The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [102]
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.
His guilt at dragging Wilson Dunbar into this was heavy, but he had not been sure he could manage it on his own. Dunbar, to his credit, had been all too willing to lend a hand. That, of course, might be because Quire had not told him everything. Had not troubled him with the details of Cold Burn Farm, or of Major Weir’s house.
Nor had he told James Robinson why he needed two tickets for the Fancy Ball. He knew no one other than the former superintendent who might be able to provide such things, and as it turned out, Robinson had no need of those he and his wife already possessed.
They were settled in a modest house on the south side of the Old Town, which seemed comfortable enough, but Quire was saddened to see how reduced Robinson already appeared, after so short a time. His eyes had lost a little of their life, his voice had softened. Perhaps, Quire hoped, it was just the burden of the gout, a visitation of which was the cause of their lack of interest in the Fancy Ball.
Robinson had asked not a single question, beyond his first: “You’re not going to do anything foolish, are you?”
“I hope not,” was the best Quire had been able to do by way of answer.
The harlequin: that was improvisation. Seeing all the serving staff hurrying to and fro, every one of them clad in this same festive disguise, Quire had been suddenly taken by the wisdom of donning a mask. It had required a degree of patience, waiting for one of the waiters going in and out of the ballroom to display a build to match Quire’s bulky frame, and now that he was dressed in the pantomime outfit, Quire was not so sure of the idea.
He could already feel sweat forming over his face. The mask was unpleasantly confining and close-fitting. The harlequin costume itself was a little looser, but heavier than it had looked. It would not be long, though. He told himself that and hoped it was true. If this did not happen quickly, it would likely not happen at all.
“Right, you wait here and I’ll check the lie of the land,” he said to Dunbar, who held his hand to his ear with an exaggerated flourish.
“Speak up, man, you’ve something covering your mouth there.”
“Wait here, and I’ll have a look inside,” Quire growled.
Dunbar swapped the heavy cape he carried folded over his right arm to his left, so that he could flick a mock salute at Quire.
“You look like a fool,” he said, “but then so did most of the folk I’ve taken orders off, so I’ll not hold it against you.”
Quire grunted, and made his way down the lobby of the Assembly Rooms. Wide wooden staircases rose on either side, towards the many meeting rooms and exhibition spaces on the upper floor, but there was only one place to be this evening, and that was the grand ballroom at the far end of the hall. Its doors stood open, held back on brass hooks, and through that portal, Quire saw a tumultuous sea of colour.
The cream of Edinburgh society swirled about the dance floor, or thronged its edges, in a great, flamboyant crowd. There were pirates and princesses, soldiers