The Edinburgh Dead

by Brian Ruckley

  A ripple of amusement tumbled down the steeply raked gallery of seating. His students knew the shape of this theme. They had heard it often enough before, and it was one that seldom proved less than entertaining.

  “You have escaped, some of you all too briefly, from under the dead hand of the university. These men they call lecturers and professors”—Knox gestured at the wall with his blade, sending their imaginations out beyond the Royal Infirmary, over the tenement roofs, to where the great college of the university lay—“they rest upon laurels earned by those now dead. They rely upon the notes of men who gave the same lectures, word for word, thirty years ago. There is no movement. And thus they allow the torch that they inherited to falter, its flame to dim.”

  He lowered his voice at last, surveying his assembled acolytes with one final sweep of his distinguished head.

  “Not here, gentlemen. Here we still pursue the mysteries. Here we still stride forward, admitting of no restraint that lesser mortals might seek to set upon our advancement of human knowledge. So. Let us see what discoveries await us this evening, shall we?”

  He bent over the dead woman and set his scalpel to her throat. A pause. An expectant hush. Then, with a single firm and unerring movement, he cut her open from neck to stomach.

  “I’ve a sworn statement that you were seen in the company of whores, Quire.”

  There was a lascivious looseness to the way Acting Superintendent Baird said the words. He savoured their feel in his mouth far too much. Quire stared back at the man, not bothering to conceal his distaste.

  Baird occupied like a thief the seat in which James Robinson had so recently sat, Quire thought. A usurper, entirely too enamoured of the authority he had stolen. Delighting too much in its exercise, as men so often did when they were not truly deserving of the power they wielded. The less they had done to earn it, the more it pleased them to display it.

  “Who’s done the swearing?” Quire asked.

  The dead weight of his voice should have been a warning to anyone alert to such things, but Baird was not one such.

  “Not your concern. The truth of it, that’s what you should be pondering.”

  “Have I no right to know my accuser, then?”

  “This isn’t a court of law,” Baird scoffed. “It’s a matter of discipline. You’ve breached the regulations of your employment, and for that I’m your judge and the Police Board your jury.”

  Quire knew then that he was caught. A fish in a net, and all his thrashing would do nothing but wind him more tightly in the mesh. He had sensed trouble, without knowing its shape, as soon he got back to the police house, to be greeted by the message that Baird required his immediate presence.

  Until then, the day had been quieter than most of his recent experience. He had woken, still aching and stiff from his exertions at Cold Burn Farm, after sleeping fitfully through the best part of a full day and night. He had half expected to be roused by the sound of men, or hounds, at his door, come to put an end to him. Instead, it had been the cries of a gypsy woman out on the Canongate, proclaiming the luck-giving properties of the sprigs of heather she had for sale.

  He spared only a few moments to take the edge from his bleary-eyed, dishevelled state. A splash of cold water across his face; a passing glance in the cracked mirror he used for shaving, revealing the tracery of scratches laid across his cheeks; a comb tugged painfully through his grimy hair.

  He had not gone directly to the police house. Instead, he had walked almost the whole length of the city, to Melville Street. He wanted to see if his visit to Cold Burn Farm had brought some change, or commotion, to the place. And, if he was honest, to try to clear his mind of the numb bewilderment that threatened to engulf it. He did not know how to oppose that which Davey Muir had become, nor hounds that knew neither death nor life. But a man, living a life like all his neighbours in the New Town; that he could oppose.

  It had been fruitless, though. The mute façade of that grand house had stared back at him, lifeless and impenetrable as the obdurate wall of a castle. He could not, it seemed, reach those sequestered within; could not draw them out to meet them upon his own territory. He would find a way, though. He knew that if he worked away at the mortar hard enough, he could break out the stones in that wall and see what lay beyond.

  So he had thought, in any case, until this moment. This ambuscade.

  “If there’s been some spy dogging my footsteps, I’d like to know of it,” he said tightly to Baird.

  Who snorted in dismissive contempt.

