The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [26]
Mounted on the wall above the bar was the head for which the tavern was named: that of a four-horned ram, observing the comings and goings with what struck Quire as a somewhat judgemental eye. It was quite a beast, one set of horns re-curved around its ears and back towards its cheeks, the others erect and sharp as knives. For all the smoke and chatter bubbling about it, it had an air of detachment, as if come from another time and place to gravely preside over this assemblage of men.
“I’m after Duncan Munro,” Quire said to the nearest of the drinkers, and was directed to a corner table currently occupied by a boisterous party exhibiting good cheer and ruddy cheeks. Curlers most of them, Quire reckoned, cheeks and humour alike enlivened by their return from the ice to this cosy lair.
The man he sought was no recent arrival, though. He was settled in his chair with a loose ease only lengthy occupation could bestow, and the colour in his face was all too clearly the product of drink and the heat of the inn’s fire.
“I was looking for you in the watchtower,” Quire said by way of blunt introduction.
The conversation faltered. Every eye turned to him, Munro’s a little more sluggishly and blinkingly than most.
“Me?” the church elder asked.
“I’m a sergeant of police, over from the city, and wanting a word with those watching the graveyard tonight.”
“That would be me, right enough,” Munro confirmed.
“What are you doing here, then?”
“Preparing for the long night ahead,” Munro replied with an explanatory shake of his tankard, and an appreciative chuckle from his companions.
“Well, the night’s not waited for your preparations to be completed,” Quire observed, pointing to the little thick-paned window behind Munro. “It’s gone and started itself.”
“Surely not.”
Munro twisted in his seat, those closest at hand shrinking away from his dangerously rocking mug. He took in the darkened scene beyond the glass at some length, and then gave out a considered, thoughtful grunt.
“The nights do come in fast this time of year,” he observed.
Quire walked close at Munro’s side as they covered the short distance from the Sheep Heid to the gates of the kirk. Before leaving the inn, he had set a light to his lantern, and now angled its shutters to lay out a guiding beam before them. He was concerned for the other man’s safety, since the roadway was snowbound and Munro’s stride a touch unsteady. His concern proved unfounded, though. The man was sure-footed, perhaps aided by the ballast of a girth that placed considerable demands upon the belt and waistcoat tasked with its containment.
A feast of stars was strewn above them, food for the eye, and the crescent moon like a knife of polished ivory.
“Quire, eh?” Munro said as they drew near to the watchtower. His good humour had survived his removal from the inn thoroughly intact. “That’s a name with a fine religious tone to it. A churchgoing family, perhaps?”
“No,” Quire said, glad that he had not shared his forename as well. “A farming family. Until I left the land, at least.”
“Ah. Ah.”
Munro sounded a little disappointed, but shrugged it off easily enough.
“Well, a believer in the sanctity of life, at least, and that of the righteous dead, or you’d not be troubling yourself with our business tonight. Am I right?”
“More or less.”
Munro pounded on the door of the tower.
“Open up, lad. We’ve an officer of the law come calling, to share our heavy duty.”
Duncan the younger gave them admittance to a cramped little chamber which a crackling fire had packed with so much heat that Quire felt dizzy. The son eyed his father cautiously as the older man sank into a low wooden chair with a contented sigh, while Quire’s attention was taken by the gun resting across pegs above the hearth.
It was properly known as a Land Pattern flintlock musket, but Quire, and everyone else with any soldiering