The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [104]
“I don’t suppose they’d be trying to keep him from hearing someone’s confession? Someone in particular, I mean?” Roger sounded doubtful, but Jamie took the idea and turned it round in his hands, considering.
“They’d no objection to his hearing mine. And I shouldna think they’d care if a Catholic was in mortal sin or not, as by their lights, we’re all damned anyway. But if they kent someone desperately needed confession, and they thought there was something to be gained by it . . .”
“That whoever it was might pay for access to the priest?” I asked skeptically. “Really, Jamie, these are Scots. I should imagine that if it were a question of paying out hard money for a priest, your Scottish Catholic murderer or adulterer would just say an Act of Contrition and hope for the best.”
Jamie snorted slightly, and I saw the white mist of his breath purl round his head like candle smoke; it was getting colder.
“I daresay,” he said dryly. “And if Lillywhite had any thought of setting up in the confession business, he’s left it a bit late in the day to make much profit. But what if it wasna a matter of stopping someone’s confession—but rather only of making sure that they overheard it?”
Roger uttered a pleased grunt, evidently thinking this a promising supposition.
“Blackmail? Aye, that’s a thought,” he said, with approval. Blood will out, I thought; Oxford-educated or not, there was little doubt that Roger was a Scot. There was a violent upheavel under his arm, followed by a wail from Jemmy. Roger glanced down.
“Oh, did ye drop your bawbee? Where’s it gone, then?” He hoicked Jemmy up onto his shoulder like a bundle of laundry and squatted down, poking at the ground in search of the watch chain, which Jemmy had evidently hurled into the darkness.
“Blackmail? I think that’s a trifle far-fetched,” I objected, rubbing a hand under my nose, which had begun to drip. “You mean they might suspect that Farquard Campbell, for instance, had committed some dreadful crime, and if they knew about it for sure, they could hold him up about it? Isn’t that awfully devious thinking? If you find a pin down there, Roger, it’s mine.”
“Well, Lillywhite and Anstruther are Englishmen, are they not?” Jamie said, with a delicate sarcasm that made Roger laugh. “Deviousness and double-dealing come naturally to that race, no, Sassenach?”
“Oh, rubbish,” I said tolerantly. “Pot calling the kettle black isn’t in it. Besides, they didn’t try to overhear your confession.”
“I havena got anything to be blackmailed for,” Jamie pointed out, though it was perfectly obvious that he was only arguing for the fun of it.
“Even so,” I began, but was interrupted by Jemmy, who was becoming increasingly restive, flinging himself to and fro with intermittent steam-whistle shrieks. Roger grunted, pinched something gingerly between his fingers, and stood up.
“Found your pin,” he said. “No sign of the chain, though.”
“Someone will find it in the morning,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the increasing racket. “Perhaps you’d better let me take him.” I reached for the baby, and Roger surrendered his burden with a distinct air of relief—explained when I got a whiff of Jemmy’s diaper.
“Not again?” I said. Apparently taking this as a personal reproach, he shut his eyes and started to howl like an air-raid siren.
“Where is Bree?” I asked, trying simultaneously to cradle him reassuringly and to keep him at a sanitary distance. “Ouch!” He seemed to have taken advantage of the darkness to grow a number of extra limbs, all of which were flailing or grabbing.
“Oh, she’s just gone to run a wee errand,” Roger said, with an air of vagueness that made Jamie turn his head sharply. The light caught him in profile, and I saw the thick red brows drawn down in suspicion. Fire gleamed off the long, straight