  “Never mind your bruised feelings. Do you deny it? That’s the question, Quire. Are you going to tell me you were not in the company of a whore on the High Street, plain as day, on the very morning of Superintendent Robinson’s dismissal?”

  That left Quire mute for a moment or two. The denial, if he was to offer it, had to come at once to his lips. He needed to snap it out unhesitatingly, with all the force he could muster. But he did not. The breath he needed to utter it faltered in his throat, snared for that instant in the thought of Catherine, and his sudden reluctance to so casually repudiate her. Not in a cause that he knew was already lost. He would not give Baird the satisfaction.

  “No, you don’t.” Baird smiled. “Of course you don’t. No point to it. And it’s not even the first time, is it? The very same woman who so nearly put an end to your career once already. Robinson might’ve saved you from the consequences of your indiscretions before, Quire, but I will not. You can be assured of that.”

  “I’d never have doubted it.”

  “You know that any man of the city police who consorts with such folk is at risk of dismissal. You know that fine well, and if you thought it an empty threat, you’ll be learning otherwise, I think.”

  Quire said nothing. There was an emptiness hollowing itself out in him, the impotent feeling of being atop a cliff, swaying at the very precipice, unable to turn away.

  “Too many marks against your name, Quire. I’ve another complaint to hand already. A Dr. Knox. Claims you have harassed him with groundless accusations.”

  Quire rolled his eyes.

  “Questions, not accusations, and hardly groundless. He seemed content enough when we parted company. Shook my hand.”

  “Did he? Must have reconsidered his judgement of the matter once no longer exposed to your charms, then. He’d hardly be the first, would he?

  “You’re a fool, to think you can go around laying charges at the door of Ruthven and Knox without consequence. You think you’re some lone wolf, do you, unconstrained by the proprieties, the proper conduct to which the rest of must adhere?”

  There was real bitterness in Baird’s voice now. A personal animosity. It called up Quire’s anger, for all his efforts to control himself.

  “I’ve never thought myself anything more than a man trying to do what was needful, and right. It’s not something you would understand, given that you’re a piss-poor excuse for a police officer. If you were anything more than that, you’d be wondering why these folk want me gone. You’d be worth telling what it was I saw out on a Pentland farm, and how it was I got these scratches.”

  “A Pentland farm,” snapped Baird. “There’s the very thing, isn’t it? What in God’s name are you doing out on a Pentland farm, Quire? You’ve no authority there. Have you taken to trespass as a way of passing the time now, is that it?”

  Quire held his tongue. He clamped his hands together, squeezing hard, to keep his anger and frustration locked away within. It was not only that he refused to let Baird see the extent of his dismay; it was that he feared what his hands might do to the man if he let them free.

  “It’ll all need to go to the board,” Baird was saying, sinking back in the chair, cuddling his satisfaction about him. “That means you’re relieved of your duties, on half-pay, until the decision’s made. Barred from the police house, barred from speaking with your fellow officers. Do you understand?”

  Still, Quire did not respond.

  “I�
�ll need your baton, too,” Baird said.

  “I lost it,” Quire told him.

  “Lost it?” Baird was incredulous. “What are you talking about, man?”

  “I lost it while I was trying to keep myself from getting drowned in a ditch on Ruthven’s farm. Do you want to hear the tale? I’ll tell it if you do. Give you a chance to remember what it is we’re supposed to do here.”

  “Ruthven, Ruthven,” muttered Baird. “Have you learned nothing? There’s no evidence against the man, Quire.”

  “There’s my testimony. And if you sent a dozen men out to Cold Burn Farm, like as not you’d find something might count as evidence. The dogs that killed Carlyle, and almost killed me. And worse, much worse. If you’d seen the things I have…”

  “I can’t charge a dog with murder, attempted or otherwise, Quire,” Baird said wearily. “And henceforth, I think you’ll agree, any court might find your testimony more than a little tainted. Get out. You’ll be told of the outcome of the board’s deliberations, but I’d not be holding your breath if I was you. I’d not be expecting a happy result, either. I’ll be recommending they dismiss you, and making sure they know of your past infringements. I imagine they’ll be only too happy to start cleaning away the mess Robinson left behind him.”

