The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [111]
“Adam,” she said quietly. “Where is my husband?”
“I thought perhaps he might be here.”
“And I thought he might still be with you, sleeping off drink on a floor somewhere.”
She kept her voice calm and subdued, but Quire could hear the cords of anger, of worry, tight within it. She hid it well. When the boys glanced back from their games with the sky, they saw only their mother in easy conversation with the man they knew as a friend of their father’s.
“So not here, not with you,” Ellen said. “Where is he, then? I don’t know what games the two of you were playing last night, Adam, but I’ll be needing my husband back.”
“I will find him,” Quire said, his guilt souring in his gut. “I promise you that.”
“Be sure you do. Be sure you do.”
Quire stood there, at her shoulder, watching the kites. His gaze drifted up towards the rough, rising swell of Arthur’s Seat. Jackdaws and ravens were cavorting on the boisterous air, up above the high ground, like scrappy black kites launched by the great hill itself. But not tethered, those wilder flags; riding the wind freely, ever on the border between being its master and being mastered by it. Revelling in their nature.
“Get along, please, Adam,” Ellen said. “I don’t want the boys thinking something’s wrong. I don’t want them talking to you.”
Quire approached the Holy Land cautiously, discreetly, in expectation of trouble. It had already proved itself a less anonymous hiding place than he had—perhaps foolishly—hoped. He might not have gone there at all, but for his desire to arm himself. His one remaining pistol and his French sabre resided there, under Cath’s bed.
He found nothing untoward as he turned into Leith Wynd. All was quiet, as only a Sunday could make the Old Town quiet. Those out on the streets were, most of them, in their best church attire, and though some of the shops were open and some stalls doing a sluggish trade, it was not a day for toil.
Quire would not permit himself to relax into the general mood of calm, though. He climbed the stair of the Holy Land quietly, alert to any hint of danger. There was nothing but the usual stale stink of the place, and the light breezes ebbing and flowing through the window apertures.
For all his caution, he was taken entirely unawares by what awaited him within the room he shared with Cath. Isabel Ruthven was seated on the bed.
Cath was kneeling at the fire grate, blowing to put some life into the embers there. She looked up as Quire entered, and smiled broadly at him.
“Ah, Mr. Quire,” Isabel said, before either he or Cath could speak. “I was assured you would appear here sooner or later, and I’m glad it was not too much later. There’s just starting to be a little chill on the air, don’t you think?”
She wore a short, light coat, the bell of her skirts blooming out from under it. Her hands, neatly folded in her lap, were clad in very soft, tan-coloured gloves.
“Here I am,” he said flatly. “Cath, could you leave us alone for a bit?”
Cath’s expression faltered. She caught the leaden tone in Quire’s voice.
“Leave the fire be,” he said, and she rose to her feet, and brushed her hands off on her skirt.
“I’ll see if Emma’s about,” she said, moving carefully past Quire towards the door.
She paused at his shoulder, and whispered to him.
“Did I not do right, letting her in, Adam? Only she said she knew you, and needed to see you quite urgent.”
“It’s all right,” Quire said.
He had not taken his eyes from Isabel Ruthven since entering the room, and did not do so now, as the door scraped shut behind Cath and he edged backwards to set his heel firmly against the base of it. He did not want anyone bursting in behind him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Oh, dear. I hoped we might attempt, at least, a little civility.”
“That would depend on why you’re here, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose it might. I fear I am about to disappoint you, then. I have a message for you, Mr. Quire.”
Quire curled his lip in distaste. It had not occurred to him to count Isabel Ruthven amongst the ranks of his enemies. But little about that