The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [100]
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