mind from disbelief—he watched the surface of the loch break apart from beneath and a dark form rise from it and force its way towards the land. He could hear quite clearly the ice splintering and shattering as the figure made its lurching retreat into the darkness.
After a moment or two the sound died away, and Quire could see nothing more. He stared out into the night for a little while longer, then turned back towards Duddingston village and began to walk, shaking.
Calder’s
“Of course I’m blamed for it. I was there.”
Quire was bent over his tankard, clutching it with both hands, elbows resting on the table. He peered down into the brown, foamy liquid as if hoping the mere sight of it might ease his troubles. But he knew that only the drinking of it would do that, and only for a few hours. Much as he craved that stultifying release, he had learned—belatedly, but better so than never—how illusory such respite was.
Wilson Dunbar had already drunk enough to liven up his opinions of anyone’s troubles.
“Well maybe if there’d been more than just you,” Quire’s stocky companion exclaimed, “if they’d listened to you in the first place, it’d all have fallen out differently. Maybe the man’d still be sucking air if… ach, but it’s never the officers pay the price, is it?”
“I’m an officer now,” Quire muttered. “Sergeant, anyway.”
“Aye, true enough. The damnedest thing, for those of us as’ve known you a while, but not to my point. It’s a matter of blame: those it sticks to, those it don’t. Your Lieutenant Baird—he’s one it don’t. Me and you, we’re ones it does. Nothing fair about it.”
“It’s fair,” grunted Quire. “The man was happy in his beer until I dragged him out of the Sheep Heid. To get his own head stoved in. First time I’ve seen a man killed like that, in front of me, since… since a long time.”
Dunbar snorted. He had always been a disputatious sort, even when in uniform. Long retirement from the soldier’s life had not changed that, and nothing brought it more nimbly to the surface than drink. Not that it needed bringing far.
“You know fine death doesn’t need your help or anyone else’s when it’s set its eye on someone,” Dunbar said, flourishing his own near-empty tankard. “Comes when it likes.”
“Maybe it does. That bastard on the ice thought to visit it upon me, as well, and that makes it personal to my way of thinking. I’ll have him. I’ll have all of them.”
Calder’s tavern was crowded, as it most often was of an evening. It did not take many bodies to make it so, for it had a low ceiling of plaster and beams, and a long-striding man might spring across its breadth in a half-dozen paces. Even so, it packed in a rare variety of customer. Quire might be the only policeman there—and that was a part of its appeal to him—but there were soldiers and brewers, glass-blowers and grocers, clerks and lamplighters. Sometimes footmen and stable hands from the nearby palace itself, though they kept to themselves as often as not, perhaps fearful of leaking secrets the Keeper of Holyroodhouse would rather stayed behind its grand walls.
Tonight, the mood—save in the corner Quire had made his own—was boisterous. A soldier was rattling out a hectic beat on a table with drumsticks. A little group of women who sold candles on the Canongate were engaged in good-natured argument over who had done the most business, and should therefore be buying the drinks. A solitary old man was complaining to no one but himself about the bad tobacco that would not hold a light in his pipe.
“And those fine gents buying the dead off the bastard body snatchers,” Dunbar cried. “There’s more could shoulder a bit of that blame you’re cuddling. How many times is it the corpse of a rich man that ends on the cutting slab, eh? If it’s a matter of such importance, did you ever see one o’ them teachers themselves give over their carcass
After a moment or two the sound died away, and Quire could see nothing more. He stared out into the night for a little while longer, then turned back towards Duddingston village and began to walk, shaking.
Calder’s
“Of course I’m blamed for it. I was there.”
Quire was bent over his tankard, clutching it with both hands, elbows resting on the table. He peered down into the brown, foamy liquid as if hoping the mere sight of it might ease his troubles. But he knew that only the drinking of it would do that, and only for a few hours. Much as he craved that stultifying release, he had learned—belatedly, but better so than never—how illusory such respite was.
Wilson Dunbar had already drunk enough to liven up his opinions of anyone’s troubles.
“Well maybe if there’d been more than just you,” Quire’s stocky companion exclaimed, “if they’d listened to you in the first place, it’d all have fallen out differently. Maybe the man’d still be sucking air if… ach, but it’s never the officers pay the price, is it?”
“I’m an officer now,” Quire muttered. “Sergeant, anyway.”
“Aye, true enough. The damnedest thing, for those of us as’ve known you a while, but not to my point. It’s a matter of blame: those it sticks to, those it don’t. Your Lieutenant Baird—he’s one it don’t. Me and you, we’re ones it does. Nothing fair about it.”
“It’s fair,” grunted Quire. “The man was happy in his beer until I dragged him out of the Sheep Heid. To get his own head stoved in. First time I’ve seen a man killed like that, in front of me, since… since a long time.”
Dunbar snorted. He had always been a disputatious sort, even when in uniform. Long retirement from the soldier’s life had not changed that, and nothing brought it more nimbly to the surface than drink. Not that it needed bringing far.
“You know fine death doesn’t need your help or anyone else’s when it’s set its eye on someone,” Dunbar said, flourishing his own near-empty tankard. “Comes when it likes.”
“Maybe it does. That bastard on the ice thought to visit it upon me, as well, and that makes it personal to my way of thinking. I’ll have him. I’ll have all of them.”
Calder’s tavern was crowded, as it most often was of an evening. It did not take many bodies to make it so, for it had a low ceiling of plaster and beams, and a long-striding man might spring across its breadth in a half-dozen paces. Even so, it packed in a rare variety of customer. Quire might be the only policeman there—and that was a part of its appeal to him—but there were soldiers and brewers, glass-blowers and grocers, clerks and lamplighters. Sometimes footmen and stable hands from the nearby palace itself, though they kept to themselves as often as not, perhaps fearful of leaking secrets the Keeper of Holyroodhouse would rather stayed behind its grand walls.
Tonight, the mood—save in the corner Quire had made his own—was boisterous. A soldier was rattling out a hectic beat on a table with drumsticks. A little group of women who sold candles on the Canongate were engaged in good-natured argument over who had done the most business, and should therefore be buying the drinks. A solitary old man was complaining to no one but himself about the bad tobacco that would not hold a light in his pipe.
“And those fine gents buying the dead off the bastard body snatchers,” Dunbar cried. “There’s more could shoulder a bit of that blame you’re cuddling. How many times is it the corpse of a rich man that ends on the cutting slab, eh? If it’s a matter of such importance, did you ever see one o’ them teachers themselves give over their carcass
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