Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [4]
Tucking my handbag firmly under my arm, I marched into the shop and bought the vases.
* * *
I met Frank at the crossing of the High Street and the Gereside Road and we turned up it together. He raised his eyebrows at my purchases.
“Vases?” He smiled. “Wonderful. Perhaps now you’ll stop putting flowers in my books.”
“They aren’t flowers, they’re specimens. And it was you who suggested I take up botany. To occupy my mind, now that I’ve not got nursing to do,” I reminded him.
“True.” He nodded good-humoredly. “But I didn’t realize I’d have bits of greenery dropping out into my lap every time I opened a reference. What was that horrible crumbly brown stuff you put in Tuscum and Banks?”
“Groutweed. Good for hemorrhoids.”
“Preparing for my imminent old age, are you? Well, how very thoughtful of you, Claire.”
We pushed through the gate, laughing, and Frank stood back to let me go first up the narrow front steps.
Suddenly he caught my arm. “Look out! You don’t want to step in it.”
I lifted my foot gingerly over a large brownish-red stain on the top step.
“How odd,” I said. “Mrs. Baird scrubs the steps down every morning; I’ve seen her. What do you suppose that can be?”
Frank leaned over the step, sniffing delicately.
“Offhand, I should say that it’s blood.”
“Blood!” I took a step back into the entryway. “Whose?” I glanced nervously into the house. “Do you suppose Mrs. Baird’s had an accident of some kind?” I couldn’t imagine our immaculate landlady leaving bloodstains to dry on her doorstep unless some major catastrophe had occurred, and wondered just for a moment whether the parlor might be harboring a crazed ax-murderer, even now preparing to spring out on us with a spine-chilling shriek.
Frank shook his head. He stood on tiptoe to peer over the hedge into the next garden.
“I shouldn’t think so. There’s a stain like it on the Collinses’ doorstep as well.”
“Really?” I drew closer to Frank, both to see over the hedge and for moral support. The Highlands hardly seemed a likely spot for a mass murderer, but then I doubted such persons used any sort of logical criteria when picking their sites. “That’s rather…disagreeable,” I observed. There was no sign of life from the next residence. “What do you suppose has happened?”
Frank frowned, thinking, then slapped his hand briefly against his trouser leg in inspiration.
“I think I know! Wait here a moment.” He darted out to the gate and set off down the road at a trot, leaving me stranded on the edge of the doorstep.
He was back shortly, beaming with confirmation.
“Yes, that’s it, it must be. Every house in the row has had it.”
“Had what? A visit from a homicidal maniac?” I spoke a bit sharply, still nervous at having been abruptly abandoned with nothing but a large bloodstain for company.
Frank laughed. “No, a ritual sacrifice. Fascinating!” He was down on his hands and knees in the grass, peering interestedly at the stain.
This hardly sounded better than a homicidal maniac. I squatted beside him, wrinkling my nose at the smell. It was early for flies, but a couple of the big, slow-moving Highland midges circled the stain.
“What do you mean, ‘ritual sacrifice’?” I demanded. “Mrs. Baird’s a good church-goer, and so are all the neighbors. This isn’t Druid’s Hill or anything, you know.”
He stood, brushing grass-ends from his trousers. “That’s all you know, my girl,” he said. “There’s no place on earth with more of the old superstitions and magic mixed into its daily life than the Scottish Highlands. Church or no church, Mrs. Baird believes in the Old Folk, and so do all the neighbors.” He pointed at the stain with one neatly polished toe. “The blood of a black cock,” he explained, looking pleased. “The houses are new, you see. Pre-fabs.”
I looked at him coldly. “If you are under the impression that that explains everything, think again. What difference does it make how old the houses are? And where on earth is everybody?”
“Down the