Quire felt cold horror locking his limbs. He opened his mouth to speak, and no words came. He could not take his gaze from the baggy, ragged pouches of the eye holes. Scraps of the ears clung to the edges of the dreadful mask, a few stray strands of dark hair where it had been torn—or roughly cut—from the scalp.
“Look,” he managed to murmur.
There were little downy feathers tied to its edges with threads. There was a vile, slack weight to the way it hung from the nails.
Quire heard a hiss from Agnes.
“Get out,” she rasped.
But it was too late. The face moved. A slight, convulsive tremor as if some unseen muscles pulled at it. A curl put into those lifeless lips, a tightening of the skin around the voids where the eyes should have been. The fringing feathers shivered. Quire could not breathe. He was pinned by the empty stare, could feel its cold caress upon him. It was, he thought for a fleeting instant, Davey Muir, staring into him from that void; but that sense was at once lost. Someone—something—else regarded him through the flesh.
“Get out, get out,” Agnes cried, pushing past him, reaching for that foul semblance of a man.
Quire took a faltering step or two backwards, his legs weak, almost buckling. Agnes tore the face from the wall, and inside Quire’s head, deep within his ears and his mind he thought he heard a rasping wail of loathing.
The face sloughed through Agnes’ fingers, its skin liquefying into a stinking dark discharge. Melting and falling from her grasp to the floor in gobbets of corrupted matter. She shook her hand, spilling drops of softened skin. With her other hand, she pushed Quire firmly in the centre of his chest.
“Get out, son,” she said more quietly than before, but still fraught. “We’re seen.”
They went quickly, stumbling over the rubble of the years, cracking shoulders against the door frames in their haste, blundering in the now suffocating gloom of the place. Pursued, Quire felt, by something terrible at his back, wanting him, reaching for him.
Out into the passageway, rushing for the dismal light of the doorway and the courtyard beyond it, that had seemed so grimly miserable at first but now looked like salvation and sanctuary. Staggering as he veered, Agnes on his heels, into the vaulted tunnel beneath the brooding mass of the tenements, and running through it, footsteps echoing, and into the West Bow.
Bright light burst upon them as they emerged on to the street, dizzy with relief. The sun was dazzling, disorienting. Quire breathed deep, a man starved of air, coming up from dark waters. It tasted sweet, after the stale must of Weir’s house; it tasted of life, not death. Only then did his morbid terror begin to recede.
A squall of children went past, chasing a rolling hoop down the street, laughing and shrieking. A woman bargaining with a street vendor turned to look after them and smiled. Shopkeepers gathering water in pails from the wellhead down at the foot of the West Bow, where it opened out on to the Grassmarket, paused to watch the happy gang spill past them. Quire trembled. He felt himself suspended between two worlds—the radiant bustle of the city, and the black pit of decay behind him—and did not know which was real.
“What was that?” he asked Agnes.
The witch of Leith had her hands on her knees. She was bent over, panting, looking for a moment as if she might empty her stomach out on to the cobblestones. But she mastered herself, and stood straight once more. She wiped her hands on her skirts.
“That was the foulest of magics. The blackest. A sentry.”
“A sentry,” Quire echoed numbly.
He clenched his fists, opened them and clenched again, forcing down the fear. Gathering himself.
“Whoever set it there saw us.” Agnes grunted. “Looked through it, and saw us. You’ve someone in this nice city of yours practising the most bloody, evil business. I’d do whatever I could if it meant an end to it, but my wee glamours’ll not help you. You need a different kind of help altogether.”
“I know who I need,” muttered Quire. “His name’s Durand, and he’s the only one might tell me what I need to know. I just don’t know how to lay my hands on him. Not yet.”
XXIII
Durand
Mathieu Durand looked out through the tall window on the uppermost landing of Ruthven’s house. He stood far enough back from the glass that he was confident he could not be seen from the street. There was no light burning up here at the top of the house, and the night outside was dark enough to hide him from any curious eye.
