The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [39]
Robinson sniffed again.
“Makes no sense. There’s not enough coin in the corpse trade to interest a man like Ruthven. Still, he’d hardly be trying to pull you down if there was nothing to it.”
“I’ve had someone break into my home, too,” Quire muttered bitterly. “Might not be part of it, but it was like no housebreaking I’ve seen. Nothing taken but a shirt.”
That put a frown on Robinson’s brow. He leaned forward a little.
“You be careful, Adam. Could be that you’ve made yourself some bad enemies here. They’ve already killed at least one man, and that’s not the sort of folk you want knowing where you live.”
“I’ve had the same thought. Bad enough someone trying to kill me out on the ice at Duddingston, without them digging around in my home. And spreading lies about my conduct. I don’t take well to being the hunted.”
“Yet that’s what you are, it would seem.”
“If so, they’ve made themselves a worse enemy in me than they could ever be, and I know fine where Ruthven lives. If he wants to make it a personal matter between him and me, that’s a game I can play.”
“Steady, steady,” Robinson muttered. “This isn’t some street brawl or army grudge you’re mixed up in now. Needs a bit of discretion, as I said. I recommend the cultivation of it to you, one old soldier to another. You need to keep yourself clean and quiet for a bit, or the Police Board’ll have you, no matter what I might say.”
Quire ground his fingers into his temples, staring blankly into the middle distance. There was a rare ire burning in him, unlike anything he had felt for years. It had taken him a long time to get his life on to some sort of steady path, and his eyes clear enough to see it. He despised Ruthven for threatening that, and for making him angry enough that he might even threaten it himself.
“What do you mean to do?” Robinson asked quietly.
“Baird wants me to leave the Duddingston thing to others.”
“That’s good sense, for now at least. I don’t suppose he’s saying it for your good, but it’ll do you no harm to keep out of sight on that matter.”
“Ruthven told me he’d had some falling-out with the Society of Antiquaries. Might be they know something of his habits. And there’s still Edward Carlyle. I’m not ready to believe there’s nothing more to that.”
“Dogs, I hear.”
Quire gave an unguarded, derisive snort.
“When did dogs ever kill folk in the Old Town? The man breaks with Ruthven and he’s dead inside a few weeks. It’s not coincidence that stinks of. I’ve got the name of the woman he was passing time with before he died. She might be worth the talking to.” He glanced apologetically at the superintendent. “I’ll need to pay a visit to the Holy Land.”
Robinson rolled his eyes.
“Did I not just explain the merits of discretion to you, Quire? Of keeping yourself clean? You and the Holy Land don’t mix well. Was almost losing your job once before not enough for you?”
“I’m not about to start digging myself back into old holes,” Quire said quickly, anxious to reassure his patron. “I’ll be quiet about it. Quiet’s often better in the Holy Land, anyway.”
“Quiet’s always better, Adam,” Robinson grunted. “I’m glad you know as much, though the knowing and the doing seem the most distant of cousins in your case.”
The Holy Land stood shoulder to shoulder with the Happy Land and the Just Land in Leith Wynd, a narrow roadway running north from the High Street. Of the three ill-reputed tenements—each of them named with the dour irony that was the natural tenor of the city’s self-regard—it was the Holy Land that bore the foulest stains upon its character. Before ascending the common stair, Quire spared a moment to check that his baton still hung securely from his belt.
He climbed the spiral stairway, every step of which was bowed by the wear of decades. Even now, with the daylight seeping in from a few infrequent windows, he had to watch his footing. To describe the little square openings as windows was to glorify their ruined state, in truth. The glass was long gone, as were the wooden frames,