The Edinburgh Dead (32 page)

“He’d not want to be seen sending messages off, right enough,” Quire murmured, distracted. “What ball’s he talking about, though?”

“Oh, do you not know anything, Adam?” Cath scoffed. “The
Fancy Ball, at the Assembly Rooms. Best of the season, they say. They’ll all be there, with their noses in the air and their snouts in the trough.”

So Quire found himself pulling on the camouflage of a harlequin’s clothes in a cloakroom, while the sounds of exuberant merriment roared out from the ballroom.

The Assembly Rooms were the heart of the New Town, in as much as it could be said to possess such a thing. Placed midway along its most noble boulevard, George Street, they were the hub about which the pleasant life of the inhabitants turned. Coming in through the busy lobby, Quire had seen posters advertising a host of diversions for those with the time and money to spare: a performance of
The Tempest
, down at the East End Theatre; a phrenological lecture here at the Assembly Rooms; and this very Fancy Ball, from which none who thought themselves members of elevated society would dare to be absent.

There was only one of that society Quire had any interest in tonight. If Durand was indeed here, he was leaving with Quire. That was the plan, in any case. Whether the rudimentary scheme Quire had thrown together in such haste truly merited the title of plan was debatable, but he had done what he could in the time available.

His guilt at dragging Wilson Dunbar into this was heavy, but he had not been sure he could manage it on his own. Dunbar, to his credit, had been all too willing to lend a hand. That, of course, might be because Quire had not told him everything. Had not troubled him with the details of Cold Burn Farm, or of Major Weir’s house.

Nor had he told James Robinson why he needed two tickets for the Fancy Ball. He knew no one other than the former superintendent who might be able to provide such things, and as it turned out, Robinson had no need of those he and his wife already possessed.

They were settled in a modest house on the south side of the Old Town, which seemed comfortable enough, but Quire was saddened
to see how reduced Robinson already appeared, after so short a time. His eyes had lost a little of their life, his voice had softened. Perhaps, Quire hoped, it was just the burden of the gout, a visitation of which was the cause of their lack of interest in the Fancy Ball.

Robinson had asked not a single question, beyond his first: “You’re not going to do anything foolish, are you?”

“I hope not,” was the best Quire had been able to do by way of answer.

The harlequin: that was improvisation. Seeing all the serving staff hurrying to and fro, every one of them clad in this same festive disguise, Quire had been suddenly taken by the wisdom of donning a mask. It had required a degree of patience, waiting for one of the waiters going in and out of the ballroom to display a build to match Quire’s bulky frame, and now that he was dressed in the pantomime outfit, Quire was not so sure of the idea.

He could already feel sweat forming over his face. The mask was unpleasantly confining and close-fitting. The harlequin costume itself was a little looser, but heavier than it had looked. It would not be long, though. He told himself that and hoped it was true. If this did not happen quickly, it would likely not happen at all.

“Right, you wait here and I’ll check the lie of the land,” he said to Dunbar, who held his hand to his ear with an exaggerated flourish.

“Speak up, man, you’ve something covering your mouth there.”

“Wait here, and I’ll have a look inside,” Quire growled.

Dunbar swapped the heavy cape he carried folded over his right arm to his left, so that he could flick a mock salute at Quire.

“You look like a fool,” he said, “but then so did most of the folk I’ve taken orders off, so I’ll not hold it against you.”

Quire grunted, and made his way down the lobby of the Assembly Rooms. Wide wooden staircases rose on either side, towards the many meeting rooms and exhibition spaces on the upper floor, but there was only one place to be this evening, and that was the grand ballroom at the far end of the hall. Its doors stood open, held back
on brass hooks, and through that portal, Quire saw a tumultuous sea of colour.

The cream of Edinburgh society swirled about the dance floor, or thronged its edges, in a great, flamboyant crowd. There were pirates and princesses, soldiers and highwaymen; tartans and silks and jewels and feathers. A fanciful world of ebullient dreams.