But there were no answers out there to the doubts and fears that assailed him.
He withdrew, backing away from that wall of glass. He walked towards the top of the long, many-flighted stairs. His feet were loud on the bare boards. The upper floors of Ruthven’s house in Melville Street were, in the main, places of echoes, and of dusty voids. There were no rugs or coverings on the floors; the walls of even the grandest rooms were bare of paintings or hangings or any decoration. Uninhabited spaces, from which the household had withdrawn, one by one, closed the doors and shut the silence away.
Durand had his bedchamber up here, at the top of the house. There was nothing in it save a simple bed, a washstand with its bowl, a crude wardrobe for his clothes. Those things, and the boxes that held some of the objects by which he had been first entranced and now brought low: fragmentary relics of the Orient upon which he made some pretence of study, and sought, by that pretence, to preserve his life for a while longer.
He had told Ruthven that he had not yet found the key to unlocking all the secrets held by those dozens of inscribed clay tablets, but he lied. He had read them all, for he had mastered the secret languages of their authors. They were nothing; they added nothing to the catalogue of his previous discoveries. The few precious alchemical tracts had been amongst the first he decoded, and their wisdom he had already shared with Ruthven. Everything he had read since then was useless. Lists of produce harvested by the temple workers of Ur. Religious tracts extolling Anu, Enki, Enlil, the dead gods of a dead civilisation. There was nothing in them that could aid Ruthven or Blegg in their mad quest, but so long as they believed there might be, Durand could hope they would suffer him to live. So he clung to his pretence, and bore it like a shield.
The whole house was one grand pretence. A trompe l’oeil of consummate craftsmanship. Ruthven hosted dinners, attended his share of grand events and soirées, and generally portrayed himself as a man of means and standing, but he did it all by sleight of hand. The rooms any guest might see—and the guests were invariably the greatest worthies of the city, advocates and bailies, guild masters and councillors—those rooms were elaborate fictions, grandly furnished, immaculately maintained. But the rest of the house was stripped down to its rude fabric. Everything had been sold, piece by piece, save that which was indispensable, or worthless. All the servants had been dismissed long ago; when cooks or serving staff were needed, for the preservation of illusion, they were brought in for a few days only.
Ruthven was descending into penury, month by month, his fortune whittled away by his pursuit of secret knowledge, and by his purchase of influence, the better to conceal the ghoulish horrors into which that pursuit had descended. They all, every member of this blighted household, must know it could not last, yet they were trapped in the lunatic dance, unable to break away from the spiral of lies.
Now, standing at the head of the stairs, Durand could hear Isabel Ruthven playing the pianoforte, far below. Glittering arpeggios spilled out from the drawing room, fluttering their way through the house, up the great stairwell, coiling about the banisters. It was not a melody Durand knew, but it was pleasing to the ear. She played it well.
Durand descended, one hand resting lightly on the banister. He was hungry, and there was no one to bring him food, or prepare it for him. Nor could he any longer venture out at will to find sustenance. His movements were circumscribed now, and watched. Mistrust hung thick in the air of the house, along with all the lies. He was like a rat, living by scavenging and foraging in a half
-empty palace, imprisoned by fear of the terrible retribution awaiting him should he stray.
In the gaps between the notes cascading from Isabel’s fingers, he could hear raindrops pattering on the great skylight far above his head. There was something of the waterfall in Isabel’s music, and the accompaniment of rain did not seem out of place.
He was glad to hear her playing, not for the quality of the music, but because it would likely mean that Blegg was in there with her. Durand devoted much effort to avoiding Blegg, and that was a great deal easier when he knew where he was.
The kitchens were at the back, on the ground floor of the house where a humble lane ran along the rear of the noble terrace, for the use of servants and delivery men so that they would not sully the smart frontage by their presence. Little use was made of it for its intended purpose in the case of Ruthven’s house, and Durand was thus startled, and dismayed, to find a transaction in progress.
