The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [88]
Quire was waiting at the foot of a lime tree, one in a tremendous line of them stretching the whole length of the Meadows and laying their shadows out across the grass like the sketches of fallen pillars. Or, he supposed, the bars of a cell. He leaned against the tree, idly chewing on a long, twitching stem of grass he had plucked from its base. The sap that bled out between his teeth was watery but very faintly sweet.
He watched the to and fro of promenaders with an uninflected detachment. A disconnection had settled upon him since he had embarked upon his present course, a shard of distance put between him and the city and its people. He observed them, and felt that some flaw had entered into his understanding of them and of the lives they led. The change was not in the place, or its inhabitants, but in him.
He was, in many ways, now the Quire of old. Of Hougoumont. He had settled himself back into that former self, like a man pulling on a long-neglected coat. It still fitted him. He felt, as he had so often all those years ago, a strange kind of yearning for the struggle to commence. There would be no more manoeuvring, no more bluff or restraint. Only resolution. He felt coldly calm at the prospect. Intent.
The black carriage pulled up in front of him. The driver, perched on a high seat like that of a mail coach, looked down meaningfully at Quire, who returned the gaze impassively. Even that driver was a part of the display. He wore a tall, stiff black hat, and dark suit and waistcoat. He looked a sour man, Quire thought, and that too seemed fitting.
The two of them regarded one another in silence as the prettier folk passed by. Eventually, the near door of the carriage swung open.
“Don’t be a tiresome arse, Quire,” a light, feminine voice called out. “Get in.”
“I was just waiting for the invitation,” Quire grunted as he climbed aboard.
The door closed behind him, sealing him into a warm, humid softness of worked leather and quilted cushions, and those pendulous curtains shutting out much of the sunlight. Everything was coloured from the same sombre palette: black and dark browns, muted burgundy. Even the woman who sat opposite Quire, watching him with sharply intelligent eyes.
She wore a black skirt and bodice, both of them trimmed with black lace, and had her hair tied up in a bun with a black silk ribbon. She possessed a certain rather dry and studied beauty, Quire had always thought, but there was little about her that could be called warm. She gently tapped the shell of the carriage behind her head with a knuckle, and they jerked forwards before settling back into the slow and steady pace of before.
“Could we not let a little light in?” Quire wondered, toying with the edge of the nearest curtain.
“No, we could not.”
“You’re not in the best of moods this morning, then.”
“And you’ve been drinking,” she said, with a faint and entirely inappropriate hint of accusation in her voice.
“Not this morning,” Quire said, affronted.
“No, but last night. I can smell it on you.”
“Well if you’d just open the curtains, maybe we could let a wee bit of air in along with the light.”
“Leave them be. I am in mourning.”
“I know you are, Mary. I know you are.”
Mary Coulter. The Widow. Landlady and unchallenged ruler of the Holy Land; part-owner, it was said, of the Just and Happy Lands too. Queen, in other words, of the worst nests of vipers and vice the city had to offer. So she had been ever since her husband, the king of that same territory, died eight years ago. And ever since, she had been in perpetual mourning.
In truth, Quire would have welcomed a little of the air a tweaking of the curtain might admit. It was stuffy in that sealed box, with the full weight of the sun beating down on its black skin. He did not particularly want this interview to be a long-drawn-out affair.
“So,” the Widow said, perhaps sharing