The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [14]
“I will need to find any family he might have had.”
“I cannot help you there, Sergeant,” Ruthven said, pressing his lips together in regret that Quire found not entirely convincing. “He had no family that I knew of. A solitary man, at least in all the time he worked for me. He came from Glasgow originally, though. Perhaps that would be the place to look.”
There would be no effort to find any of Carlyle’s relatives so far afield, Quire knew. A thief dying alone in the Cowgate would not merit it. But still: thief or not, it had been the kind of end few men deserved, and it troubled Quire. As did Ruthven’s lack of curiosity as to the manner or circumstance of Carlyle’s death.
“Where did he live then, sir?”
“He had a room here, until I turned him out. After, I have no idea.”
“Did he leave any belongings?”
“Nothing of consequence. I believe my wife sent it all along to the charity workhouse, Sergeant. She has a most generous soul.”
“Oh?” Quire raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That seems a little… premature, sir. To dispose of his property, I mean.”
“Does it?” Ruthven frowned, and he barely troubled to conceal his irritation this time. “I can assure you, we were in no doubt that he would not be returning. He made that abundantly clear, and had ample opportunity to clear out his room before he left.”
Ruthven’s ill temper was not matched by the other two men. Durand had more the retiring air of a servant than that of a welcomed house guest, though a charitable interpretation might ascribe his reticence to a limited command of English. Blegg, by contrast, was all still, passive observation. It was, Quire thought, a peculiar manner for a servant. The man’s face did, though, have an unhealthy, colourless sheen to it. Perhaps the sign of some malady.
Quire’s gaze drifted as he puzzled over the disjointed, odd feel of this house and its inhabitants. He found himself staring at an object unlike anything he had ever seen before: an animal’s horn of some sort, as straight as a rod, almost as long as the span of his arms, tightly spiralled and coming to a sharp point. Like a lance. It rested on a wooden stand atop the mantelpiece.
“Striking, is it not?”
Quire nodded in agreement.
Ruthven carefully lifted it from its stand, holding it horizontally before him. He did not offer it to Quire.
“It is,” Ruthven said gravely, “the only unicorn’s horn in private possession in Edinburgh.”
Quire blinked in surprise, and looked to Ruthven’s eyes for some clue as to his sincerity, but the man was gazing down at the artefact with fascination, as if encountering it for the first time himself. Only slowly did he lift his eyes to meet Quire’s silent enquiry. Then he laughed.
“No, Sergeant. Of course not. It is the horn of a whale from the icy northern wastes.”
Quire, normally sure of his ability to read another’s nature, could not tell how much of that laugh was shared mirth and how much mockery. It seemed an untrustworthy, malleable sound.
“Forgive me,” Ruthven said as he returned the horn to its wooden cradle with precise care. “It is a flaw in my character to find the credulity of others a source of amusement. But I imagine one cannot be both credulous and an officer of the city police, eh?”
“Do you know of anyone who might have wished Mr. Carlyle harm, sir?” Quire asked.
Ruthven gave a mildly exasperated sigh.
“Quite the dog with the bone, aren’t you, Sergeant? Are all our officers of the law so persistent, or is it merely our good fortune to be visited by the most tenacious?”
“A man’s dead, sir,” said Quire flatly. “I’m required to understand how, and why. It’s not a matter of choice.”
“No. Well, I cannot be of further assistance, I’m afraid. I was not privy to Carlyle’s private dealings. He was merely an employee, you understand. A low sort of man, as it turned out. Untrustworthy. Just the