Blegg stood with another, heavier man, a huge sack lying on the floor between them, tied shut with rope. Its contents were irregularly shaped, stretching it in one part, leaving it slack in another.
“Ah, Durand,” Blegg said. “You’ve not met William Hare, I don’t think?”
The other man grimaced and bared his teeth. There was an animalish ferocity to it.
“Don’t give him my name,” Hare growled.
He had an accent Durand could not quite place. Not Scottish, assuredly. There was nothing of the affected refinement of Edinburgh in his words.
Blegg dismissed Hare’s concerns with a flick of his gloved hand.
“You don’t need to worry,” he smirked. “Durand here’s no trouble to anyone, are you, Durand?”
“Just give me the money, and I’ll be gone,” said Hare.
Durand stared down at the great sack on the cold stone floor. He had no doubt of what it contained. The shape and bulk of it told an unmistakable tale. He shook his head, wondering at the brazen madness of it all. They took delivery of a corpse, here at Ruthven’s very house, as if it were no more than provisions for the parlour.
“So keen to be about your business,” Blegg said approvingly to Hare. “But no more for a time, if you can bear to wait. You’ve met my needs for now, and these are not the easiest goods to store.”
Hare scowled and held out a stiff, open hand. Blegg pressed folded banknotes into it. With a last, ferocious glare at Durand, laden with contempt and baseless loathing, Hare turned on his heel and went out, banging the back door on its hinges and slamming it closed behind him.
“A man who’s found his calling, that one,” Blegg said with harsh amusement. “Why don’t you carry this down to the cellar, now that you’re here, Durand?”
“No. I’ll not set foot there.”
“Oh? Finally decided you can’t bear any more dirt on your precious little hands, have you? Too late, old man. Much, much too late.”
With that, Durand could heartily agree. Far too late to save his hands, or his soul, from the stain of complicity. Far too late to save himself from the ruin that could not be long delayed now. There was a reckless, wanton air taking hold, as if all the sins of the past could only be concealed and justified by piling fresh sins atop them. The fragile edifice behind which all their exploits were concealed grew ever more impossible to sustain.
Enough, Durand thought dismally. Though it would mean his death, and his damnation, he could bear the waiting no longer. Better to bring those things down upon himself than endure this tortured, haunted existence any longer. He had no life worth the living now, so what purpose could there be in prolonging the fever dream in which he was ensnared? If the edifice was to fall in any case, he would tear out its foundations himself.
XXIV
Masquerade
The harlequin stared back at Quire. It was a full-face mask of lacquered papier mâché, its lower half pale, almost like ivory, the upper gleaming with black and red diamonds laid out over the brow and cheeks. Two eyes stared out through neatly cut holes. There was a slit for a mouth, too, but the harlequin was not saying anything. He wore the traditional suit: luridly matching jacket and pantaloons, both a patchwork of coloured diamonds, all seamed and trimmed with gold thread; a three-horned hat of black felt, with a tiny bell jiggling at the tip of each horn.
“Well, what do you say, man?” Quire demanded, raising his voice above the music spilling through the open doors of the ballroom. “It’ll not be for long. Easiest shilling you’ll ever earn.”
“If anyone found out…” the harlequin whimpered.
He was a big man, beneath that garish costume—that was why Quire had chosen him—but not beyond intimidation once a bit of bluster and bluff was applied.
“Nobody’ll know,” Quire insisted. “It’s just for a prank on a friend of mine. No harm can come of it. Damn it, make it two shillings, then. How much are you getting paid for your night’s work? I must be doubling or trebling it at least.”
“And using my money to do it,” Wilson Dunbar observed.
Quire shot him a sharp sideways glance to discourage further interruptions, but Dunbar had always been resistant to discouragement.
“What? It’s true enough, isn’t it?” he said with an innocent shrug.
He leaned closer to the harlequin and spoke loudly into his ear.
“I’d take the money, if I was you. This one’s stubborn as all hell when he gets an idea in his head.”