A small orchestra played on a dais at the back of the hall, and the dancers spun about in graceful circles, a hundred bright eddies in a many-hued pool. Masked harlequins worked their way through the lively throng, distributing drinks and candies and sweetmeats. It was a bewildering maelstrom, for a man in search of a singular and particular quarry.

Quire looked up, not to the glittering chandelier with its dozen gas-jet pinpricks of white light, but to the wide balconies that ran around the hall. They were filled with seating, for the ballroom served as lecture hall too. He found his way up there easily, and it seemed a safe enough vantage point. He could look down upon the whole delirious scene, and saw not a single face, masked or otherwise, lifted up towards him; the entire population of the ballroom was entirely absorbed in the festival they had fashioned for themselves.

It took him a little while to find them. The cacophony of sight and sound down there on the floor was distracting, making it difficult to pick out the details he needed. But there they were: Ruthven and Isabel, his wife, dancing with the rest, close to the musicians. He a turbaned corsair, complete with a great sabre at his belt that Quire could tell even from this distance was a fabrication; she an Ottoman princess, or harem girl perhaps, radiant in pink silks, flowing skirt bedecked with glimmering glass beads.

Durand stood alone, right back against the wall near the doors. Exactly what character he was meant to portray, Quire was unsure, for the Frenchman looked little different from his usual dapper style, save for the addition of a powdered wig of the most old-fashioned sort. He was sipping from a tall fluted glass, but did not give the impression of a man greatly enjoying the experience.

Quire went quickly down and slipped out once more to find Dunbar, who was leaning on the counter of the cloakroom, keeping a discreet watch to ensure that the servant Quire had deprived of his costume did not change his mind and raise a hue and cry.

Quire pushed the suffocating mask up on to the top of his head, and savoured the release from its confinement.

“You look like a bit of roast meat,” Dunbar observed.

“Never mind that,” Quire said, wiping the sweat from his face with his chaotically coloured sleeve. “I’ve seen the man I need. I’ll send him out to you. You’ll know him when you see him: small man, about fifty or so, wearing a stupid little wig.”

“What about you?” Dunbar asked.

“I’ll hang back, just for a minute, to make sure we’re not followed. We need to spirit him away, if we can, and leave them not knowing we’ve got him, let alone where we’ve taken him. You just get rid of the silly wig he’s wearing off his head, and wrap him up in the cape. If you can sneak a hat out of the cloakroom, maybe put that on him, too. I’d have brought one if I’d thought of it. Anything that’ll make him harder to spot or recognise. I don’t need anyone even remembering the sight of him, so they can’t say where he’s gone if they’re asked.”

“Aye, and I don’t want to know myself. Whatever it is you’re up to, I’m about at my limit for getting involved.”

“Quite right. Don’t worry about that.”

Quire hurried back to the door of the ballroom, eager to ensure the dance did not finish, and the Ruthvens abandon the dance floor, before he had done what he came to do. Everything was, thus far, playing out more easily than he could have hoped, and he did not mean to mock his good fortune by pushing it any further than it wanted to go.

He plunged into the gorgeous assembly, and made his way directly towards Durand. He went through the crowd a little more roughly and urgently than was fitting for a servant, but that seemed a risk worth the taking. A jester he bumped against turned sharply and made some complaint, but Quire was already beyond him,
closing on Durand. He was no judge of the sort of music to which these grand folk danced, but there seemed to be a rising, speeding vigour to the orchestra’s playing that suggested the end might be drawing near. Time was short.

He knocked Durand’s glass firmly against his chest, spilling its contents down the front of the Frenchman’s waistcoat.

Durand stared down at the spreading stain in surprise.

“Listen,” Quire said as clearly as he could. “You need to clean yourself up. Go out into the lobby as if that’s what you mean to do. There’s a man waiting there, by the cloakroom. He has clothes to make you a bit less obvious.”

