"No," said Roger, eyeing Dr. McEwan with some austerity. "That's why we're asking about her."
"Is there anything…" Claire paused delicately, inviting, "that you think perhaps the committee should know, Dr. McEwan?" She leaned forward, opening her eyes very wide. "You know, inquiries like this are completely confidential. But it's so important that we be fully informed; there is a position of trust involved." Her voice dropped suggestively. "The Ministry, you know."
Roger would dearly have loved to strangle her, but Dr. McEwan was nodding sagely, lip wobbling like mad.
"Oh, yes, dear lady. Yes, of course. The Ministry. I completely understand. Yes, yes, Well, I…hm, perhaps—I shouldn't like to mislead you in any respect, you know. And it is a wonderful chance, no doubt…"
Now Roger wanted to throttle both of them. Claire must have noticed his hands twitching in his lap with irresistible desire, for she put a firm stop to the Director's maundering.
"We're basically interested in two things," she said briskly, opening the notebook she carried and poising it on her knee as if for reference. Pick up bottle sherry for Mrs. T, Roger read out of the corner of one eye. Sliced ham for picnic.
"We want to know, first, your opinion of Mrs. Edgars's scholarship, and secondly, your opinion of her overall personality. The first we have of course evaluated ourselves"—she made a small tick in the notebook, next to an entry that read Change traveler's cheques—"but you have a much more substantial and detailed grasp, of course." Dr. McEwan was nodding away by this time, thoroughly mesmerized.
"Yes, well…" He puffed a little, then, with a glance at the door to make sure it was shut, leaned confidentially across his desk. "The quality of her work—well, about that I think I can satisfy you completely. I'll show you a few things she's been working on. And the other…" Roger thought he was about to go in for another spot of lip-twitching and leaned forward menacingly.
Dr. McEwan leaned back abruptly, looking startled. "It's nothing very much, really," he said. "It's only…well, she's such an intense young lady. Perhaps her interest seems at times a trifle…obsessive?" His voice went up questioningly. His eyes darted from Roger to Claire, like a trapped rat's.
"Would the direction of this intense interest perhaps be focused on the standing stones? The stone circles?" Claire suggested gently.
"Oh, it showed up in her application materials, then?" The Director hauled a large, grubby handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his face with it. "Yes, that's it. Of course, a lot of people get quite carried away with them," he offered. "The romance of it, the mystery. Look at those benighted souls out at Stonehenge on Midsummer's Day, in hoods and robes. Chanting…all that nonsense. Not that I would compare Gillian Edgars to…"
There was quite a lot more of it, but Roger quit listening. It seemed stifling in the narrow office, and his collar was too tight; he could hear his heart beating, a slow, incessant thrumping in both ears that was very irritating.
It simply couldn't be! he thought. Positively impossible. True, Claire Randall's story was convincing—quite awfully convincing. But then, look at the effect she was having on this poor old dodderer, who wouldn't know scholarship if it was served up on a plate with piccalilli relish. She could obviously talk a tinker out of his pans. Not that he, Roger, was as susceptible as Dr. McEwan surely, but…
Beset with doubt and dripping with sweat, Roger paid little attention as Dr. McEwan fetched a set of keys from his drawer and rose to lead them out through a second door into a long hallway studded with doors.
"Study carrels," the Director explained. He opened one of the doors, revealing a cubicle some four feet on a side, barely big enough to contain a narrow table, a chair, and a small bookshelf. On the table, neatly stacked, were a series of folders in different colors. To the side, Roger saw a large notebook with gray covers, and a neat hand-lettered label on the front—MISCELLANEOUS. For some reason, the sight of the handwriting sent a shiver through him.
This was getting more personal by the moment. First photographs, now the woman's writings. He was assailed by a moment's panic at the thought of actually meeting Geillis Duncan. Gillian Edgars, he meant. Whoever the woman was.
The Director was opening various folders, pointing and explaining to Claire, who was putting on a good show of having some idea what he was talking about. Roger peered over her shoulder, nodding and saying, "Um-hm, very interesting," at intervals, but the slanted lines and loops of the script were incomprehensible to him.
