The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [83]
Amidst this hubbub of speculation, one man sat alone and quiet, nursing a mug of ale that he never drank from. His eyes did not stray from the foamy head of his beer, and his hands—still in their black gloves though the little room was warm—remained clasped around it. If the great crowd of drinkers packed into the White Hart found his solitary, silent presence odd, they gave no sign of it. None paid him any more heed than a brief glance.
Two men entered, though, whose roving eyes picked him out at once, and they shuffled and elbowed their way to the little table he occupied.
“Is it Blegg?” the taller one asked curtly, his voice rich with the tones of his Irish homeland, and at that Blegg did lift his gaze, and fix it upon these newcomers with still clarity.
“Sit,” he said, and they ferreted out stools from amongst the forest of legs and bodies.
“Are you buying us drinks?” one asked as he slapped his backside down.
“You pay your own way until we’ve taken the measure of one another, don’t you think?”
The two Irishmen looked at each other, in silent consultation, until one grunted and rose with evident annoyance.
“I’ll get them in, then,” he grumbled, and began to push his way unceremoniously towards the bar.
Blegg watched him sink into the crowd, and then turned slowly back to the other.
“So. You’ve my name. What should I call you?”
“Oh, I like to keep my name close, like a sweetheart, until I know a man a little better.”
“You’ve a pretty turn of phrase, for an Irishman.”
“Is that so? You’ve a cocky tongue, for a Scotsman.”
“Hah.” It was an entirely cold and humourless little laugh. “Nice. And what’s your trade?”
“What’s it to you? I could mend your shoes if you’ve a need for a cobbler, but that’s not what we came to talk about, is it? I’m not looking for employment.”
“I like to know what manner of men I’m dealing with. And maybe you are looking for employment, of a sort. That’s what I heard, in any case.”
“Did you.”
It was a curt, sharp utterance. The Irishman glared at Blegg, the look thick with the spontaneous animosity that might easily arise when two men scented difference of temperament or type between them. Blegg was unmoved, and stared passively back, contemptuous amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. It was the other who looked away, watching his countryman barge his way back towards them, bearing his precious cargo.
“I’ve lost my thirst,” the seated man muttered as he was passed a cup.
“Why’s that?”
“Don’t like his manner.” He flicked his chin at Blegg. “Thinks he’s clever, this one. Cleverer than us, anyway.”
“I’m not caring who’s clever and who’s not. Clever’s fine, if it comes with money. Knox’s doorkeep said it’d be worth our while meeting with you, that’s all. Fifteen pounds’ worth, he said.”
“Ah, now you’re a forward kind of man,” Blegg said approvingly. “Not like your fellow here. What’s your name, friend?”
“The two of us share one name—William—and part thereafter: he is Burke, I am Hare.”
“Now what did you go and tell him that for?” Burke snapped.
Hare shrugged.
“There’s half a dozen folk in here know my name, and yours as well. If he wants to know, he can find it easy enough.”
Burke was unappeased.
“This cocky bastard wants to know who he’s dealing with; I say we do too. I’ve no more than a name for him, and I’d want more.”
“Would you?” Blegg murmured. “It’d not