Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [450]
“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Andrews, looking impressed. “Oxford. Just think! I’ll ask Dr. McEwan if he can see you just now.”
As she disappeared behind the white-paneled door, pausing for no more than a perfunctory rap before entering, Roger leaned down to whisper in Claire’s ear.
“There is no such thing as a Department of Antiquities at Oxford,” he hissed, “and you know it.”
“You know that,” she replied demurely, “and I, as you so cleverly point out, do too. But there are any number of people in the world who don’t, and we’ve just met one of them.”
The white-paneled door was beginning to open.
“Let’s hope they’re thick on the ground hereabouts,” Roger said, wiping his brow, “or that you’re a quick liar.”
Claire rose, smiling at the beckoning figure of Mrs. Andrews as she spoke out of the side of her mouth.
“I? I, who read souls for the King of France?” She brushed down her skirt and set it swinging. “This will be pie.”
Roger bowed ironically, gesturing toward the door. “Aprés vous, Madame.”
As she stepped ahead of him, he added, “Aprés vous, le déluge,” under his breath. Her shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t turn around.
* * *
Rather to Roger’s surprise, it was pie. He wasn’t sure whether it was Claire’s skill at misrepresentation, or Dr. McEwan’s own preoccupation, but their bona fides went unquestioned. It didn’t seem to occur to the man that it was highly unlikely for scouting parties from Oxford to penetrate to the wilds of Inverness to make inquiries about the background of a potential graduate student. But then, Roger thought, Dr. McEwan appeared to have something on his mind; perhaps he wasn’t thinking as clearly as usual.
“Weeeel…yes, Mrs. Edgars unquestionably has a fine mind. Very fine,” the Director said, as though convincing himself. He was a tall, spare man, with a long upper lip like a camel’s, which wobbled as he searched hesitantly for each new word. “Have you…has she…that is…” He trailed off, lip twitching, then, “Have you ever actually met Mrs. Edgars?” he finally burst out.
“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,