Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [448]
Was there a chance that this was a dream, a delusion of some kind? He stole a glance at Claire. She lay back in her chair, eyes closed, motionless but for the beating of her pulse, barely visible in the hollow of her throat. No. He could, for a moment, convince himself that it was make-believe, but only while he looked away from her. However much he wanted to believe otherwise, he could not look at her and doubt a word of what she said.
He spread his hands flat on the table, then turned them over, seeing the maze of lines that crossed his palms. Was it only his own fate that lay here in his cupped hands, or did he hold an unknown woman’s life as well?
No answers. He closed his hands gently, as though holding something small trapped inside his fists, and made his choice.
“Let’s find her,” he said.
There was no sound from the still figure in the wing chair, and no movement save the rise and fall of the rounded breast. Claire was asleep.
48
WITCH-HUNT
The old-fashioned buzzer whirred somewhere in the depths of the flat. It wasn’t the best part of town, nor was it the worst. Working-class houses, for the most part, some, like this one, divided into two or three flats. A hand-lettered notice under the buzzer read MCHENRY UPSTAIRS—RING TWICE. Roger carefully pressed the buzzer once more, then wiped his hand on his trousers. His palms were sweating, which annoyed him considerably.
There was a trough of yellow jonquils by the doorstep, half-dead for lack of water. The tips of the blade-shaped leaves were brown and curling, and the frilly yellow heads drooped disconsolately near his shoe.
Claire saw them, too. “Perhaps no one’s home,” she said, stooping to touch the dry soil in the trough. “These haven’t been watered in over a week.”
Roger felt a mild wave of relief at the thought; whether he believed Geillis Duncan was Gillian Edgars or not, he hadn’t been looking forward to this visit. He was turning to go when the door suddenly opened behind him, with a screech of sticking wood that brought his heart into his mouth.
“Aye?” The man who answered the door squinted at them, eyes swollen in a flushed, heavy face shadowed with unshaven beard.
“Er…We’re sorry to disturb your sleep, sir,” said Roger, making an effort to calm himself. His stomach felt slightly hollow. “We’re looking for a Miss Gillian Edgars. Is this her residence?”
The man rubbed a stubby, black-furred hand over his head, making the hair stick up in belligerent spikes.
“That’s Mrs. Edgars to you, jimmy. And what’s it you want wi’ my wife?” The alcoholic fumes from the man’s breath made Roger want to step backward, but he stood his ground.
“We only want to talk with her,” he said, as conciliatingly as he could. “Is she at home, please?”
“Is she at home, please?” said the man who must be Mr. Edgars, squinching his mouth in a savage, high-pitched mockery of Roger’s Oxford accent. “No, she’s not home. Bugger off,” he advised, and swung the door to with a crash that left the lace curtain shivering with the vibration.
“I can see why she isn’t home,” Claire observed, standing on tiptoe to peer through the window. “I wouldn’t be, either, if that’s what was waiting for me.”
“Quite,” said Roger shortly. “And that would appear to be that. Have you any other suggestions for finding this woman?”
Claire let go of the windowsill.
“He’s settled in front of the telly,” she reported. “Let’s leave him, at least until after the pub’s opened. Meanwhile, we can go try this Institute. Fiona said Gillian Edgars took courses there.”
* * *
The Institute for the Study of Highland Folklore and Antiquities was housed on the top floor of a narrow house just outside the business district. The receptionist, a small, plump woman in a brown cardigan and print dress, seemed delighted to see them; she mustn’t get much company up here, Roger reflected.
“Oh, Mrs. Edgars,” she said, upon