The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [7]
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re sure you’re not, are you? Wasting time, I mean.”
“No such thing as a nobody, sir. I’ve seen—we both have—enough folk of the sort Baird would call nobody die for King and Country to know that. Every man deserves a name putting to him, a bit of time spent on the explanation of his dying. The wars taught me that, and you too, I know. A man like Baird doesn’t…”
“Don’t test my patience, Quire,” Robinson muttered, grimacing. “You’re the best man I’ve got when there’s rough business to be conducted, and sharper than most, so I’ve never regretted any allowances I’ve made you, but I’m not in the best of tempers. The Board of Police are trying me sorely these days, and the gout’s got a hold of my leg something fierce.”
“I’d never want to add to your troubles, sir,” Quire said quickly. “This is the only work I’ve ever found myself good at, outside the army. I owe that to you, I know. It’s just I can’t abide the notion of one man being less worthy of our efforts than another.”
“Just tell me you’re sure this needs Christison’s attention, that’s all.”
“The body’s a mess, sir. Like nothing I’ve seen in years.”
Robinson looked dubious, but there was a foundation of trust between the two of them to be drawn upon.
“I’ll arrange for him to take a look then,” he said. “Don’t go making an issue of it with Lieutenant Baird, though.”
“No, sir,” Quire agreed with what he hoped was appropriately meek humility.
The Scavenger and the Professor
Quire found Grant Carstairs—Shake—waiting for him in the entrance hall of the police house, two days after the discovery of the corpse in the Cowgate. The scavenger sat on a three-legged wooden stool, slumped down into himself like a loose pile of clothes. When Quire appeared, Carstairs looked up with rheumy eyes that betrayed both relief and anguish.
“I’ve been asking after you,” Quire said before the scavenger could speak.
“Aye, sir, aye. I heard as much. I’ve no been well.” Carstairs extended a trembling hand, regarding it with a sad, piteous gaze. “The palsy’s on me something dreadful, and my chest…”
He gave a thick, richly textured cough by way of illustration and bestowed upon Quire a mournful smile.
“Is it your body that’s ailing or your conscience, Shake?”
“Oh, sir. You may have the right of it there. They say you’re a sharp one, and so you are. Body and conscience, and wife too. There’s the truth. D’you ken my wife at all, sir?”
“I don’t.”
“No, of course not. Well, have you a wife yourself, then, sir?”
“No.”
“Well, my wife is a wife of a certain sort, sir. A righteous sort. A righteous woman, and not blessed with great patience for a poor sinner like myself. But for her, and for my conscience—but for the needles of the pair o’ them—I’d be in my sickbed still, not come here seeking after yourself.”
“Well, you’ve found me now.”
“Aye, sir. That I have.”
The scavenger rose unsteadily to his feet, one arm reaching for the wall to lever himself up, the other dancing at his side. Quire clenched his own left hand to still a sympathetic tremor; one infirmity called up by another. He grasped the old man’s elbow, taking what little weight there was to take.
“Can we speak, the two of us, somewhere a wee bit more private?” Shake asked, casting nervous glances around.
There were watchmen and policemen passing to and fro, and a steady traffic of townsfolk in search of succour, or delivering accusations, or asking after relatives. And there was Lieutenant Baird, standing in the doorway. He was deep in conversation with one of the members of the day patrol, but his eyes were drawn to Quire and to Carstairs.
“I can’t speak easy unless I ken it’s just you that’ll be hearing me, d’you see?” Shake murmured.
“Come, then,” said Quire, and gently guided Carstairs into a quiet side passage.
Shake’s hands began to leap and flutter with unease when he saw where he was being taken. The dark cells stood open and silent, like waiting mouths.
“Best place, if you don’t want to be seen or heard,” Quire said reassuringly.