Akela explained that each six would be divided into two, so that the members would work in groups of three: one cub would be in charge, one would hold the map, and one would be entrusted with the compass. Bertie glanced at Tofu, who looked back at him in perfect understanding, the unspoken anxiety being: would they be with Olive?
They were not. Olive was allocated to two others, a disconsolate-looking boy and a girl with a startled expression and pigtails, who had not said anything from the moment of her enrolment. Bertie and Tofu both heaved a sigh of relief. But when Akela turned to them, they were informed that Ranald McPherson was to be in charge.
“What about me, Akela?” protested Tofu. “I’m much bigger than he is. Look. He only comes up to here. And look at his stupid legs. He’s too small to be the leader.”
“Tofu dear,” explained Akela. “Leadership is not about size; nor indeed about legs. You don’t have to be big to lead. Look at the Queen. She’s not all that tall and yet she’s a very good leader. Leadership comes from inside.”
“That’s right,” said Olive.
Akela threw a glance at Olive. “And leaders must earn respect,” she continued. “A good leader doesn’t try to push people around too much.”
“See,” said Olive, looking directly at Tofu. “That’s why some people are leaders and some people aren’t.”
There was no time for further discussion, as final arrangements had to be made. When the time came, they would all walk together down Bruntsfield Place and then cross the Links. Once they were safely away from the traffic, on the other side of the Meadows, they would split up into their respective groups and use the maps which had been prepared for them to negotiate their way round the University Library, through the George Square Gardens and back to the Meadows. On their way they would have to note certain features of the landscape and answer questions about them on their return.
That evening, Bertie explained to his mother what was planned. Irene listened grimly.
“A somewhat old-fashioned exercise,” she said when Bertie had finished his account. “In these days of satellite navigation.”
83. A Shot in the Park
They walked along Bruntsfield Place, the whole cub scout pack in an ordered line, past George Hughes & Son Fishmongers, past the Yoga Centre, the antique shop, the Himalayan restaurant and Hasta Mañana. Olive, at the head of her six, commented loudly on each landmark as they passed it. “That,” she said, “is Mr. Hughes’s fish shop. I have been there twice. Mr. Hughes catches all those fish himself.”
Bertie frowned. “I don’t think he does, Olive. I think that he goes down to the harbour and buys them. I saw his van going down the hill once.”
Ranald Braveheart McPherson, trotting behind Olive, rallied to her support. “You mustn’t argue with the sixer, Bertie.”
“That’s right,” said Olive. “And you mustn’t argue with your girlfriend. There’s nothing worse than a boyfriend who argues with his girlfriend.”
“You’re Olive’s boyfriend?” asked Ranald. “You’re lucky, Bertie.”
Bertie blushed deep red. “I’m not,” he muttered. “I never said …”
“Oh yes you did, Bertie Pollock!” snapped Olive. “You’ve been my boyfriend for ages. Everybody knows that.”
“Then why does he never go out with you?” Tofu challenged. “Boyfriends take their girlfriends to the cinema. When did Bertie last take you to the cinema, Olive?”
“I’m not really allowed to go,” he said. “My mother …”
“I’ll take you to the cinema, Olive,” said Ranald, adding, “you can come with me and my mummy.”
“Hah!” shouted Tofu. “Mummies don’t go on dates, Ranald.”
“Thank you,” said Olive. “Did you hear that, Bertie? Did you hear what Ranald said?”
Such pleasantries continued, and it was not long before they reached Bruntsfield Links and saw, in the distance, the tree-lined paths of the Meadows. Now a buzz of excitement arose. Compasses, which had been issued to each team, were grasped in small, damp hands; woggles tightened; laces tied up. And then minutes later, when they had walked across to the other side, they were divided into their groups, maps were issued, and the challenge began. Everybody dispersed.
Bertie and Tofu stood in a huddle with Ranald Braveheart McPherson.
