The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [136]
The men drifted off, back to their duties, none happy with the one they had just discharged. Maclellan lingered, though, a moment or two longer than the rest, staring after the disappeared carriage. He came to a decision, and called one of his men back to his side.
“Get me one of the lads can run a message down to the Canongate, would you?” Maclellan said. “Quick as you like.”
The carriage made its way slowly down towards Princes Street. It did not travel far, though, for outside the grand theatre on the corner of North Bridge it came to a halt, close in to the pavement so that it should not obstruct the other coaches and hackneys moving along behind it.
Isabel Ruthven walked smartly forward from where she had been waiting beside a street lamp. She reached up and pressed a banknote into Rutherford’s hand. He said nothing, but tucked it quickly away into a pocket. Isabel climbed into the carriage and settled in beside Hare. Who leered at her, baring his teeth.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you tonight,” he said, “but I’ll be damned if you’re not a sweet sight for a man’s been in a jail cell longer than he needed.”
“A charming compliment, Mr. Hare.” Isabel smiled.
The carriage lurched into motion once more. As it eased away from the kerb, the doors of the theatre opened, and the departing audience began to flow out on to the pavement, all abuzz at the splendour of the opera they had witnessed.
“Mr. Blegg wanted me to convey his appreciation for your silence on the matter of his dealings with you,” Isabel said, looking out at those gorgeous, glittering opera-goers crowding out.
Hare grunted.
“Never much of a worry. The lawyers gave me immunity for everything I done with Burke. Nothing else. They’d have hung me alongside him if the other stuff came out.”
He looked sharply at Isabel.
“Still, you said I’d be paid for it, the time you came to see me. Twenty pounds, you said.”
“Indeed. We’ll get you your money this very night, shall we? But here, I brought you something to toast your freedom with.”
She produced a hip flask, bound in worked leather, and offered it to him. Hare sniffed it, and grinned at the smell.
“Whisky,” Isabel confirmed. “A very fine variety, I’m told, though I’m no drinker of it myself.”
Hare took a long drink from the flask, tipping his head back. The carriage jolted over cobbles, and he spilled a little of the amber fluid across his lips. It ran over his chin as he reached out a hand and laid it on Isabel’s knee.
“I could do with some other kind of celebrating,” he rasped at her.
She guided his hand away, not roughly, but firmly.
“No, Mr. Hare. Not tonight. Not if you want that twenty pounds.”
The carriage rolled on, up to the High Street, and there it turned west. Hare leaned across in front of Isabel to peer out into the street.
“I’m supposed to go to the southern mail. Get out of this damned city.”
He was slurring his words. They came sluggishly off his clumsy tongue.
“Don’t you worry,” Isabel said, pushing him back into his seat.
By the time the carriage was rattling down West Bow, and slowing to a halt at the foot of it, Hare was quite asleep. Rutherford dismounted and looked in.
“You’ll have to help me with him,” Isabel said casually. “Just to get him inside, then you can wait with the carriage. Hold on to this for me, would you?” She handed him the whisky flask that she had lifted from Hare’s limp hand. “Don’t drink from it, though. We’ll be needing you awake.”
The two of them worked Hare out of the carriage, and held him up between them, each getting themselves under one of his arms. It was not the kind of scene entirely unfamiliar to the inhabitants of West Bow or Grassmarket, and not many folk paid them much heed.
“Give me one of those lights,” Isabel said.
Rutherford unhooked one of the oil lamps hanging from the end of the driver’s seat and handed