* * *
The sun was still above the horizon when Claire rejoined him on the street, but it was late in the day; people were going home to their tea, and there was a feeling of general relaxation in the air—a looking forward to leisured peace after the long day’s work.
Roger himself had no such feeling. He moved to open the car door for Claire, conscious of such a mix of emotions that he couldn’t decide what to say first. She got in, glancing up at him sympathetically.
“Rather a jar, isn’t it?” was all she said.
The fiendish maze of new one-way streets made getting through the town center a task that demanded all his attention. They were well on their way before he could take his eyes off the road long enough to ask, “What next?”
Claire was leaning back in her seat, eyes closed, the tendrils of her hair coming loose from their clip. She didn’t open her eyes at his question, but stretched slightly, easing herself in the seat.
“Why don’t you ask Brianna out for supper somewhere?” she said. Supper? Somehow it seemed subtly wrong to stop for supper in the midst of a life-or-death detective endeavor, but on the other hand, Roger was suddenly aware that the hollowness in his stomach wasn’t entirely due to the revelations of the last hour.
“Well, all right,” he said slowly. “But then tomorrow—”
“Why wait ’til tomorrow?” Claire broke in. She was sitting up now, combing out her hair. It was thick and unruly, and loosed swirling on her shoulders, Roger thought it made her look suddenly very young. “You can go talk to Greg Edgars again after supper, can’t you?”
“How do you know his name is Greg?” Roger asked curiously. “And if he wouldn’t talk to me this afternoon, why should he tonight?”
Claire looked at Roger as though suddenly doubting his basic intelligence.
“I know his name because I saw it on a letter in his mailbox,” she said. “As for why he’ll talk to you tonight, he’ll talk to you because you’re going to take along a bottle of whisky when you come this time.”
“And you think that will make him invite us in?”
She lifted one brow. “Did you see the collection of empty bottles in his waste bin? Of course he will. Like a shot.” She sat back, fists thrust into the pockets of her coat, and stared out at the passing street.
“You might see if Brianna will go with you,” she said casually.
“She said she isn’t having anything to do with this,” Roger objected.
Claire glanced at him impatiently. The sun was setting behind her, and it made her eyes glow amber, like a wolf’s.
“In that case, I suggest you don’t tell her what you’re up to,” she said, in a tone that made Roger remember that she was chief of staff at a large hospital.
His ears burned, but he stubbornly said, “You can’t very well hide it, if you and I—”
“Not me,” Claire interrupted. “You. I have something else to do.”
This was too much, Roger thought. He pulled the car over without signaling and skidded to a stop at the side of the road. He glared at her.
“Something else to do, have you?” he demanded. “I like that! You’re landing me with the job of trying to entice a drunken sot who will likely assault me on sight, and luring your daughter along to watch! What, do you think she’ll be needed to drive me to hospital after Edgars has finished beating me over the head with a bottle?”
“No,” Claire said, ignoring his tone. “I think you and Greg Edgars together may succeed where I couldn’t, in convincing Bree that Gillian Edgars is the woman I knew as Geillis Duncan. She won’t listen to me. She likely won’t listen to you, either, if you try to tell her what we found at the Institute today. But she’ll listen to Greg Edgars.” Her tone was flat and grim, and Roger felt his annoyance ebbing slightly. He started the car once more, and pulled out into the stream of traffic.
“All right, I’ll try,” he said grudgingly, not looking at her. “And just where are you going to be, while I do this?”
There was a small, shuffling movement alongside as she groped in her pocket again. Then she drew out her hand and opened it. His eye caught the silvery gleam of a small object in the darkness of her palm. A key.
“I’m going to burgle the Institute,” she said calmly. “I want that notebook.”