Unbearable Lightness of Scones

87. Deceptive Appearances

The hands of the clock moved slowly. Everybody was too nervous now to talk very much and so for a while they sat in silence as they waited for the arrival of Antonia’s supplier. Angus found himself wondering what this person would look like. Lard O’Connor had been such an obvious figure – a gangster of the old school, almost loveable, from a distance, while Antonia’s supplier would come from a totally different end of the criminal spectrum. Such people were callous and psychopathic, indifferent to the chaos and misery their wares caused in the lives of those who consumed them. And yet, here was Antonia, outwardly respectable, quite congenial company – at times, and in her way – implicated in precisely the same trade, even if a lowly link in the chain. But if one passed her in the street it would never occur to one that she was a drug-dealer; one might even see her in Jenners and think nothing of it.

“What was the name of that Italian?” he suddenly asked Domenica.

“Which Italian?”

“The one who said that he could identify criminals by their appearance?”

James provided the answer. “Cesare Lombroso.”

Domenica nodded. She knew all about Lombroso. “You’re thinking of Antonia, I take it,” she said. “You’re reflecting on her lack of a criminal appearance?”

“Well, I was,” admitted Angus. “And you have to admit, she doesn’t exactly look the part of the drug-dealer, does she?”

“Lombroso was interested in the face and the shape of the head,” Domenica said. “If you look at the illustrations in his book, you’ll see that it was all about low foreheads and the eyes being too close together. He had those wonderfully frightening pictures of Murderer – typical Sicilian type and so on.”

“Well, they did rather look the part, didn’t they?”

Domenica laughed. “Have you seen the photographs of Dr. Shipman? The one who bumped off half his patients. Would you have been worried if he came to give you an injection?” She answered her own question. “I doubt it, Angus. There have been plenty of mild-looking murderers.”

Angus looked thoughtful. “Undoubtedly. But at the end of the day, there’s still some connection between the look on a face and what’s going on in the mind. The old saw that the eyes are the window of the soul has some truth in it. Take Richard Nixon. And then compare him with, say, Bill Clinton. What do the faces say to you?”

“Nixon had a…”

“Tricky face?” Angus interjected. “Paranoid? Couldn’t you look at that face and say, ‘That’s a man who has an enemies list’?”

“Whereas William Jefferson Clinton…”

Angus made a gesture to indicate the obvious. “An open, friendly face. Sympathetic. Warm.”

“And in each case what you saw on the outside is what you got on the inside?”

Angus nodded. “Exactly.” He turned to James. “And in portraiture, James, would you not agree that character can shine through the face?”

“Oh yes. Although it might depend on whether there was any flattery going on. Portrait painters are not above flattery, Angus, as I’m sure you are well aware.”

Angus laughed. “I am. That is, I am aware. And I hope that I’m above flattery – most of the time. I suppose there are occasions when I feel that I have to be kind. But being kind to somebody is different, surely, from flattering them.”

They were silent again, each thinking, perhaps, of Antonia and any display in her physiognomy of her secret. Had there been signs that people had missed? Angus remembered seeing the moderately expensive pictures on her wall; for a successful drug-dealer, those would have been easily affordable. Well, that at least answered the question of how she could buy them. It would also explain how she managed to live without working, if one did not count the writing of a novel about the Scottish saints as working, which he did not. And there was a further mystery, the answer to which would soon be revealed: what sort of drugs would she be dealing in? The most likely answer to that, he thought, was cocaine. Antonia would be providing cocaine to the upmarket dinner parties where such things were consumed. She was perfectly placed for that in the New Town, with its elegant flats and wealthy inhabitants. He shook his head, almost wistfully. He had never been invited to one of these fashionable dinner parties, possibly because of Cyril, he thought. Or the clothes he wore. Or even his age.

It was while Angus was entertaining these thoughts that Domenica’s doorbell rang. At the sudden, shrill sound all three of them gave a start and looked anxiously at one another.

“I’m going to answer,” whispered Domenica. “You stay in here. Don’t do anything.”

She left the kitchen and went into the hall. Angus and James could still see her, though, from the kitchen table, and they watched her every step.

Domenica opened her door. There, immediately outside on the landing, was a tall woman somewhere in her forties, wearing a green Barbour jacket and tight-fitting corduroy jeans.

“Domenica MacDonald?”

Domenica nodded. This was not what she had expected. The voice was commanding, confident.

“Antonia telephoned me and said that I could leave something with you while she was out.” She gestured to a large cardboard box, which she had laid down on the ground behind her. “I’ve howked this up from downstairs and I’ve got another one in the Land Rover. Could I pop this inside and then I’ll go and fetch the other one?”

The woman did not wait for an answer, but lifted up the cardboard box and virtually pushed her way past Domenica, who was still standing in the doorway in what appeared to be a degree of shock.

“In the kitchen?” asked the woman. “Can I dump it through there?”

Again she did not wait for an answer, and made her way across the hall and through the kitchen door. Once in the kitchen she put the box down on the table and straightened up, to look at the astonished two men.

“Angus Lordie!” the woman exclaimed. “Now this is a surprise! Of course you live round here, don’t you. Jimmy said he’d bumped into you in Drummond Place five or six years ago.”

Angus struggled to his feet. “Maeve,” he said weakly. “I had no idea…”

“Of course you didn’t,” she said briskly.

“I… I…” stuttered Angus.

“Look,” she said. “Don’t worry about all that. It’s ages ago. And I’ve been happily married for years. Don’t worry about a thing. Water under the Forth Bridge. Lots of it.”