She wrote this, he kept thinking. She's real. Flesh and blood and lips and long eyelashes. And if she goes back through the stone, she'll burn—crackle and blacken, with her hair lit like a torch in the black dawn. And if she doesn't, then…I don't exist.
He shook his head violently.
"You disagree, Mr. Wakefield?" The Director of the Institute was peering at him in puzzlement.
He shook his head again, this time in embarrassment.
"No, no. I mean…it's only…do you think I could have a drink of water?"
"Of course, of course! Come with me, there's a fountain just round the corner, I'll show you." Dr. McEwan bustled him out of the carrel and down the hall, expressing voluble, disjointed concern for his state of health.
Once away from the claustrophobic confines of the carrel and the proximity of Gillian Edgars's books and folders, Roger began to feel slightly better. Still, the thought of going back into that tiny room, where all Claire's words about her past seemed to echo off the thin partitions…no. He made up his mind. Claire could finish with Dr. McEwan by herself. He passed the carrel quickly, not looking inside, and went through the door that led back to the receptionist's desk.
Mrs. Andrews stared at him as he came in, her spectacles gleaming with concern and curiosity.
"Dear me, Mr. Wakefield. Are ye not feeling just right, then?" Roger rubbed a hand over his face; he must look really ghastly. He smiled weakly at the plump little secretary.
"No, thanks very much. I just got a bit hot back there; thought I'd step down for a little fresh air."
"Oh, aye." The secretary nodded understandingly. "The radiators." She pronounced it "raddiators." "They get stuck on, ye know, and won't turn off. I'd best see about it." She rose from her desk, where the picture of Gillian Edgars still rested. She glanced down at the picture, then up at Roger.
"Isn't that odd?" she said conversationally. "I was just looking at this and wondering what it was about Mrs. Edgars's face that struck me all of a sudden. And I couldn't think what it was. But she's quite a look of you, Mr. Wakefield—especially round the eyes. Isn't that a coincidence? Mr. Wakefield?" Mrs. Andrews stared in the direction of the stair, where the thump of Roger's footsteps echoed from the wooden risers.
"Taken a bit short, I expect," she said kindly. "Poor lad."
The sun was still above the horizon when Claire rejoined him on the street, but it was late in the day; people were going home to their tea, and there was a feeling of general relaxation in the air—a looking forward to leisured peace after the long day's work.
Roger himself had no such feeling. He moved to open the car door for Claire, conscious of such a mix of emotions that he couldn't decide what to say first. She got in, glancing up at him sympathetically.
"Rather a jar, isn't it?" was all she said.
The fiendish maze of new one-way streets made getting through the town center a task that demanded all his attention. They were well on their way before he could take his eyes off the road long enough to ask, "What next?"
Claire was leaning back in her seat, eyes closed, the tendrils of her hair coming loose from their clip. She didn't open her eyes at his question, but stretched slightly, easing herself in the seat.
"Why don't you ask Brianna out for supper somewhere?" she said. Supper? Somehow it seemed subtly wrong to stop for supper in the midst of a life-or-death detective endeavor, but on the other hand, Roger was suddenly aware that the hollowness in his stomach wasn't entirely due to the revelations of the last hour.
"Well, all right," he said slowly. "But then tomorrow—"
"Why wait 'til tomorrow?" Claire broke in. She was sitting up now, combing out her hair. It was thick and unruly, and loosed swirling on her shoulders, Roger thought it made her look suddenly very young. "You can go talk to Greg Edgars again after supper, can't you?"
"How do you know his name is Greg?" Roger asked curiously. "And if he wouldn't talk to me this afternoon, why should he tonight?"
Claire looked at Roger as though suddenly doubting his basic intelligence.
"I know his name because I saw it on a letter in his mailbox," she said. "As for why he'll talk to you tonight, he'll talk to you because you're going to take along a bottle of whisky when you come this time."
"And you think that will make him invite us in?"
She lifted one brow. "Did you see the collection of empty bottles in his waste bin? Of course he will. Like a shot." She sat back, fists thrust into the pockets of her coat, and stared out at the passing street.
"You might see if Brianna will go with you," she said casually.
"She said she isn't having anything to do with this," Roger objected.
