Free 44 Scotland Street by Alexander McCall Smith

operation of the alarm. Scooping up the morning’s mail from the floor, she placed it on the front desk before she went through to the back of the gallery to make herself a cup of coffee.
    Matthew had told her to open the mail, which she now did. There was a bill from the electrician for a new light switch which he had installed and an enquiry from a prospective customer who was interested in purchasing a Hornel. Had they anything in stock , he asked, and Pat reflected that an honest answer would be: W e have no idea , as they did not know what they had. There could be a Hornel, for all she, or Matthew knew, although it was unlikely. She suspected that there was nothing of any great value in the gallery, although even as she thought that she looked at the painting of Mull/Iona and wondered. How much was a Peploe worth these days? The day before she had paged through a magazine which she had found in the back of the gallery and which had featured the previous year’s auction prices for Scottish art. A large Peploe had gone for ninety thousand pounds, and so if the painting at which she was now staring was indeed a Peploe then it would be worth, what, forty thousand pounds?
    The door chime sounded and Pat looked up. It was the man who had called in yesterday – the man in the casual sweater who had examined the painting and pronounced on it with such authority.
    He walked over towards the desk.
    “I was just passing by and I thought I might take a quick look at one or two other things. I have a birthday present to buy, and that’s terribly difficult, you know. A little painting perhaps – nothing too pricy, but something that will hang on any wall without shouting . You know what I mean.”
    “Please look around,” said Pat, gesturing at the display on the walls. “You might find something.”
    The man smiled and sauntered over to the wall to Pat’s right.
    “D.Y. Cameron prints,” he muttered, just loudly enough for her to hear. “Not bad for one’s aunt, but not really suitable for one’s lover. Know what I mean?”
    Pat was not sure how to respond; she had an aunt, but no lover, and so she laughed. This made the man turn round and look at her with a raised eyebrow.
    “You think otherwise?” he asked.
    “No,” said Pat. “I’m sure you’re right.”
    He resumed his browsing, now moving over to the wall on which the Peploe imitation hung. He stopped and peered down at it more closely.
    “How much are you asking for this … this Saturday afternoon work?”
    “Saturday afternoon?”
    “It’s when amateurs get their paints out,” he explained. “This person, for example, was probably a retired bank manager from Dumfries or somewhere like that. Painted a bit. Like our friend Mr Vettriano.”
    Pat caught her breath. She had seen the comments about Mr Vettriano and she knew that some people had a low opinion of his work, but she did not share these views. She rather liked pictures of people dancing on beaches in formal clothes, with

    their butlers ; she had never seen this happen, of course, but it was always possible. Just.
    She reached for the list which Matthew kept in the top drawer. Running her eye down the figures, she came to the appropriate entry. Scottish school – Unknown: initials SP – Some Person? One hundred and fifty pounds.
    “One hundred and fifty pounds,” said Pat.
    The man stood back and stroked his chin. “One hundred and fifty? A bit steep, isn’t it? But … but, maybe. It would be a nice little gift for my friend.” Then, turning to Pat, he said decisively: “I’ll take it. Wrap it up please. I’ll pay in cash.”
    Pat hesitated. “On the other hand,” she said. “If it’s a Peploe, then one hundred and fifty might be a little bit low. Perhaps forty thousand would be more appropriate.”
    The man, who had been crossing the floor towards the desk, stopped.
    “Peploe? Don’t be ridiculous! Would that it were! But it isn’t. Out of the question.”
    Pat watched him