon be scared to say anything at all.”
Angus joined in. “I don’t like stereotypes,” he said. “Although one might add that the assumptions go the other way too. There are those, I imagine, who assume that men can’t bake scones.”
“Indeed,” said Dr Colquohoun. He examined the remaining fragment of scone on his plate. “I must say, that was extremely delicious. There’s something in them…something you don’t normally encounter in a scone. Is it the sort of cheese you use?”
“That’s not all that important,” Angus replied, but then qualified what he had just said. “Actually, I suppose it is. You don’t want to use soft cheese.”
Dr Colquohoun shook his head. “No, of course not.”
“And the cheese should be strong if the flavour is to come out.”
Dr Colquohoun agreed. He picked up a crumb and sniffed at it. “Parmesan?” he asked.
“You could use Parmesan,” Angus said. “Any nice hard cheese like that would probably do. But Parmesan has a good, strong flavour. Parmesan has that special heartiness…”
“Kokumi,” Domenica interjected. “That’s what they call that special sensation you get when you taste Parmesan.”
“As it happens, I haven’t used Parmesan,” Angus said. “I used a strong Cheddar. Pretty standard stuff. But I add a good pinch of cayenne pepper. That’s what gives a scone a kick. Cayenne pepper.”
“Well, I must say that they are very delicious as a result.” Dr Colquohoun picked up a further crumb and placed it on the tip of his tongue. “Very delicious, I’d say.”
“I also use eggs,” Angus volunteered. “Some people make scones without eggs, but I find they add something.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Dr Colquohoun. “You can taste the richness.”
“I also put in a bit more butter than the recipe advises,” added Angus.
“I’m all for creativity in the kitchen,” said Dr Colquohoun.
“Would you care for another scone?” Domenica asked.
Dr Colquohoun was quick to reply. “I wouldn’t mind,” he said.
Cyril watched from his position on the floor. He liked the smell of cheese scones but he was wary of their taste. Angus had once given him half a scone left over by a visitor and he had been quick to spit it out. That was the cayenne pepper. Now, though, there was something else about this meeting that interested him – Dr Colquohoun’s ankles. These were encased in a pair of light blue socks that left a small line of exposed flesh before the curator’s trouser leg began. It was not much, but it was enough to attract Cyril’s attention. A quick nip was always possible, and might, if he were lucky, not even be noticed. But then he saw Angus, and he realised that retribution would be swift and painful. So he turned away, and the moment of temptation passed.
With another scone on his plate and his cup of tea refreshed, Dr Colquohoun turned to the reason for his visit.
“When I heard about your telephone call,” he said, “I must admit I was inclined to dismiss it and suggest no action. But…” He hesitated. “I still think it is impossible that whatever you found is a Neanderthal skull, but it could still be something. People are always finding Neolithic settlement sites, and these often reveal human bones. It occurred to me that you might have stumbled on one of these. That would be perfectly feasible.”
Angus scratched his chin. “Forgive me, but I’ve forgotten when the Neolithic age was.”
“It came after the Mesolithic period,” said Dr Colquohoun. “Mesolithic people were hunter-gathers. In the Neolithic period they were settled communities – they farmed. They lived in villages. There’s a very well-known one up in the Orkney Islands.”
“And the Neanderthals?” asked Angus.
“Oh, they were far earlier,” said Dr Colquohoun, gesturing to indicate the distant past. “They became extinct about forty-two thousand years ago.”
Angus tried to envision forty-two thousand years. How many human generations would that be? “Could they have lived in Scotland? In Moray Place Gardens, for instance?” he asked.
Dr Colquohoun shook his head. “Scotland was covered in ice then. And joined to continental Europe, of course.”
> Angus glanced at Domenica. She had been so excited about the skull, and now the fundamental possibility of its being anything really interesting was receding. Neolithic skulls, it seemed, even if not exactly two-a-penny, were still not anything exceptional.
“And another thing,” Dr Colquohoun continued, “is this: the range of the Neanderthals did not extend this far north, even if they coped with ice. They probably made it into England, but only in the south. They were probably most common in Spain. There are a lot of Neanderthal sites at that latitude.”
“I hope we haven’t wasted your time,” said Domenica.
“Not in the slightest,” said Dr Colquohoun. “Part of our job is to look at things people find. We get all sorts of things. And you never know…although in this case, I’m afraid, we can definitely exclude at least one possibility. This will not be a Neanderthal skull.”
“Would you like a third scone?” asked Angus.
Domenica laughed. “You don’t have to say third scone, Angus,” she upbraided him.
“It would be my third,” said Dr Colquohoun. “But this is a temptation, I’m afraid, that I am ill-equipped to resist. I find scones are irresistible.”
“Then why fight it?” said Angus, passing another scone to their guest.
“I take it that Neanderthals would not have baked,” said Domenica.
“Certainly not scones,” said Dr Colquohoun. “They did not have wheat, you see. Cultivation of crops came much, much later.” He paused as he took a bite of his scone. “After the beginning of agriculture in Mesopotamia. But the Neanderthals were far more intelligent than people used to give them credit for being. Do you know they had art?”
Domenica mentioned the articles she had read in Evolutionary Anthropology.
“Then you’ll know about those Spanish cave paintings,” said Dr Colquohoun.
Domenica nodded.
Turning to Angus, Dr Colquohoun said, “I know you’re an artist, Mr Lordie. You’ll be interested in those Spanish finds. There’s a very famous set of abstract symbols that is astonishingly old – well before Homo sapiens. Sixty-four thousand years ago.” He paused. “And they really were abstract. Early cave paintings tend to be figurative – little pictures of hunters, and so on. Animals running away from a pursuer – that sort of thing. Neanderthal art, by contrast, is abstract. It’s symbolic. Lines, dots.”
A Promise of Ankles Page 20