Claire glanced at him impatiently. The sun was setting behind her, and it made her eyes glow amber, like a wolf's.
"In that case, I suggest you don't tell her what you're up to," she said, in a tone that made Roger remember that she was chief of staff at a large hospital.
His ears burned, but he stubbornly said, "You can't very well hide it, if you and I—"
"Not me," Claire interrupted. "You. I have something else to do."
This was too much, Roger thought. He pulled the car over without signaling and skidded to a stop at the side of the road. He glared at her.
"Something else to do, have you?" he demanded. "I like that! You're landing me with the job of trying to entice a drunken sot who will likely assault me on sight, and luring your daughter along to watch! What, do you think she'll be needed to drive me to hospital after Edgars has finished beating me over the head with a bottle?"
"No," Claire said, ignoring his tone. "I think you and Greg Edgars together may succeed where I couldn't, in convincing Bree that Gillian Edgars is the woman I knew as Geillis Duncan. She won't listen to me. She likely won't listen to you, either, if you try to tell her what we found at the Institute today. But she'll listen to Greg Edgars." Her tone was flat and grim, and Roger felt his annoyance ebbing slightly. He started the car once more, and pulled out into the stream of traffic.
"All right, I'll try," he said grudgingly, not looking at her. "And just where are you going to be, while I do this?"
There was a small, shuffling movement alongside as she groped in her pocket again. Then she drew out her hand and opened it. His eye caught the silvery gleam of a small object in the darkness of her palm. A key.
"I'm going to burgle the Institute," she said calmly. "I want that notebook."
After Claire excused herself to run her unspecified "errand"—making Roger shudder only slightly—he and Brianna had driven to the pub, but then decided to wait for their supper, since the evening was unexpectedly fine. They strolled down the narrow walk by the River Ness, and he had forgotten his misgivings about the evening in the pleasure of Brianna's company.
They talked carefully at first, avoiding anything controversial. Then the chat turned to Roger's work, and grew gradually more animated.
"And how do you know so much about it, anyway?" Roger demanded, breaking off in the middle of a sentence.
"My father taught me," she replied. At the word "father," she stiffened a bit, and drew back, as though expecting him to say something. "My real father," she added pointedly.
"Well, he certainly knew," Roger replied mildly, leaving the challenge strictly alone. Plenty of time for that later, my girl, he thought cynically. But it isn't going to be me that springs the trap.
Just down the street, Roger could see a light in the window of the Edgars's house. The quarry was denned, then. He felt an unexpected surge of adrenaline at the thought of the coming confrontation.
Adrenaline lost out to the surge of gastric juices that resulted when they stepped into the pub's savory atmosphere, redolent of shepherd's pie. Conversation was general and friendly, with an unspoken agreement to avoid any reference to the scene at the manse the day before. Roger had noticed the coolness between Claire and her daughter, before he had left her at the cab stand on their way to the pub. Seated side by side in the backseat, they had reminded him of two strange cats, ears laid flat and tails twitching, but both avoiding the eye-locking stare that would lead to claws and flying fur.
After dinner, Brianna fetched their coats while he paid the bill.
"What's that for?" she asked, noticing the bottle of whisky in his hand. "Planning a rave-up for later on?"
"Rave-up?" he said, grinning at her. "You are getting on, aren't you? And what else have you picked up in your linguistic studies?"
She cast her eyes down in exaggerated demureness.
"Oh, well. There's a dance in the States, called the Shag. I gather I shouldn't ask you to do it with me here, though."
"Not unless you mean it," he said. They both laughed, but he thought the flush on her cheeks had deepened, and he was conscious of a certain stirring at the suggestion that made him keep his coat hung over one arm instead of putting it on.
"Well, after enough of that stuff, anything's possible," she said, indicating the whisky bottle with a mildly malicious smile. "Terrible taste, though."
"It's acquired, lassie," Roger informed her, letting his accent broaden. "Only Scots are born wi' it. I'll buy ye a bottle of your own to practice with. This one's a gift, though—something I promised to leave off. Want to come along, or shall I do it later?" he asked. He didn't know whether he wanted her to come or not, but felt a surge of happiness when she nodded and shrugged into her own coat.
