The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [89]
“Aye. I wanted to tell you that myself.”
“I heard you were fallen upon hard times. By the smell of you, you’ve not taken well to it.”
“If this matter of my smell is causing such offence, I’ve already told you…”
“You’re quite a capable man, Adam,” the Widow interrupted him firmly. “A man, perhaps, in need of gainful employment. In need of pay?”
“I’m not entirely dismissed yet,” Quire protested. “Still on a half-wage.”
“And what’s half a sergeant’s wage? Five shillings a week? I can do a little better than that for you.”
She could be quite charming when she wished. Quire had witnessed that on occasion. But anyone who spent any time poking around in Edinburgh’s shadows would discover, sooner or later, that she had her darker attributes too. No one could run the Holy Land on charm. Quire was yet to decide whether Mary had come today equipped only with that charm, or with rather sharper weapons. So far as he knew, she had a certain grudging respect, perhaps even affection, for him, but it was nothing he would care to rely too heavily upon.
The carriage slowed and swayed and gave a couple of shy little creaks. Quire could feel it turning about. They had evidently reached the end of the avenue and were to retrace their path.
“I’m not after the kind of work you’d offer,” he said, trying—not too hard—to keep it from sounding like an insult. “And like I say: I’m not dismissed yet.”
“Oh, but you will be, Adam. You know that, don’t you? There are folk of consequence in this world, and there are those of none. You are about to become one of the latter, unless you take hold of a helping hand when it’s offered. And you know better than most what becomes of men of no consequence.”
That annoyed Quire. Not just the philosophy, but the flawless confidence with which she expounded it. As if she was herself untouchable, unimpeachable and inarguably correct. Which she might well be, of course; but still, it annoyed him.
“I’ve seen a lot of people killed in my time,” he said, allowing himself to sink back into a corner, resting his arm on the padded windowsill. “Most of them what you’d call inconsequential men, I suppose, slaughtering one another at the behest of those who think themselves better. I never thought them dying was a matter of no consequence. Never.”
“I know that. It’s why you have—had—a good name in the Old Town, even when you were locking up a fair number of its folk.” Her tone had softened somewhat; she was essaying a companionable warmth. “Doesn’t make you right, but it might make you useful. You can put that good name to use with me. You’re not daft enough to think it’s only the police who keep order in the city.”
“I’m not going to be policing the Holy Land and its people for you, Mary, so please don’t ask again.”
“A pity.”
Quire lifted the curtain to look out. The light was sharp, making him wince. The noble trees that lined the road went by, one after the other, with their black, furrowed bark and bright green leaves. Quire wondered idly whether they would have to go when the gaslights came, as they surely would one day, to stake their claim to that same stretch of roadside along the Meadows. It would be a shame, he thought, to lose the trees. They looked to him as though they must have been there for a long time.
“A peppermint?” the Widow asked him.
She was leaning over, holding out a little tin box, its lid open to reveal a score or more of dusty white lozenges. He shook his head, and she returned the box to a purse at her waist.
“I was hoping you might arrange a meeting for me,” Quire said.
She smiled, and for once achieved a more or less natural, relaxed appearance that brought her face to life.
“Well, I do like it when folk owe me favours, so I daresay I’ll help if I can. What—or who—was it you were after?”
“Your witch.”
“What?”
“Cath says you get your charms from an old witch woman. I want to talk to her. Only if it’s not all some game you play, mark you. I don’t care about those silly wee beads—I daresay they’re no use