A Voice from the Past

By Lady of Spain

Chapter 1: Vanished

Disclaimer: D. Gabaldon owns all rights to Outlander

It was heaven, being surrounded by all these historical documents and ephemera. He could sit here all day with the vicar, perusing the papers. It was a treasure trove, and his head was immersed in it most joyfully. He almost felt guilty telling Claire to borrow Mrs. Baird's car to return to the stones alone to see about that little blue flower she had plucked. It was obvious to him as well as Reverend Wakefield's caretaker, that his poor wife was bored to tears with all the genealogy, and endless reams of written history. What excited him was not necessarily fascinating to Claire. In any case, she could get some fresh air, away from these musty smelling stacks. Besides, he told himself, the curious forget-me-not or whatever the bloody hell that blossom was, seemed to appeal to her sense as an amateur botanist.

Reveling in every new piece of information, the time flew by. Mrs. Graham offered to have him stay for dinner, but Claire would be waiting at the bed and breakfast. Frank declined politely, took up his hat, and left, pledging to come back in the morning.

On the way home, in a burst of spontaneity, he stopped at a flower shop, and bought a bouquet of Gerber daisies and baby's breath. After all, this was their second honeymoon. It wasn't fair to her that he spent most of his time in a stuffy room with an old vicar. He'd take her out tomorrow evening; someplace nice, secluded, with good food, and a bottle of their best wine. Whistling, he headed toward the building, and a quiet night with his beloved wife.

As he got to the hostel, he noticed a police vehicle parked outside the front entrance. Perhaps the men had just dropped by for a spot of tea and biscuits?

He reached the registration desk, and there was Mrs. Baird in an agitated state, gesturing wildly at the two uniformed gentleman. Frank wondered if someone had nicked the silverware, or snuck out the rear exit without settling his account. Ah, well, it was none of his concern.

He arrived at their room, but had to unlock the door himself. That was peculiar. Why hadn't Claire opened it for him? He entered, glancing around, and placed the flowers on the highboy.

"Claire," he called out, while removing his necktie. "Sorry I'm late. I was just so embroiled in all the records that Reverend Wakefield had at his fingertips that the time slipped away from me. I'll make it up to you tomorrow night. I promise." Oddly, there was no answer, only silence.

"Claire …?"

His stomach clenched, and he began to feel uneasy. The loo was empty. Furthermore, on inspection, the suite appeared as if nothing had been touched since the maids cleaned the room. Surely, his wife would have returned from Craigh na Dun by now. She could possibly be shopping somewhere, but most of the shops had closed at this hour. He had barely squeezed into the one for the flowers, mere minutes before closing time.

Peering into the wardrobe, he scrutinized its contents. If she had inexplicably left him, shouldn't her bag and clothing be missing?

Everything remained exactly as he and Claire left it this morning. Flinging his tie onto a nearby chair, he sat, dumbfounded, on the edge of the mattress. Just then, a knock at the door jolted him out of his reverie.

Mrs. Baird stood in the doorway. She was flushed; her hair disheveled, and her hands fidgeting, fretfully. "Is there something I can do for you, Mrs. Baird?"

"Aye … weel, it seems yer wife hasn't returned wi' my car. The constable has sent out a search party to find her, and I was hopin' ye could shed some light on where she might be."

Frank lowered his face into his palms. "It's true then? My wife's gone missing?"

"I believe so. Can ye tell me anathin' that might help?"

He glanced up at her, scarcely forcing the words out; his throat was constricted so tautly. "She went out this morning to the standing stones. They should look there first."

"I see. Ye just sit tight, Dr. Randall, I'll let the police know. I'm sure the car broke down or some such thing. They'll find yer missus, and she'll be right as rain."

The devastated husband attempted a smile, but it was a poor effort. "Yes, I'm certain that's all it is. Thank you, Mrs. Baird."

A policeman came by about an hour later with the news. "Sorry to bother ye, Dr. Randall, but I'm afraid I have some bad tidin's. We found the car at the foot of the standin' stones, just as ye said, but there was nigh a sign of yer wife. It appears there might have been some foul play. I hate to ask ye this question, but can ye tell me yer whereabouts for the last sixteen hours?"

Frank shot up from his seat. Did the police actually think he had murdered her, and hidden the body? "Are you suggesting that I had something to do with her disappearance? That's … that's just rubbish. I love my wife."

He nervously rubbed his chin. "You can talk with Reverend Wakefield. He can corroborate my story as to how I spent the day. I spent it in his study. He and Mrs. Graham were witnesses to that fact."

Pointing a finger at the man, Frank shouted, "You should be out looking for her instead of accusing me of some heinous crime. She has to be somewhere. People don't just vanish without a trace.

"There are many things that could have occurred. Perchance she fell and hit her head. She could be delirious, wandering about on the road as we speak."

The man conceded Frank's point. "I'll take that under consideration, sir. In the meantime, I wouldna skip town for a few days whilst we sort this out."

"I don't intend to go anywhere without my wife," Randall huffed.

"I'll leave ye to it, then?"

"Yes."

"I'll be off. G'night to ye."

It decidedly was not a good night, and never would be again until he had Claire at his side.

Frank called the Reverend the next day after a sleepless night, to explain what had happened. It was a moot point since the officer in charge of the investigation had been to the vicarage asking questions.

He hung up the phone, got dressed, and took off in his car, his destination clearly in mind.

The monoliths quietly stood, holding the secret of his wife's disappearance. He scoured the area, looking for a clue; anything that would shed light on her location. Nothing! His frustration and fear were beginning to boil over. Where was she? Why couldn't these bumbling numbskulls find her? Wasn't that what they were paid to do?