"Sure, why not?"
"Good." He reached out and delicately turned down the flap of her collar, so it lay flat on her shoulder. "It's just down the street—let's walk, shall we?"
The neighborhood looked a little better at night. Some of its shabbiness was hidden by the darkness, and the lights glowing from windows into the tiny front gardens gave the street an air of coziness that it lacked during the day.
"This won't take a minute," Roger told Brianna as he pressed the buzzer. He wasn't sure whether to hope he was right or not. His first fear passed as the door opened; someone was home, and still conscious.
Edgars had plainly spent the afternoon in the company of one of the bottles lined up along the edge of the swaybacked buffet visible behind him. Luckily, he appeared not to connect his evening visitors with the intrusion of the afternoon. He squinted at Roger's introduction, composed on the way to the house.
"Gilly's cousin? I didn' know she had a cousin."
"Well, she has," said Roger, boldly taking advantage of this admission. "I'm him." He would deal with Gillian herself when he saw her. If he saw her.
Edgars blinked once or twice, then rubbed an inflamed eye with one fist, as though to get a better look at them. His eyes focused with some difficulty on Brianna, hovering diffidently behind Roger.
"Who's that?" he demanded.
"Er…my girlfriend," Roger improvised. Brianna narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing. Plainly she was beginning to smell a rat, but went ahead of him without protest as Greg Edgars swung the door wider to admit them.
The flat was small and stuffy, overfurnished with secondhand furniture. The air reeked of stale cigarettes and insufficiently taken-out garbage, and the remnants of take-away meals were scattered heedlessly over every horizontal surface in the room. Brianna gave Roger a sidelong look that said Nice relatives you have, and he shrugged slightly. Not my fault. The woman of the house was plainly not at home, and hadn't been for some time.
Or not in the physical sense, at least. Turning to take the chair Edgars offered him, Roger came face-to-face with a large studio photograph, framed in brass, standing in the center of the tiny mantelpiece. He bit his tongue to stifle a startled exclamation.
The woman seemed to be looking out of the photograph into his face, a slight smile barely creasing the corner of her mouth. Wings of platinum-fair hair fell thick and glossy past her shoulders, framing a perfect heart-shaped face. Eyes deep green as winter moss glowed under thick, dark lashes.
"Good likeness, i'n't?" Greg Edgars looked at the photo, his expression one of mingled hostility and longing.
"Er, yes. Just like her." Roger felt a little breathless, and turned to remove a crumpled fish-and-chips paper from his chair. Brianna was staring at the portrait with interest. She glanced from the photo to Roger and back, clearly drawing comparisons. Cousins, was it?
"I take it Gillian's not here?" Roger started to wave away the bottle Edgars had tilted inquiringly in his direction, then changed his mind and nodded. Perhaps a shared drink would gain Edgars's confidence. If Gillian wasn't here, he needed to find out where she was.
Occupied in removing the excise seal with his teeth, Edgars shook his head, then delicately plucked the bit of wax and paper off his lower lip.
"Not hardly, mate. 'S not quite so much a slum as this when she's here." A sweeping gesture took in the overflowing ashtrays and tumbled paper drinks cups. "Close, maybe, but not quite this bad." He took down three wineglasses from the china cupboard, peering dubiously into each one, as though checking for dust.
He poured the whisky with the exaggerated care of the very drunk, taking the glasses one by one across the room to his guests. Brianna accepted hers with equal care, but declined a chair, instead leaning gracefully against the corner of the china cabinet.
Edgars plumped at last onto the rump-sprung sofa, ignoring the debris, and raised his glass.
"Cheers, mate," he said briefly, and took a long, slurping gulp. "Wotcher say yer name is?" he demanded, emerging abruptly from his immersion. "Oh, Roger, right. Gilly never mentioned ye…but then, she wouldn'," he added moodily. "Never knew nothin' about her family, and she wasn' sayin'. Think she was ashamed of 'em all…but you don't look such a nelly," he said, generously. "Yer lass is a looker, at least. Aye, that sounds right, eh? ‘Yer lass is a looker, at least!' Hear 'at, eh?" He laughed uproariously, spraying whisky droplets.