The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [107]
“Into the gardens,” Quire said promptly. “No light there. We can lose him, or spring a little trap of our own.”
“Right,” Dunbar said.
He did not sound entirely convinced, but responded without hesitation to the taut urgency in Quire’s voice.
Dunbar darted forward, set his strong hands on the top of the gate and swung his legs up and over with a great heave of his shoulders. Quire put his hands to Durand’s waist even as they drew near the gate, and lifted him from his feet. Dunbar reached over and hauled the Frenchman into the gardens. The two of them fell in a heap, crunching down on to the gravel path.
Quire did not need to look around to know what Blegg was doing. He could hear running feet, pounding closer. He flung himself at the gate, hitting it hip high, folding himself over the top of it, landing on his back on the path beyond. He rolled and scrambled to his feet, glimpsing Blegg’s dark form rushing down the last of Frederick Street’s slope, coming into the pools of light cast by the chain of streetlights. The man was fast; unnervingly so.
Quire ran after Dunbar and Durand, already disappearing into the profound darkness of the gardens. He could hear them clearly enough, though, for the gravel path was not made for silence.
“Get off the path,” he called softly, and followed them as they veered off over the manicured lawns.
They crouched into one of the big thickets of ornamental shrubs. Most of the bushes were foreigners; evergreens with thick, heavy concealing leaves. Durand was gasping for breath.
“Be quiet,” Quire whispered.
Blegg appeared, up there at the railings. Peering down into the gardens. Seeing, Quire hoped, not much more than they had: just the inky, lightless nothing. Blegg moved slightly to one side. His head was framed by the glowing lantern head of one of the gaslights, like a radiant halo.
“There’s three of us,” Dunbar murmured. “We could sort him out easy enough, couldn’t we?”
“Maybe,” said Quire. He was reluctant to trust any assumptions regarding Blegg’s capabilities. “In any case, there’s only two of us worth the counting, I’d guess.”
“Quite true,” Durand whispered. “And he would kill both of you, most likely.”
“I didn’t sign up for getting killed, any more than I did killing,” muttered Dunbar.
Blegg carefully, deliberately, set both his hands atop the gate and vaulted it in a single leap, swinging his legs up high and clear. A manoeuvre that Quire could not have matched.
“Shit,” Dunbar whispered, evidently reconsidering the advisability of confrontation.
They eased themselves further back amongst the bushes. Quire had never been inside the gardens before, and could remember precious little of any use as far as their layout was concerned, even though he had often enough looked down over the railings and thought it a pleasant view. One thing he did remember, with something approaching certainty: the only other gates were further along to the west of them, down towards St. John’s and St. Cuthbert’s, the chapel and church that dominated the far end of Princes Street.
“Right, well I’ll draw him off, and you get your little French package here away,” Dunbar said suddenly.
“No,” hissed Quire.
Dunbar was already shifting his weight, settling himself on the balls of his feet.
“Hush. It’ll be easy enough. I’ll just take him off into a corner somewhere and slip out over the railings. Once he sees it’s just me, he’ll leave off pretty sharp. It’s you two he’s after, you poor buggers.”
“No, you don’t…” Quire said desperately, but he was saying it to Dunbar’s heels.
Dunbar went crashing away, thrashing through the shrubs with abandon, and pounding his feet on the turf as he plunged into the darkness.
“Christ,” groaned Quire.
They heard Blegg ghosting past over the grass; a much lighter tread. Quire’s heart hammered away, and his legs trembled with the desire to throw himself out and after Blegg. He struggled with the instinct, and stifled it.
Dunbar was quick on his feet,