Dragonfly in Amber 2(390)

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 hearing their business. Roger thought that a sudden note of doubt had crept into Mrs. Andrews’s voice, but she remained bright and cheerful. “Yes,” she said, “she’s a regular member of the Institute, all paid up for her classes. She’s around here quite a bit, is Mrs. Edgars.” A lot more than Mrs. Andrews really cared for, from the sound of it.

“She isn’t here now, by chance, is she?” Claire asked.

Mrs. Andrews shook her head, making the dozens of gray-streaked pincurls dance on her head.

“Oh, no,” she said. “It’s a Monday. Only me and Dr. McEwan are here on the Monday. He’s the Director, you know.” She looked reproachfully at Roger, as though he ought really to have known that. Then, apparently reassured by their evident respectability, she relented slightly.

“If you want to ask about Mrs. Edgars, you should see Dr. McEwan. I’ll just go and tell him you’re here, shall I?”

As she began to ease out from behind her desk, Claire stopped her, leaning forward.

“Have you perhaps got a photograph of Mrs. Edgars?” she asked bluntly. At Mrs. Andrews’s stare of surprise, Claire smiled charmingly, explaining, “We wouldn’t want to waste the Director’s time, if it’s the wrong person, you see.”

Mrs. Andrews mouth dropped open slightly, and she blinked in confusion, but she nodded after a moment, and began fussing round her desk, opening drawers and talking to herself.

“I know they’re here somewhere. I saw them just yesterday, so they can’t have gone far…oh, here!” She bobbed up with a folder of eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs in her hand, and sorted rapidly through them.