The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [71]
“Napoleon? Oui. A giant spirit, contained in modest accommodation. Not a good man, you understand. I do not claim that. But a great one.”
“Caused misery and havoc enough, if that’s what you mean by greatness.”
“True, monsieur. Quite true. Greatness is no guarantor of wisdom, or of a peaceable nature. Believe me, I have cause to know that better than most. Are you sure you will not take some coffee? Or something else, perhaps?”
“I don’t need anything.”
The door behind Quire banged open, and Durand’s eyes went to it instantly, bright alarm in them for a moment. Quire’s arms tensed in response, but he saw the Frenchman’s features relax, and he almost smiled at how easily one man’s unease might attach itself to another.
“John Ruthven might have been a great man once,” Durand said.
Quire leaned in, his interest on the hook now. He said nothing, for fear of diverting the Frenchman from his course.
“But great men can go… astray, that would be the word, no?” Durand said. “More easily than lesser men, perhaps. He has a rare mind, Ruthven, a gift to see further and deeper than most of us. He has done things… ah, they would amaze you. But his is not a kind gift, for what he sees has clouded him, drawn him down paths better ignored.”
“Maybe I can do some correction of that.”
“Maybe. I am not innocent in this, no more than John Ruthven. Not one of us in that house can lay claim upon innocence. You know Mr. Blegg?”
“Not as well as I’d like.”
Durand smiled at that, and sank back in his chair. It was a sad smile, almost one of pity.
“He is not a man you would wish to know better, Sergeant. I assure you of that. And he is not so easily understood as you might think. Blegg is not his only name. I have heard Mr. Ruthven call him Weir, and other names. Darker names. Such is the company I keep, at the gravest peril to my immortal soul.”
The regret in Durand’s voice was all but palpable, and Quire could hear in it a vast acreage of mourning. Mourning, perhaps, for a life gone wrong.
“What’s Ruthven doing in the body-snatching business?” he asked. “Can you tell me that? He can’t need the money.”
Durand gave a twitching snort.
“You think that is what this is about? Selling the dead? Nothing so harmless. But in any case, you misjudge Ruthven. He is no longer a rich man, Sergeant. Not by any means.”
“I’ve seen his house. I know what rich looks like.”
“You have seen one room, no? The public façade. It is a large house, and contains many surprises. Much emptiness. But as for the digging of graves… I do not think you need concern yourself with that. I have the impression that certain recent events may have convinced those involved to stay away from your cemeteries for a time.”
“Tell me what I need to know,” Quire pressed, tiring of Durand’s coyness. “I’ll fix what’s needing fixing.”
Or break it, he thought.
“I do not doubt that you will try, Sergeant. You have already proved yourself a most… troublesome sort. That is why I am here. But be certain of this: you would be dead by now, were you not a member of the police. You are not the sort of man who can simply disappear, not without hard questions being asked. Especially as you have not been precisely quiet about your suspicions of John Ruthven. They have been circumspect. Had you been but an ordinary man… well.”
The Frenchman spread his hands, inviting Quire towards the obvious conclusion.
“I’d not call setting their damned hounds on me circumspect.”
“The dogs? I did not know that. I am not as trusted as I once was. I am no longer fully in their confidence. It does not bode well. But still: a man killed by dogs is accident, not murder, is it not? Circumspect, as I say.”
“What are they, anyway? Those dogs?”
“An early venture on Ruthven’s part into dark territory. A failed experiment, you might say. But he has learned, since then; with my assistance, to my utmost regret. Make no mistake, I come to you in desperation. I am surely doomed, if the charnel house they have built cannot be destroyed, to its very foundations, and them along with it. I hope you might be the man