Dragonfly in Amber 2(391)

“There,” she said. “That’s her, with one of the digging expeditions, out near town, but you can’t see her face, can you? Let me see if there’s any more…”

She resumed her sorting, muttering to herself, as Roger peered interestedly over Claire’s shoulder at the photograph Mrs. Andrews had laid on the desk. It showed a small group of people standing near a Land-Rover, with a number of burlap sacks and small tools on the ground beside them. It was an impromptu shot, and several of the people were turned away from the camera. Claire’s finger reached out without hesitation, touching the image of a tall girl with long, straight, fair hair hanging halfway down her back. She tapped the photograph and nodded silently to Roger.

“You can’t possibly be sure,” he muttered to her under his breath.

“What’s that, luv?” said Mrs. Andrews, looking up absently over her spectacles. “Oh, you weren’t talking to me. That’s all right, then, I’ve found one a little better. It’s still not her whole face—she’s turned sideways, like—but it’s better nor the other.” She plopped the new picture down on top of the other with a triumphant little splat.

This one showed an older man with half-spectacles and the same fairhaired girl, bent over a table holding what looked like a collection of rusted motor parts to Roger, but which were undoubtedly valuable artifacts. The girl’s hair swung down beside her cheek, and her head was turned toward the older man, but the slant of a short, straight nose, a sweetly rounded chin, and the curve of a beautiful mouth showed clearly. The eye was cast down, hidden under long, thick lashes. Roger repressed the admiring whistle that rose unbidden to his lips. Ancestress or not, she was a real dolly, he thought irreverently.

He glanced at Claire. She nodded, without speaking. She was paler even than usual, and he could see the pulse beating rapidly in her throat, but she thanked Mrs. Andrews with her usual composure.

“Yes, that’s the one. I think perhaps we would like to talk to the Director, if he’s available.”

Mrs. Andrews cast a quick glance at the white-paneled door behind her desk.

“Well, I’ll go and ask for you, dearie. Could I tell him what it’s for, though?”

Roger was opening his mouth, groping for some excuse, when Claire stepped smoothly into the breach.

“We’re from Oxford, actually,” she said. “Mrs. Edgars has applied for a study grant with the Department of Antiquities, and she’d given the Institute as a reference with the rest of her credentials. So, if you wouldn’t mind…?”

“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.