Tofu addressed Ranald. “You’re meant to be the leader,” he said. “So tell us where to go.”
Ranald looked anxiously at the map. “I think that we go that way,” he said.
“No,” said Bertie. “Look. That’s a picture of the tennis courts. That’s them over there. See? And there’s Arthur’s Seat. That big hill. So that means that the map goes this way.”
They consulted the compass. The needle, wobbling on its base, spun round indecisively.
“If we watch where the sun goes down,” said Tofu, “that’ll show us where west is.”
“But it’s only two o’clock,” said Ranald.
“Then we wait,” said Tofu. “Best to get things right.”
“I don’t think so,” said Bertie. “If we wait here until the sun goes down, then it’ll be dark.”
They looked at Ranald.
“You’re the leader,” said Tofu. “You decide.”
Ranald Braveheart McPherson shivered. A chill breeze had sprung up, and his knees, small, bony protuberances on thin legs, were turning red. In the absence of Olive, his authority seemed a slender, insubstantial thing. He had no idea where they were, nor where they should go. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to be a cub scout after all; perhaps he should have stayed inside.
Bertie assumed leadership. “That way,” he said, pointing in the direction of Arthur’s Seat, glimpsed above the tree tops. “We’ll go that way to begin with, and then we’ll turn up there and follow that path. Agree?”
Tofu and Ranald were both pleased that Bertie was taking over, and Ranald quickly passed him the map. Then they set off. But it so happened that at exactly that time, the Royal Company of Archers was holding its annual ceremonial competition shoot – for the Edinburgh Arrow, a trophy awarded to the member who actually hit the target. On years when nobody hit it – and this was a not an uncommon occurrence – then the arrow was awarded to the archer who came closest.
Dressed in their fine green uniforms, feathers protruding proudly from their bonnets, the archers stood in ranks near the corporation tennis courts. A few arrows had already been fired, including a wildly inaccurate shot from one of the brigadiers, in which the arrow had slithered along the grass in the direction of the Royal (Dick) School of Veterinary Studies, to be intercepted by a playful dog, who had seized it and carried it away in the direction of the Sick Kids Hospital.
Bertie, Tofu and Ranald, standing by a hedge, watched the competition with great interest.
“They’re the Queen’s bodyguard in Scotland,” explained Bertie. “They’re very important.”
They watched as one of the archers stepped up to the plate and fitted an arrow to his bow. He was a powerfully built man and he drew the string well back. Then, taking aim at the distant target, a large, straw circle, he let the arrow fly which it did, convincingly so, but not in the direction anticipated by the bowman. Caught in the breeze, the arrow curved a slow arc across the sky and fell to earth at exactly the point where a man was walking along the perimeter of the park. Although its force was largely spent by that stage of its flight, there was enough velocity in it to pierce the sleeve of his jacket and lodge in the fabric.
The archers had now finished their shoot, and were packing up to leave, to return to Archers’ Hall, their fine headquarters off Buccleuch Place. The archer who had fired the last shot looked furtively about him, and slipped off at a fast walk.
“Did you see that?” whispered Bertie. “Did you see him shoot that man?”
Ranald shivered. “Let’s go home before they shoot us,” he said miserably.
“No,” said Bertie. “We must get on with what we’re meant to be doing.”
“We saw who did it, mister,” said Tofu. “We saw him.”
The man greeted this information with interest. “Could you point him out to me?”
“I think so,” said Bertie. “But they’ve all walked away.”
“I know who they are,” said the man. “It’s that Royal Company of Archers. They’ve got a clubhouse of some sort back there. That’s where they’ll be heading.”
84. Meet the Archers
Bertie looked at the man who had been shot by the arrow. He looked familiar for some reason, but he could not remember why. Then he remembered: he had seen his picture on a book his father had been reading, and he had asked him who it was. “Ian Rankin,” Stuart had replied.
“Excuse me,” Bertie now said. “Excuse me, but aren’t you Mr. Rankin?”
