Dragonfly In Amber

“Not at all, not at all!” he said heartily. “I was just wanting a break. Won’t you come in?”

He waved the two women down the hall toward the Reverend’s study, noting that as well as being moderately attractive, the daughter was one of the tallest girls he’d ever seen close-to. She had to be easily six feet, he thought, seeing her head even with the top of the hall stand as she passed. He unconsciously straightened himself as he followed, drawing up to his full six feet three. At the last moment, he ducked, to avoid banging his head on the study lintel as he followed the women into the room.

“I’d meant to come before,” said Claire, settling herself deeper in the huge wing chair. The fourth wall of the Reverend’s study was equipped with floor-to-ceiling windows, and the sunlight winked off the pearl clip in her light-brown hair. The curls were begi

“I’d arranged to come last year, in fact, and then there was an emergency at the hospital in Boston – I’m a doctor,” she explained, mouth curling a little at the look of surprise Roger hadn’t quite managed to conceal. “But I’m sorry that we didn’t; I would have liked so much to see your father again.”

Roger rather wondered why they had come now, knowing the Reverend was dead, but it seemed impolite to ask. Instead, he asked, “Enjoying a bit of sightseeing, are you?”

“Yes, we drove up from London,” Claire answered. She smiled at her daughter. “I wanted Bree to see the country; you wouldn’t think it to hear her talk, but she’s as English as I am, though she’s never lived here.”

“Really?” Roger glanced at Bria

“I was born in America,” Bria

“Were?”

“My husband died two years ago,” Claire explained. “You knew him, I think – Frank Randall.”

“Frank Randall! Of course!” Roger smacked himself on the forehead, and felt his cheeks grow hot at Bria

The name explained a lot; Frank Randall had been an eminent historian, and a good friend of the Reverend’s; they had exchanged bits of Jacobite arcana for years, though it was at least ten years since Frank Randall had last visited the manse.

“So – you’ll be visiting the historical sites near Inverness?” Roger hazarded. “Have you been to Culloden yet?”

“Not yet,” Bria

“We’re booked for a trip down Loch Ness this afternoon,” Claire explained. “And perhaps we’ll drive down to Fort William tomorrow, or just poke about in Inverness; the place has grown a lot since I was last here.”

“When was that?” Roger wondered whether he ought to volunteer his services as tour guide. He really shouldn’t take the time, but the Randalls had been good friends of the Reverend’s. Besides, a car trip to Fort William in company with two attractive women seemed a much more appealing prospect than cleaning out the garage, which was next on his list.

“Oh, more than twenty years ago. It’s been a long time.” There was an odd note in Claire’s voice that made Roger glance at her, but she met his eyes with a smile.

“Well,” he ventured, “if there’s anything I can do for you, while you’re in the Highlands…”

Claire was still smiling, but something in her face changed. He could almost think she had been waiting for an opening. She glanced at Bria

“Since you mention it,” she said, her smile broadening.

“Oh, Mother!” Bria

“Oh, no bother at all!” Roger protested. “Er… what is it?”

Claire shot her daughter a quelling look. “I wasn’t pla

Roger leaned forward, interested. “Jacobites?” he said. “That period’s not one of my specialties, but I do know a bit – hard not to, living so close to Culloden. That’s where the final battle was, you know,” he explained to Bria

“Right,” said Claire. “And that, in fact, has to do with what I want to find out.” She reached into her handbag and drew out a folded paper.

Roger opened it and sca

“Oh, the ’45?” Roger said. “These men fought at Culloden, did they?”

“They did,” Claire replied. “What I want to find out is – how many of the men on this list survived that battle?”

Roger rubbed his chin as he perused the list. “That’s a simple question,” he said, “but the answer might be hard to find. So many of the Highland clansmen who followed Prince Charles were killed on Culloden Field that they weren’t buried individually. They were put into mass graves, with no more than a single stone bearing the clan name as a marker.”

“I know,” Claire said. “Bria

She unfolded several more typed sheets and handed them to him. A long white finger ran down the margin of one sheet. Beautiful hands, Roger noted; delicately molded, carefully kept, with a single ring on each hand. The silver one on her right hand was especially striking; a wide Jacobean band in the Highland interlace pattern, embellished with thistle blossoms.

“These are the names of the wives, so far as I know them. I thought that might help, since if the husbands were killed at Culloden, you’d likely find these women remarrying or emigrating afterward. Those records would surely be in the parish register? They’re all from the same parish; the church was in Broch Mordha – it’s a good bit south of here.”

“That’s a very helpful idea,” Roger said, mildly surprised. “It’s the sort of thing an historian would think of.”

“I’m hardly an historian,” Claire Randall said dryly. “On the other hand, when you live with one, you do pick up the occasional odd thought.”

“Of course.” A thought struck Roger, and he rose from his chair. “I’m being a terrible host; please, let me get you a drink, and then you can tell me a bit more about this. Perhaps I could help you with it myself.”

Despite the disorder, he knew where the decanters were kept, and quickly had his guests supplied with whisky. He’d put quite a lot of soda in Bria

“Well.” Roger resumed his seat and picked up the paper again. “It’s an interesting problem, in terms of historical research. You said these men came from the same parish? I suppose they came from a single clan or sept – I see a number of them were named Fraser.”