Alexander McCall Smith - The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Andrea nodded. “All right.”

“If anything happens to me, Andrea,” he said quietly, “you will remember what I said, won’t you? Fortnum & Mason. Greatorex.”

Andrea nodded again. Why was he making such a fuss? What did he imagine could possibly happen to him at Fortnum & Mason? He’s very peculiar, she thought. I won’t be surprised if they cart him off one of these days – not in the least surprised.

It did not take half an hour to walk from the Ragg Porter offices to Fortnum & Mason. In normal conditions, when the throngs of visitors milling about Piccadilly Circus were not too thick, it would take barely ten minutes to make the journey; when the streets were crowded, one might need a little longer. It depended, too, on how quickly one walked –Rupert was a quick walker, especially now, when he was keenly impatient to see whether there really would be a yeti outside the famous store. And understandably so: who would not find their pace quickening with the knowledge that there lay before them the chance of seeing that most elusive of creatures, the Abominable Snowman?

Of course Rupert knew full well – and reminded himself as he made his way – that whatever he was going to see outside Fortnum & Mason, it was not going to be a yeti. If a mysterious tall figure did indeed turn up, then that was all he would be – a mysterious tall figure. And if Rupert had the chance to see him at close quarters, and he intended to ensure exactly that, he was certain that his suspicions would be confirmed. Fraudsters and tricksters were usually rather banal types, he told himself, and this tall figure would probably be revealed as coming from Croydon, or Tooting, or somewhere like that. He would definitely not be Himalayan.

At a quarter to twelve, Rupert found himself opposite Fortnum & Mason. Ahead of him, hanging from the façade of the Royal Academy, were great banners, fluttering in the breeze, advertising the current show. Rupert was a member of the Friends of the Royal Academy and made a point of going to all the exhibitions. He had not seen this one and for a moment, forgetting his mission, he wondered whether he should wander in and see The Later Bonnard. But then he reminded himself why he was there, and looked back over the road to the stately grocery shop with its copper-green windows and elaborate chiming clock. His eye moved upwards to the warrant-holder’s display of royal arms between the third and fourth floors. He could not make out any legend below the device: perhaps they provided fruitcake to the palace, or chocolate, or even something prosaic like butter. It would be something like that, he thought –something needed for the thousands of sandwiches that the palace served each year at the garden parties. Rupert had read that the official figure for sandwiches fed to guests each year was eighty thousand, with the same number of slices of cake being served. It was profoundly inspiring: eighty thousand sandwiches – what other country, he wondered, came even near that?

He looked at his watch. He could hardly loiter on the pavement for fifteen minutes; apart from anything else, he wanted to be inconspicuous so as to get a good look at the stranger. Yetis were notoriously shy creatures, and if one were to appear in front of Fortnum & Mason and see somebody loitering on the pavement opposite, he would be bound to take fright. But then this was not a yeti, Rupert reminded himself. Even so, he did not want to be spotted by Errol Greatorex, who he knew was due to arrive there at midday, and accordingly he decided to cross the road and enter the shop. He could easily spend fifteen minutes looking at the displays of olive oil or some such; there was a lot to see in Fortnum & Mason. Then, when the time was ripe, he would sidle towards the front door to see whether Greatorex’s mysterious companion had arrived.

Although the shop would be busy at lunchtime, when people from nearby offices took the opportunity to buy something in their lunch hour, it was still a little early for lunchtime crowds when Rupert went in, and there was no more than a handful of people walking along the aisles of the spacious food hall. He did not have a sweet tooth, and so the shelves of chocolates and sugared almonds held no charms for him. He was drawn instead to a display of china bowls of Patum Peperium; that was much more to his taste. These bowls, with their lids decorated with Victorian hunting scenes, were considerably larger than the normal white plastic containers of the famous anchovy paste. Rupert picked one up to admire it and found that it was surprisingly heavy. He replaced it carefully, but as he did so his sleeve caught a neighbouring bowl and sent it crashing to the floor. The heavy china container shattered with an astonishingly loud report – rather like that of a gun being fired. Rupert gasped as he saw what he had inadvertently done.

In a very short time – not more than ten seconds – an assistant in a formal black suit appeared to investigate. The assistant glanced at the mess on the floor, and at Rupert.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Rupert nodded. ‘I’m terribly sorry …” He gestured to the shattered bowl; large pieces of broken china stuck out of the exposed brown lump of anchovy paste.

The assistant seemed uninterested in the apology. “The important point is that you are all right, sir. That’s what matters.” He bent down and began to pick pieces of china out of the paste.

“Please let me help,” said Rupert, crouching down to join him. As he did so, he noticed a movement at the end of the aisle, behind the assistant. A tall man wearing a light olive-green overcoat had walked round the end of the line of shelves and was looking in his direction. Then, as quickly as he had arrived, he vanished.

Rupert stood up. The man he had seen was very tall, and although he had been unable to make out his face, he had had a distinct impression of facial hairiness.

The assistant straightened up too. “We’ll clear this up in no time,” he said. ‘It’s very easily done.” He paused. He had noticed that Rupert was staring down the next aisle, and appeared agitated.

“Have you seen something, sir?”

“I’m sorry,” said Rupert. “I have to go.”

He stepped forward, unfortunately into the Patum Peperium . It was soft underfoot, and it flowed out to cover the sole of his right shoe, creeping fishily up the sides.

“Do be careful, sir!”

Rupert looked down in dismay. His shoe was covered in thick anchovy paste.

The assistant looked concerned. “Can I get you a cloth to clean up, sir?”

Rupert shook his head. “No,” he said, craning his neck to get a better view of the tall figure disappearing out of the front door of the shop. “I shall be fine.”

“Your shoe is very … messy, sir. I really think …”

Rupert brushed the assistant aside, and strode off, leaving anchovy-paste footprints behind him.

“Really, sir, if you wouldn’t mind …”

He did not hear the objection. It was the yeti – he was sure of it. The yeti had been in Fortnum & Mason and was now leaving. Rupert pushed his way past the other shoppers. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I really must go. Excuse me.”

He would have to follow the yeti. He was not going to let him get away.

The yeti walked at an unnaturally fast pace. It was only to be expected, thought Rupert, as he struggled to keep up with his quarry; years of loping across the snow plains of the Himalayas presumably gave him an advantage over others when it came to the firmer, less challenging pavements of Piccadilly. But Rupert was determined that he would not let him out of his sight, and did not care if people stared at him as he broke into a run. Plenty of people ran in London; they ran for buses, they ran to keep out of squalls of rain, they ran for reasons known only to themselves. London, he thought, was used to everything, even to the sight of a suavely dressed man – Rupert had always been a natty dresser – pursuing a tall, lolloping figure out of the stately premises of Fortnum & Mason and into the crowds.