Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [287]
Very quietly, he began to make what preparations he could. And in the evenings, when the fog rolled in off the river, he sought distraction from his thoughts, playing draughts with Fiona, going to the pub with Ernie, and—as a last resort—having another bash at the dozens of boxes that still crammed the old garage.
The garage had an air of sinister miracle about it; the boxes seemed to multiply like the loaves and fishes—every time he opened the door, there were more of them. He’d probably finish the job of sorting his late father’s effects just before being carried out feetfirst himself, he thought. Still, for the moment, the boring work was a godsend, dulling his mind enough to keep him from fretting himself to pieces in the waiting. Some nights, he even slept.
“You’ve got a picture on your desk.” Fiona didn’t look at him, but kept her attention riveted on the dishes she was clearing.
“Lots of them.” Roger took a cautious mouthful of tea; hot and fresh, but not scalding. How did she do that? “Is there one you want? I know there are a few snaps of your grannie—you’re more than welcome, though I’d like one to keep.”
She did look up at that, mildly startled.
“Oh. Of Grannie? Aye, our Da’ll like to see those. But it’s the big one I meant.”
“Big one?” Roger tried to think which photo she could mean; most of them were black-and-white snapshots taken with the Reverend’s ancient Brownie, but there were a couple of the larger cabinet photos—one of his parents, another of the Reverend’s grandmother, looking like a pterodactyl in black bombazine, taken on the occasion of that lady’s hundredth birthday. Fiona couldn’t possibly mean those.
“Of her that kilt her husband and went away.” Fiona’s mouth compressed.
“Her that—oh.” Roger took a deep gulp of tea. “You mean Gillian Edgars.”
“Her,” Fiona repeated stubbornly. “Why’ve you got a photo of her?”
Roger set the cup down and picked up the morning paper, affecting casualness as he wondered what to say.
“Oh—someone gave it to me.”
“Who?”
Fiona was normally persistent, but seldom so direct. What was troubling her?
“Mrs. Randall—Dr. Randall, I mean. Why?”
Fiona didn’t reply, but pressed her lips tight shut.
Roger had by now abandoned all interest in the paper. He laid it down carefully.
“Did you know her?” he said. “Gillian Edgars?”
Fiona didn’t answer directly, but turned aside, fiddling with the tea cozy.
“You’ve been up to the standing stones on Craigh na Dun; Joycie said her Albert saw ye comin’ down when he was drivin’ to Drumnadrochit Thursday.”
“I have, yes. No crime in that, is there?” He tried to make a joke of it, but Fiona wasn’t having any.
“Ye know it’s a queer place, all circles are. And don’t be tellin’ me ye went up there to admire the view.”
“I wouldn’t tell you that.”
He sat back in his chair, looking up at her. Her curly dark hair was standing on end; she rumpled her hands through it when she was agitated, and agitated she surely was.
“You do know her. That’s right; Claire said you’d met her.” The small flicker of curiosity he had felt at the mention of Gillian Edgars was growing into a clear flame of excitement.
“I canna be knowing her, now, can I? She’s dead.” Fiona scooped up the empty egg cup, eyes fixed on the discarded fragments of shell. “Isn’t she?”
Roger reached out and stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Is she?”
“It’s what everyone thinks. The police havena found a trace of her.” The word came out “polis” in her soft Highland accent.
“Perhaps they’re not looking in the right place.”
All the blood drained out of her flushed, fair face. Roger tightened his grip, though she wasn’t trying to pull away. She knew, dammit, she knew! But what did she know?
“Tell me, Fiona,” he said. “Please—tell me. What do you know about Gillian Edgars—and the stones?”
She did pull away from him then, but didn’t leave, just stood there, turning the egg cup over and over in her hands, as if it were a miniature hourglass. Roger stood up, and she shied back,