The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [13]
Beyond him, peering around his shoulder, was a man a good deal shorter and older, with a face browned and leathered by years of sun, and fronds of fine lines at the corners of mouth and eyes. His greying hair was in the process of deserting his scalp, falling back in some disorder towards his temples.
Third and last, reclining in one of those mighty chairs with legs crossed and the elevated foot bobbing slightly, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, a man of rather wan and pinched countenance. His hands, encased in smooth black gloves, were steepled, the two index fingers just touching the tip of his aquiline nose. He regarded Quire impassively.
John Ruthven advanced and extended a hand, which Quire duly shook.
“Sergeant Quire, was it my wife said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. This”—he stood aside and indicated the older man just behind him—“is Monsieur Durand. A house guest of mine.”
Quire hid his surprise at finding himself in the company of a Frenchman, and they exchanged nods. Ruthven flicked a casual hand in the direction of the seated man.
“And that is Mr. Blegg, my assistant. A factotum, you might call him.”
Quire duly gave another nod of acknowledgement, but there was only the most miserly of responses. Blegg barely stirred, other than a slight upward tilt of his chin and a little twitching bounce of that raised foot. One less inured to the sour eccentricities of the human spirit than Quire might have taken offence at such want of common courtesy. He, though, turned his attention back to Ruthven.
“I have a snuff box of yours, sir,” he said. It was not his custom to delay in reaching the nub of any conversation.
He drew the little silver casket from his pocket and held it out on the palm of his hand. Ruthven bent forward a touch, tapping his lips with an erect forefinger as if pondering some weighty puzzle. Then, quite abruptly, he took up the box and closed his large hand about it, almost entirely hiding its silvery gleam.
“Now here is a mystery,” he said with a thin smile. “Quite a mystery, eh, gentlemen?”
He cast an inclusive glance towards Durand, who gave a snorting half-laugh, which made Quire think that the Frenchman was a trifle overeager to find humour in his host’s words.
“How does a silver snuff box with my name upon it come to be in the possession of the police?” Ruthven said, turning back to Quire and becoming wholly, heavily serious.
“It was found in the pocket of a corpse in the Old Town, sir. A man a little older than me, perhaps, with dark hair, clean-shaven. I thought at first that that name might be the dead man’s, but it is evidently not so.”
“Indeed not. Did you have my address from the Antiquaries, then? They will have embroidered it with some unkind words, no doubt.”
“No, sir. There was no need for that. The Town Council records were enough.”
“I see. The Antiquaries and I did not part on the best of terms, but this trinket is a token of happier times. A gift in acknowledgement of some donations I made to the Society and its collections.”
“And this dead man had it from you? Stole it?”
“Stole it,” Ruthven said sadly. “Yes, so it appears. I confess: I did not know it was missing. But yes, certainly it was taken without my leave, as were some few other small items and coin.”
“All of it gone, no doubt, save this. Most likely he thought better of offering the uncles something that would so clearly betray his guilt and the identity of his victim.”
“Uncles?”
“The brokers, sir. Pawners of stolen goods. The thieves call them uncles. Like to think of it as a family affair, perhaps.”
“Ah. Well, as you say, officer. As you say.”
Ruthven appeared bored now. He had not looked at the snuff box since taking it from Quire. He gave no sign that being reunited with it brought him any satisfaction.
“I would be grateful for his name, sir,” Quire said. “From what you say, it seems you knew him.”
“Does it?” The momentary flutter of discomfiture, perhaps even irritation, did not escape Quire, though it was ruthlessly extinguished almost as soon as it was