* * *
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.
“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.