The harlequin nodded. He did it hesitantly, so that the bells on his hat barely tinkled, but he did it. And that was enough for Quire to take hold of his arm and guide him firmly towards the cloakroom.
The attendant watched in faintly perturbed confusion as Quire, Dunbar and the harlequin pushed in amongst the racks of coats and cloaks, hats and canes. They got themselves to the cloakroom’s furthest corner, out of sight of the trickle of guests still flowing through the wide lobby of the Assembly Rooms. Hidden away there, amidst the garb and accessories of wealth, Quire began to strip off his jacket and trousers.
“Come along,” Dunbar said jovially to the harlequin, prodding the man in the arm. “Sooner it’s done, sooner it’s done with.”
Stiffly, no doubt burdened by second thoughts, the harlequin reached up to take the mask from his face.
Cath had come to find Quire with the message. He was lingering—had been lingering for a long time—around the stalls on the High Street.
For all his gratitude at Cath’s willingness—eagerness, in fact—to take him in, and put a roof over his head, he found the Holy Land a hard place to be. She was wont to lie late in her bed, and though he could share in that ease for a little while, he tired of it sooner than she, and would take himself off on whatever errand he could think of.
He had told her almost nothing of the reasons for his abandonment of his own lodgings, and she asked few questions. That was the training of her trade, and her life, he supposed; but also, perhaps, that she was simply glad of his arrival, and cared not what had brought it about.
“How long does it take to buy a bit of bread, then?” she asked him now.
Her hair was tousled, still disordered by sleep, and she clasped her arms about herself as if not yet ready to embrace the day. It made Quire want to hold her to him, but he merely smiled.
“A while, it seems.”
“There was a boy come looking for you at the Land. Had a message for you, and I thought you might be wanting to hear it sooner than later.”
It was telling of the narrow, insecure path Quire walked that his first thought was not of the content of the message, but of its mere arrival.
“How did he know where to look for me?” he asked, frowning.
Cath shrugged.
“Said he went to the police house first. Must not have known you’re not much seen round those parts any more. Someone there told him where to find you.”
“I’d not really wanted them to know where I was, either.”
“The Holy Land leaks secrets like a sieve, Adam. You’d maybe have
better thought on that before. Anyway, are you wanting this message or not? It’s not warm enough for me to be up and out this early.”
She gave a little demonstrative shudder of her shoulders. That made Quire smile.
“Aye, all right.”
“Durand says he’ll be at the ball, and if you can get him safely out from there, he’ll come away with you. Whatever that means. The wee lad thought it was all a grand adventure; said this funny-talking man whispered it in his ear, and put a coin in his hand, all in a moment or two, outside some New Town shop. Then walked off with a couple who came out, acting like nothing had happened.”
“He’d not want to be seen sending messages off, right enough,” Quire murmured, distracted. “What ball’s he talking about, though?”
“Oh, do you not know anything, Adam?” Cath scoffed. “The Fancy Ball, at the Assembly Rooms. Best of the season, they say. They’ll all be there, with their noses in the air and their snouts in the trough.”
So Quire found himself pulling on the camouflage of a harlequin’s clothes in a cloakroom, while the sounds of exuberant merriment roared out from the ballroom.
The Assembly Rooms were the heart of the New Town, in as much as it could be said to possess such a thing. Placed midway along its most noble boulevard, George Street, they were the hub about which the pleasant life of the inhabitants turned. Coming in through the busy lobby, Quire had seen posters advertising a host of diversions for those with the time and money to spare: a performance of The Tempest, down at the East End Theatre; a phrenological lecture here at the Assembly Rooms; and this very Fancy Ball, from which none who thought themselves members of elevated society would dare to be absent.
There was only one of that society Quire had any interest in tonight. If Durand was indeed here, he was leaving with Quire. That was the plan, in any case. Whether the rudimentary scheme Quire had thrown together in such haste truly merited the title of plan was debatable, but he had done what he could in the time available.
The Edinburgh Dead Page 23