“Yes, I am. And you are?”
“Bertie Pollock, sir. I’m a member of the First Morningside Cub Scouts and – ”
Tofu interrupted him. “And my name is Tofu,” he said. “It’s an Irish name meaning …”
“Vegetable paste,” offered Bertie.
Tofu scowled. “Chieftain,” he said. “It means chieftain.”
Ian Rankin turned to the third member of the party. “And you, young man?”
“Ranald Braveheart McPherson,” came the squeaky voice.
“Well then,” said Ian Rankin. “I suggest that you three help me to solve the mystery of who shot me. Shall we go round to the Archers’ Hall?”
They made their way round the edge of the Meadows. Ian Rankin passed the arrow to Bertie to look after. “Evidence,” he said. “We must keep the evidence.”
“Will they try to run away again?” asked Tofu.
“We’ll see,” said Ian Rankin. “I don’t think they could run very fast – most of them. But we’ll see. We must realise that we’re dealing with some pretty desperate characters here. Earls and people of that sort. You never know what people like that will do.”
They continued along Buccleuch Place and then turned the corner at the second-hand bookshop.
“There’s one of your books in the window there, Mr. Rankin,” Bertie pointed out. “Look. And, look, it’s only one pound.”
They turned another corner and began to make their way down a small lane. At the end of the lane was a handsome building, in the eighteenth-century style, the front door of which was surmounted by a large coat of arms executed in stone. The door seemed firmly closed, but there was a light within indicating that the hall was in use.
Ian Rankin knocked firmly on the door and he, and his three uniformed assistants, to all intents and purposes Baker Street Irregulars, waited for a response.
Inside the hall, one of the archers, a brigadier, peered out of a small peep-hole.
“Oh no,” he muttered to somebody behind him. “That chap you shot by mistake. He’s outside with a gang of helpers.”
The other archer moved forward and looked through the peep-hole. “Oh dear,” he said. “But at least he’s still alive. And, do you know what? I think it’s that Rankin chap. What are we going to do?”
“Get the form,” said an archer behind him. “The usual form. It works every time.”
There was a general scurrying among the archers and a piece of paper was produced from a drawer in a bureau at the back of the hall. This was a waiver of liability form, drafted years ago by one of the lawyer members of the company, and it offered membership of the Royal Company of Archers in return for an agreement by the injured party not to pursue the matter.
“It’s saved an awful lot of trouble in the past,” said the brigadier, blowing the dust off the form. “Many years ago one of the then governors of the Bank of Scotland hit a city councillor in the leg when he let off an arrow at the Garden Party. Fortunately we had the form, and it did the trick. They’re thrilled to be invited, you see, and they sign it, in almost every case. Then we tell them what the uniform costs, and they go away. Works every time.”
With form in hand, the brigadier opened the door. “Yes?” he said, quite politely.
Ian Rankin turned to Bertie. “Was it him?” he asked.
Bertie shook his head. He could see the guilty archer, standing in the shadows, and he pointed to him. “It was that man over there, Mr. Rankin,” he said.
“All right,” said the brigadier. “Sorry about that. Some of the chaps are a little bit wonky in their shooting. Terribly sorry. But, here’s an idea. If you would care to forget about the matter, then we’ll make you a member! We have great fun and, as you see, we’ve got this marvellous hall! That picture over there is by Allan Ramsay, for example. It shows the Earl of Wemyss in his archer’s kit.”
He thrust the piece of paper into Ian Rankin’s hands.
“You should join, Mr. Rankin,” said Tofu. “It looks fun.”
“Ask them how much it costs first,” whispered Bertie.
The brigadier glowered at Bertie. “Just sign there,” he said.
Ian Rankin hesitated. There was no harm in this, he thought, and he was a kind man. He had received his apology and this very generous offer of membership. He signed.
