The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [29]
They went around the south side of the church. A gnarled apple tree, leafless and fruitless and sleeping, leaned over the cemetery wall. The lantern light bounced and tumbled through its branches. Quire meant to lead the way, but Munro—perhaps from protective fatherly concern, or just in the belief that the authority and responsibility here were his—moved quickly past him, striding over the snow without regard to caution or concealment. It occurred to Quire, belatedly, that the role of the men who watched over the graveyards of Edinburgh was not to capture body snatchers, but to deter them. To frighten them off. His own desires and expectations might not entirely jibe with those of his companions.
He glanced back, to where young Duncan was tramping along behind them, bringing the lantern round to light the boy up with its yellow glare.
“Get your finger off the trigger,” Quire hissed.
Duncan came to an ungainly halt and blinked at Quire uncomprehendingly. Quire pointed at the Brown Bess.
“Don’t walk with your finger on the trigger,” he muttered, “not on ground like this. You’ll blow someone’s head off if you stumble.”
“You there,” Quire heard the boy’s father suddenly saying, and he spun back to see what was happening.
The lantern’s light swept up and around, washing over the church, picking out for a moment the rough surface of the stone blocks, flashing from icicles hanging from the edge of the roof, rushing on and down. It fell across Munro’s shoulders and spilled around him, conjuring up out of the darkness ahead a strange tableau.
One man was already partway out over the graveyard wall. He dropped down out of sight even as Quire drew breath to shout, leaving only the image—a mere fragment of a moment, glimpsed at the light’s edge, and then gone—of a black-gloved hand clinging to the top of the wall.
That left one bulky figure inside the graveyard’s bounds, turning back towards them even as Munro drew near. There was a shovel hanging slack in one of the man’s big hands.
“Wait,” shouted Quire, trying to rush forwards but hampered by the snow that gave and slipped beneath his boots.
He glimpsed the disturbed grave: the sod slightly lifted, some black soil exposed. The body snatchers had hardly begun their work before being interrupted.
“Have you no shame, man?” Munro was shouting, entirely overcome by outrage.
“Wait,” Quire cried again.
He was staring at the grave robber’s face, though he could not see it well, for Munro’s head kept casting it into shadow or blocking his view as the church elder continued his querulous advance. But what little he could see worried him. The object of Munro’s ire was impassive, looking at them with a blank indifference entirely unsuited to the moment. His unblinking eyes seemed to encompass the whole dark scene without comprehension, as if he were unable, or disinclined, to distinguish living man from inanimate stone and snow.
“You’re desecrating…” Munro began.
The grave robber took one long stride forward, his leading foot stamping down into the snow. His arm came up smooth and fast, sweeping the shovel through the night air as if it were weightless. Its metal blade hit Munro’s head edge on, crunching in just above the crest of his cheekbone.
The terrible blow turned Munro about. He spun, and toppled, falling face first. He did not raise his arms to break the fall.
Everything after that happened quickly. Munro’s attacker made for the wall. Quire dropped the lantern and went to his knees beside Munro. The fallen man’s son slumped down as well, taking his father’s hand in his own.
“Father, Father,” he said, over and over again.
Quire tried gently to turn Munro on to his back. He knew, at once. He could tell, in the leaden weight of the shoulder at which he tugged; the