The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [44]
The futility of his own assignment gnawed away at him. It was punishment, of a sort. He knew that well enough. Lieutenant Baird meant to grind his nose into the fact that it was not for him to choose who was pursued.
It galled Quire all the more that he was standing here on a bridge no more than a few minutes’ walk from Ruthven’s house. The New Town had spread so far in recent years that its north-western boundaries ran right down to the Leith Water. The banks of the river itself, though, remained a noisy, cantankerous bastion of industry; the workers laboured there while the owners enjoyed their luxurious new accommodations within earshot and eyesight.
To think of Ruthven and Blegg somewhere up there, savouring the comforts of their graceful home, left Quire thoroughly sour. There was unfinished business between them. To judge by the events at Duddingston, and what Emma Slight had told him of Carlyle’s last weeks, it might be brutal work.
“That’s him there,” Rutherford said in a calm and conversational tone. “Merry Andrew.”
The two of them, in almost perfect synchrony, lifted their elbows from the bridge’s parapet and stood straight.
“Which one?” Quire asked.
“The one on the wagon. Walks like a puppet on sticks. You’ll see when he gets down.”
The cart had turned into the yard from the lane that ran along the landward side of the chain of warehouses and workshops. The man sitting atop it, tugging at the reins of a big dray horse, was tall and thin and angular. Like a scarecrow. He even had unruly little clumps of hair sticking out from under his soft cloth hat, like so much brown straw. And when he dismounted, and led the horse over to a water trough, he did indeed walk like a puppet on sticks. He was all stiffness and jerks, as if his limbs had a life of their own.
“Huh,” Quire grunted in amusement.
“Aye, he’s a funny-looking fellow,” Rutherford agreed, “but he’s a mean and vicious bastard too, so watch yourself.”
“Shall we go down and introduce ourselves, then?”
“Give it a minute. We’ll get two of them if we employ a wee bit patience.”
Quire suppressed his frustration. To be moving, in whatever cause, would be better than all this waiting. But this was Rutherford’s hunt, not his.
“There you are,” Rutherford murmured soon enough. “Spune.”
A man in a tight leather cap, a much less remarkable figure than Merry Andrew, had come out from the dark maw of the distillery. He had a close-cropped beard and a red sheen to his features.
“That’s who Merry Andrew’s come to fetch,” Rutherford said. “Never lifts a spade or digs a grave without Spune on his right hand. Shall we meet them on their way out, then?”
Quire fell in behind as Rutherford led the way off the bridge. He spared a last glance towards the yard. Spune walked lazily up to Merrilees, and they exchanged some casual greeting in the manner of men long and well acquainted. A little of Quire’s slumbering enthusiasm bestirred itself. It might not advance his own particular concerns, but there was no harm in giving some of Edinburgh’s more notorious Resurrection Men a fright. And those engaged in the odious trade were a tight-knit community; it might just be that Merrilees would know something about Duddingston, if it could be prised out of him.
From the bridge, the narrow lane bent back sharply to parallel the Water of Leith’s curving course, itself overshadowed by looming brick cathedrals of industry just as the river was. As it turned out, Merry Andrew and Spune had spent little time on pleasantries, for the big black horse pulled the cart out from the distillery gateway just as Quire and Rutherford drew near. The horse was a dull-looking beast, but Merry Andrew was a good deal more alert to his surroundings. He looked up and down the lane as they bumped out on to the cobbled roadway, and then glanced sharply back to stare directly at Sergeant Rutherford.
“He knows me!” Rutherford called to Quire, and broke into a run.
Quire sprinted