“Good,” said the brigadier. “Now we’ll send you the details of the annual dues and the cost of the uniform. You can get it made up for just under five thousand.”
“Pounds?” said an astonished Ian Rankin.
“Yes,” said the brigadier. “Frightfully expensive. Sorry about that. But there we are. Sorry you won’t be joining us after all!”
And with that he shut the door. “I should have listened to you, Bertie,” said Ian Rankin. “That’s the way the establishment operates in this city, of course. They assimilate critics. It’s an old trick.” They walked back to Buccleuch Place.
“We’d better get on with our map-reading exercise,” said Bertie.
“And I should get on with my walk,” said Ian Rankin. “But I must thank you three young men for being such excellent detectives. I think that we solved that mystery really rather satisfactorily.”
They bade farewell to each other, and the three boys made their way back in the direction of the University Library. They were back on course now, and with some good navigation from Bertie, they soon succeeded in completing the task. Twenty minutes or so later, they found themselves reunited with Akela and the other cubs. Everybody was accounted for, except for one or two stragglers, who would probably turn up later on, Akela thought.
85. Gangsters, Drugs, Dreams – and Dogs
With the need to deal quickly with the late Lard O’Connor’s painting, before the much regretted Glaswegian gangster’s younger brother, Frankie O’Connor, travelled to Edinburgh to reclaim it, Angus had invited James Holloway to his studio to inspect the portrait of Burns.
“I’m pretty sure that this painting is what you think it is,” said James. “There’s so much evidence now. But the jardinière really clinches it.”
Angus had raised with James the issue of the jardinière which appeared in the background of the painting. He had been convinced that he had seen it somewhere before, and had wondered whether it had appeared in any other paintings of the period. James thought that it had not, but had taken the matter further and had eventually identified it as the Chinese jardinière belonging to Lord Monboddo, the famous eighteenth-century philosopher, linguist and lawyer.
“Here’s a recent photograph of that very jardinière,” said James, passing a glossy print to Angus. “You see, it’s the same in every particular.”
Angus took the photograph and held it alongside the jardinière in the Raeburn. There could be no doubt: the two were the same.
“So what that sugge
sts,” James went on, “is that Raeburn painted Burns’s portrait when the poet was visiting Edinburgh. We know that he was received by Monboddo, who ran a salon in his house at 13 St. John’s Street. It was quite a salon, of course: not only Burns attended what Monboddo called his ‘learned suppers,’ but all the leading intellectual lights of the day.
“I thought,” James went on, “that if we ever found a Raeburn portrait of Burns it would have been painted at Dr. Ferguson’s house in Sciennes, but there we are. This is definitely in Monboddo’s house.”
Angus smiled in pleasure. “That makes it even more exciting,” he said. “I have a lot of time for Monboddo.”
“Of course,” said James. “He was a most remarkable man. And yet people made fun of him. The portrait of him by John Kay, for instance, depicts him against a framed picture of a group of tailed men dancing round in a circle.”
“Well, he did say that men used to have tails,” Angus pointed out.
“Didn’t Darwin have something rather similar to say?” retorted James.
Angus nodded. “Oh, I agree. He was in some respects a Darwinian before his time. But, moving on from Monboddo, we have an immediate problem on our hands.”
“This Glasgow gangster?” asked James. “Or rather, his brother?”
“Yes. We must do everything we can to stop them getting this picture. They have no right to it – they obviously stole it.”
James thought about this. “Fair enough. But in those circumstances, it will have to go to the police, won’t it?”
Angus stroked the frame of the painting lovingly. “Yes, but I can tell them, quite honestly, that it was brought in by somebody who has now disappeared and who can’t be traced, and that in these circumstances I would propose donating it to the nation if they can find no lawful owner from whom it has been stolen.”
“A very sound idea,” agreed James. “And a perfectly legal and morally correct one too. And, on behalf of the nation, I accept.”
The Unbearable Lightness of Scones Page 29