Once away from the claustrophobic confines of the carrel and the proximity of Gillian Edgars's books and folders, Roger began to feel slightly better. Still, the thought of going back into that tiny room, where all Claire's words about her past seemed to echo off the thin partitions…no. He made up his mind. Claire could finish with Dr. McEwan by herself. He passed the carrel quickly, not looking inside, and went through the door that led back to the receptionist's desk.
Mrs. Andrews stared at him as he came in, her spectacles gleaming with concern and curiosity.
"Dear me, Mr. Wakefield. Are ye not feeling just right, then?" Roger rubbed a hand over his face; he must look really ghastly. He smiled weakly at the plump little secretary.
"No, thanks very much. I just got a bit hot back there; thought I'd step down for a little fresh air."
"Oh, aye." The secretary nodded understandingly. "The radiators." She pronounced it "raddiators." "They get stuck on, ye know, and won't turn off. I'd best see about it." She rose from her desk, where the picture of Gillian Edgars still rested. She glanced down at the picture, then up at Roger.
"Isn't that odd?" she said conversationally. "I was just looking at this and wondering what it was about Mrs. Edgars's face that struck me all of a sudden. And I couldn't think what it was. But she's quite a look of you, Mr. Wakefield—especially round the eyes. Isn't that a coincidence? Mr. Wakefield?" Mrs. Andrews stared in the direction of the stair, where the thump of Roger's footsteps echoed from the wooden risers.
"Taken a bit short, I expect," she said kindly. "Poor lad."
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."
After Claire excused herself to run her unspecified "errand"—making Roger shudder only slightly—he and Brianna had driven to the pub, but then decided to wait for their supper, since the evening was unexpectedly fine. They strolled down the narrow walk by the River Ness, and he had forgotten his misgivings about the evening in the pleasure of Brianna's company.
They talked carefully at first, avoiding anything controversial. Then the chat turned to Roger's work, and grew gradually more animated.
"And how do you know so much about it, anyway?" Roger demanded, breaking off in the middle of a sentence.
"My father taught me," she replied. At the word "father," she stiffened a bit, and drew back, as though expecting him to say something. "My real father," she added pointedly.
"Well, he certainly knew," Roger replied mildly, leaving the challenge strictly alone. Plenty of time for that later, my girl, he thought cynically. But it isn't going to be me that springs the trap.
Just down the street, Roger could see a light in the window of the Edgars's house. The quarry was denned, then. He felt an unexpected surge of adrenaline at the thought of the coming confrontation.
Adrenaline lost out to the surge of gastric juices that resulted when they stepped into the pub's savory atmosphere, redolent of shepherd's pie. Conversation was general and friendly, with an unspoken agreement to avoid any reference to the scene at the manse the day before. Roger had noticed the coolness between Claire and her daughter, before he had left her at the cab stand on their way to the pub. Seated side by side in the backseat, they had reminded him of two strange cats, ears laid flat and tails twitching, but both avoiding the eye-locking stare that would lead to claws and flying fur.
After dinner, Brianna fetched their coats while he paid the bill.
"What's that for?" she asked, noticing the bottle of whisky in his hand. "Planning a rave-up for later on?"
"Rave-up?" he said, grinning at her. "You are getting on, aren't you? And what else have you picked up in your linguistic studies?"
She cast her eyes down in exaggerated demureness.
"Oh, well. There's a dance in the States, called the Shag. I gather I shouldn't ask you to do it with me here, though."
"Not unless you mean it," he said. They both laughed, but he thought the flush on her cheeks had deepened, and he was conscious of a certain stirring at the suggestion that made him keep his coat hung over one arm instead of putting it on.
"Well, after enough of that stuff, anything's possible," she said, indicating the whisky bottle with a mildly malicious smile. "Terrible taste, though."
"It's acquired, lassie," Roger informed her, letting his accent broaden. "Only Scots are born wi' it. I'll buy ye a bottle of your own to practice with. This one's a gift, though—something I promised to leave off. Want to come along, or shall I do it later?" he asked. He didn't know whether he wanted her to come or not, but felt a surge of happiness when she nodded and shrugged into her own coat.
"Sure, why not?"
"Good." He reached out and delicately turned down the flap of her collar, so it lay flat on her shoulder. "It's just down the street—let's walk, shall we?"
The neighborhood looked a little better at night. Some of its shabbiness was hidden by the darkness, and the lights glowing from windows into the tiny front gardens gave the street an air of coziness that it lacked during the day.