  Quire went leaden-footed down the stairs, hearing nothing of the banter and chatter of the police house, seeing nothing. He passed out into the High Street, and the bustle of it caught him up and swept him away down towards the Canongate, helpless flotsam on the current.

  Wilson Dunbar sang to his children that night in their little house at Abbey Hill. He sang them songs he had heard in Spain, twenty years ago. Sang them the tunes, at least; he did not remember most of the words, and those he did were not fit for the ears of children, so he made up nonsense ditties to ride along on the melodies. Silly things, childish things, which were to him the sweetest things of all.

  Ellen, his wife, sat quietly in the corner with her embroidery, a constant smile upon her face as she passed the needle back and forth through cloth stretched over a round wooden frame. A hundred times this scene had been repeated, since Angus—the older of the boys—had been a mewling babe in his cot. Dunbar sang then because the sound of it soothed and softened the child; he sang now because it was what he did, part of the pact between him and his boys. They expected it of him, and he obliged them gladly. It was as much a part of the fabric of their home as the stones in the wall, the slates in the roof.

  And when he was done, and those Spanish tunes were spent, and the boys were asleep, he sat with his wife by the sinking fire. They did not talk much, and did not need to, for they shared in a single, swaddling contentment that required no expression beyond their presence there, together, and the sound of their children, shifting lethargically in their sleep. All was right with the world, within the walls of that house, and in that company.

  XIX

  Old Acquaintance

  There was no older tavern in Edinburgh than the White Hart on the Grassmarket. Lined by inns and low houses and shops purveying every kind of provision, dominated by the castle and the craggy cliffs atop which it stood just to the north, the Grassmarket had been a place of commerce and execution, revelry and riot for centuries. Through a great many of those years, the White Hart had stood there and been witness to countless dramas played out before its windows. For generations, every scandal and oddity and delight of the Old Town had been chewed over by its patrons. The idle talk of choice now was diverse, little of it distinguishing between the real and the imagined: tales of plague skeletons uncovered in the course of the works for the new bridge over the Cowgate; the bakery boy attacked by a wild mob of rats at the West Port one dawn; the girl at the tannery along the way growing fat with child, and her all unmarried but a friend to half the soldiers in the castle barracks.

  Amidst this hubbub of speculation, one man sat alone and quiet, nursing a mug of ale that he never drank from. His eyes did not stray from the foamy head of his beer, and his hands—still in their black gloves though the little room was warm—remained clasped around it. If the great crowd of drinkers packed into the White Hart found his solitary, silent presence odd, they gave no sign of it. None paid him any more heed than a brief glance.

  Two men entered, though, whose roving eyes picked him out at once, and they shuffled and elbowed their way to the little table he occupied.

  “Is it Blegg?” the taller one asked curtly, his voice rich with the tones of his Irish homeland, and at that Blegg did lift his gaze, and fix it upon these newcomers with still clarity.

  “Sit,” he said, and they ferreted out stools from amongst the forest of legs and bodies.

  “Are you buying us drinks?” one asked as he slapped his backside down.

  “You pay your own way until we’ve taken the measure of one another, don’t you think?”

  The two Irishmen looked at each other, in silent consultation, until one grunted and rose with evident annoyance.

  “I’ll get them in, then,” he grumbled, and began to push his way unceremoniously towards the bar.

  Blegg watched him sink into the crowd, and then turned slowly back to the other.

  “So. You’ve my name. What should I call you?”

  “Oh, I like to keep my name close, like a sweetheart, until I know a man a little better.”

  “You’ve a pretty turn of phrase, for an Irishman.”

  “Is that so? You’ve a cocky tongue, for a Scotsman.”

  “Hah.” It was an entirely cold and humourless little laugh. “Nice. And what’s your trade?”