A week passed, and every day—twice a day—Frank called the police station, only to be told the same … nothing. His brain was taxed, trying mightily to ascertain the possible causes of Claire's mysterious departure. If she'd been kidnapped, a ransom note would most assuredly have arrived by this time. If, heaven forbid, she was dead, why hadn't her remains turned up? His emotions got the best of him at that thought, and tears welled up in his eyes.

This trip to Scotland began as a second honeymoon, a time to reconnect after a horrendous war. And now, another separation for no apparent reason had split them asunder. It was too much to bear.

He buried himself in the pile of documents at Reverend Wakefield's in the hopes of putting this situation out of his mind. He left early one day, and visited the police station. After being told there were no new leads, he exploded. "Why can't you double your efforts? My wife has been missing now for eleven days. Maybe I should hire my own detectives, since your party seems incompetent."

Tapping a pencil on the lip of his desk, the officer replied, "Now, see here, Dr. Randall, I understand how upsettin' this has been for ye, but we're doin' everythin' in our power to find the woman."

"And obviously, everything you've done appears to be lacking. I want results; I have to return to the University in five more days, and I refuse to leave without a jot of what's happened to Claire."

The man pushed his chair out behind him, and stood. "I think ye should go, sir, before we both say things in haste."

"I'll go, but when I return, you had better have some scrap of information to tell me." He stomped off, seething.

Mrs. Graham entered the study with tea and scones accompanied with a dish of clotted cream. She set it down, and said, "Dr. Randall, when ye've finished yer tea, I'd like to have a word wi' ye, if I may."

He was not in the mood, but the poor woman looked so sincere in approaching him, that he acquiesced.

They sat down at a small table across from each other. "What I'm about to tell ye, may seem strange, but I can't hold my tongue any longer. Ye say yer wife went to the stones at Craigh na Dun."

He nodded. "That is correct."

"Weel, surely ye've heard the legends."

"Of course, but what have they to do with Claire?"

She grabbed his hand. "Think about this, Dr. Randall. What if the legends are true? What if Claire traveled through the stones, and is now trapped in another time; in the past."

"Rubbish. There has to be some other explanation besides this fairy story."

"But don't ye see? What is the other explanation?"

He sighed. "And you believe this?"

"I do. I've heard stories of people disappearing, and then returning. On interrogation, their families thought they were off their trolleys, but all of them? I might say that would be too much of a coincidence, don't ye think?"

"This is too fantastic to be believable. I don't mean to offend you, but I can't accept this premise as fact."

"Ye're entitled to yer opinion, I suppose, but I wouldn't leave any stone unturned—these stones in particular."

She patted his hand, then started to withdraw. "If ye'll excuse me, I'd best get the tea things cleaned op."

"I thank you for your concern."

"Ye're very welcome, but think about what I told ye. Oh … and if ye please, don't mention our wee chat to the Reverend. He doesn't agree wi' the stories either."

# # # # #

Frank must've been out of his mind with worry. And I did try to get back to him, but at every turn, Dougall or some of the others would thwart my plans. Bloody hell, I couldn't get away. Even that ginger haired lad stopped me once or twice, but at least Jamie MacTavish afforded me a modicum of respect. If I didn't know any better I'd swear he had some feelings for me. It was obvious that Dougall did, albeit, the wrong kind of feelings. He'd just as soon grind my corn as it were, as to look at me.

I repeated my cover story to any inquisitive person who asked, and Colum, the so-called Laird of Castle Leoch, after listening to my fabricated yarn, agreed that I should accompany the itinerant tinker to Inverness and continue my passage to France. As luck would have it, when the tinker arrived, Himself sought an audience with me, and prevented my egress by soliciting my presence here—indefinitely, I might add. I was vested with the honored responsibility of becoming the resident healer.

Did my ears deceive me? The blustering oaf reneged on his sworn word. I held my temper, biting my tongue on the chance that he would see reason. "But your lordship, you specifically promised to allow me to finish my journey to France."

"Aye, and now circumstances have arisen as negate that promise. It is nay mean task to acquire a healer wi' such proficiency as yerself."

"Am I to understand that I have no say in the matter?"

"Och … ye can say all ye wish. It will no sway my decision. Ye'll stay here at my pleasure 'til such time as I release ye from yer most welcome service."

I curtsied demurely, in contrast to the vitriol in my bowels. I desperately wanted to throttle the man. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Frank was farther from me than ever before. Fool that I was, I should have guessed that a Sassenach in the midst of a pack of Highlanders would be suspect. I was a virtual prisoner within the walls of the castle. The surgery would become my own personal dungeon.

On the way to my room, I bumped into Jamie.

His brow furrowed. "Sassenach, the tinker didna wait for yer return. Are ye no goin' then?"

Still feeling the effects of that odious man, I breathed out, "It doesn't appear so. His mighty lordship has other plans for me."

"Ah … I see. And what plans would those be?"

"You are looking at the newly appointed chief of staff."

His expression changed to one of confusion. "I'm sorry, I dinna take yer meanin'."

"I mean, that I'll be managing more bandages than yours."

A grin spread across his face.

I hissed at him, "Well, I'm glad to see someone is happy about my nomination."

Leaning against the wall with one elbow, he cheekily declared, "Och … I love the way yer face burns crimson when ye're in such a state."

"Get out of my way, Mr. MacTavish, before I do you bodily harm. Your goddamned cheerfulness is gnawing at my nerves."

"I didna mean to upset ye further. It's only as I'm verra pleased as ye'll be stayin' a bit longer."

"Not if I can help it …" I muttered, brushing him aside.