Durand stared in disbelief into the variegated mask confronting him.

“Sergeant Quire?” he said.

“Yes, of course. Get out there, man. You’re coming away from here with me tonight.”

“I think it unlikely.” Durand shook his head dolefully, a little of the excessive powder that had been applied to his wig drifting on to his shoulders. “They are suspicious of me, and…”

Quire seized him roughly by the arm, squeezing the flesh of it above the elbow. He put every fierce sentiment he had cultivated over the last weeks into his voice.

“I need to know everything you know, Durand. Everything, not hints and games. So you’re coming away with me now, or so help me I’ll add you to the list of folk I’ve got a quarrel with.”

The Frenchman stared into Quire’s eyes.

“You misunderstand me. I am not unwilling, but I fear perhaps they are forewarned. Blegg accompanied us tonight, a thing he never does. He is outside somewhere, on the street.”

Quire ground his teeth in exasperation. But he steeled himself.

“You’ll not likely have another chance, Durand. You’ve got two men here, tonight, willing to do all we can to help you. We’ll not be coming again.”

Durand hesitated. Then he nodded, just once, curtly.

“Go,” Quire snapped through the mask. “Tell the man waiting in the lobby I’ll need the pair of you to wait for me. We’ll all go out together.”

The music died behind him even as he watched Durand working his way rapidly towards the doors. A ripple of applause rolled around the room. Quire made his own way through the crowd, going carefully, making himself as anonymous as a big man in a harlequin costume could; it should be possible here, tonight, if nowhere else.

He was stymied, though, by a stiff arm thrust out to block his path. An angry jester brandished a belled and beribboned stick at him.

“Was it you, just barged into me?” the jester demanded. “Not so much as an apology, not so much as an excuse me?”

Quire shook his head mutely, and made to move away.

The jester tapped him on the chest with that ringing stick.

“Disgraceful, sir! Quite disgraceful. I will be making a complaint to your employer.”

“Aye, go ahead,” Quire said and moved decisively away, striding quickly enough to leave his assailant in his wake.

He got himself into the doorway, and turned back to cast his eyes over the bobbing hats and wigs and tiara-laden heads. He looked for Ruthven’s turban, or for anything that might be suggestive of pursuit, and saw nothing. The musicians were tuning their instruments, putting violins back under their chins. There would be another dance in moments.

He spun on his heel.

“Mr. Quire,” he heard behind him. “Mr. Quire, that is you, isn’t it?”

He could have kept going, perhaps, but he feared Ruthven might raise a commotion, even have him detained. That would leave Durand and Dunbar alone.

He stopped, and turned about, and faced Ruthven, who must have come up to the door along one of the walls, out of Quire’s line
of sight, and must have done it quickly. He was taking the absurd turban off his head, and ran a long-fingered hand back through his hair to straighten it.

“I thought I recognised the set of those shoulders. Do take that ridiculous mask off, man.”

Quire did so, and glared at Ruthven.

Another harlequin, carrying two empty trays in his hands, came out of the ballroom. Ruthven moved out of his way, to one side of the doors.

“I really thought we had done with you, Mr. Quire,” he said, picking at the cloth of his headgear. “I really did. Blegg predicted I would learn otherwise, and so it transpires. I am very sorry to find I was mistaken. Sorry for you, as much as anything.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about me.”

The music started up, snaking out from the dais, through the open doors, rolling around Ruthven and Quire. A waltz, Quire thought.

“No,” Ruthven was saying. “I don’t intend to worry about you, I can assure you of that. I’ll be leaving the question of what to do with you entirely to others now.”

“That wouldn’t be your Mr. Blegg you’re talking about, would it?” Quire smiled. “I’ve formed the impression he maybe does a fair bit of your dirty work for you.”

“Believe me, you have no idea. None at all.”

“Well, I’ll look forward to my education, then.”

“I doubt that. Blegg tells me you have been sneaking about on my farm, and at a certain hovel in the Old Town.”