  “What’s it to you? I could mend your shoes if you’ve a need for a cobbler, but that’s not what we came to talk about, is it? I’m not looking for employment.”

  “I like to know what manner of men I’m dealing with. And maybe you are looking for employment, of a sort. That’s what I heard, in any case.”

  “Did you.”

  It was a curt, sharp utterance. The Irishman glared at Blegg, the look thick with the spontaneous animosity that might easily arise when two men scented difference of temperament or type between them. Blegg was unmoved, and stared passively back, contemptuous amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. It was the other who looked away, watching his countryman barge his way back towards them, bearing his precious cargo.

  “I’ve lost my thirst,” the seated man muttered as he was passed a cup.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Don’t like his manner.” He flicked his chin at Blegg. “Thinks he’s clever, this one. Cleverer than us, anyway.”

  “I’m not caring who’s clever and who’s not. Clever’s fine, if it comes with money. Knox’s doorkeep said it’d be worth our while meeting with you, that’s all. Fifteen pounds’ worth, he said.”

  “Ah, now you’re a forward kind of man,” Blegg said approvingly. “Not like your fellow here. What’s your name, friend?”

  “The two of us share one name—William—and part thereafter: he is Burke, I am Hare.”

  “Now what did you go and tell him that for?” Burke snapped.

  Hare shrugged.

  “There’s half a dozen folk in here know my name, and yours as well. If he wants to know, he can find it easy enough.”

  Burke was unappeased.

  “This cocky bastard wants to know who he’s dealing with; I say we do too. I’ve no more than a name for him, and I’d want more.”

  “Would you?” Blegg murmured. “It’d not profit you to have it. Look at Mr. Hare, here. He’s not caring what more there might be. Just the price, eh? And it’s fifteen pounds, right enough.”

  Burke drained his mug in a single long series of gulps, and smacked it down on to the table with a touch more force than was needed.

  “Don’t care if it’s a hundred pound.” He leaned closer to Hare. “I’ll not bargain on things such as this with a man I don’t trust. And I don’t trust this bastard. Nor like him.”

  Blegg looked away, evincing disinterest.
<
br />   “Come away,” Burke urged his companion. “We’re not needing him. We’ve got all the arrangement we need with others.”

  Hare looked doubtful, and Blegg abruptly turned back, and stared at him. When he spoke, it was to Burke, though his eyes remained fixed upon Hare.

  “You’d best be away, right enough. I’m not needing you, that’s sure. But your friend here I’ll buy as much drink as he likes.”

  “I’ll stay a bit,” Hare said softly.

  “On your head be it, then,” Burke growled, angry. “He’s the stink of trouble, and I’ll not be sharing it with you.”

  He pushed himself up from the table so firmly that the little stool toppled over backwards. He kicked it aside as he made for the door. Blegg looked after him with a sour expression.

  “Have you cold hands or something, then?” Hare asked, eyeing the black gloves with which Blegg held his still full mug of flattening beer.

  “Something,” Blegg grunted. “Listen, our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Paterson in Surgeon’s Square, tells me you’re the very man I need to talk to on the matter of… well, shall we call them certain goods that are not easily obtained? I pay him well enough to put some faith in his advice. Is he right?”

  “Maybe so, maybe not.”

  “Come, don’t be coy. I’ve no wish to intrude upon whatever trade you’re plying with Knox. My needs are modest, and you’ll be well recompensed if you can meet them.”

  Hare eyed his new drinking companion, a touch reserved.

  “Is it an anatomist you’re working for, then?” he asked. “Something like that?”

  “Something like that. Something like that.”

  Hare wrinkled his nose.

  “It’s courting ill luck,” he said, “to be talking of such things in the very place they’ve hanged men for less.”

  “Oh, they’ve not had gallows in the Grassmarket for a time now, William.” Blegg smiled. “They build them elsewhere these days. And it’s more fitting a place than you might think. Do you not know the meaning of the sign under which we meet?”