The Edinburgh Dead

New Town

The New Town was another place, another world; not wholly separate from the Old, connected to it by threads both tangible and intangible, but as unlike to it as an ordered farm of cultivated fields was to the wilderness that preceded it.

The Old Town had taken centuries to form itself, a haphazard growth thickening along the High Street, knotting itself into ever tighter and more crowded patterns. The New was the product of a singular and potent vision, and had sprung up in barely fifty years. It had been laid out in stern grids and graceful curves across the slopes and open fields to the north of the Old, beyond what had once been a thin, marshy loch and was now elegant gardens that divided the two Edinburghs one from the other.

For all its grandeur there were places in the New Town, Quire knew, where life’s cruder urgencies held sway, but today it presented its most gracious face to him. The broad streets were flanked by wide pavements. Some were lined with gaslights, standing to attention like an honour guard of thin, stiff soldiers. The terraces of noble houses ran on and on, most of them fronted by iron railings, all studded with great doorways. Fashionably dressed folk moved to and fro—the women in their capacious skirts, the men in their tall hats and high collars—with calm, refined purpose.

The frontage of Ruthven’s house in Melville Street was not so much pleasing as stern. A few steps led up to the imposing door. A boot scraper was set into the flagstones, and Quire regarded it for a moment or two, debating whether to yield to his instinct to use the thing, merely because it was there. He sniffed and instead gave the door knocker, a heavy ring of solid brass, a few firm raps.

As he stood there waiting upon the threshold, two ladies of evident means strolled by, arm in arm. They watched him as they went, and he had the uncomfortable sense that they thought him as out of place as he felt. He smiled and nodded, and they smiled demurely back before looking away and murmuring to one another.

The great door swung open, and Quire found himself greeted not by some servant as he had expected but by a strikingly attractive woman of middle age, to whom the adjective demure could hardly have been less applicable. Her décolletage was far more revealing than had been the fashion for some time, exposing a great expanse of smooth skin, divided by the deep crevasse between the swell of her breasts. She regarded him with an expression so open, so appraising, that he found it unsettling.

“Is Mr. John Ruthven at home?” Quire asked, his discomfiture putting a slight quaver into his voice.

A smile pinched at her lips, and her knowing eyes widened a little. A fragrant perfume was stealing into Quire’s nostrils, all floral piquancy, much like the woman who wore it.

“He is,” she said. “Have you a name I might share with him?”

She stood aside as she said it, and ushered him in with an unfurling of her long, pale arm. He entered, catching a waft of that perfume once more as he passed by her.

“Sergeant Quire,” he told her.

“How nice. I am Isabel Ruthven. Can I take your coat?” she asked him, wholly unperturbed by the appearance of a policeman on her doorstep. “You have no hat, then?”

“Ah, no. No, I don’t, madam.” He felt an irrational flutter of embarrassment at his lack of headgear, as if its absence constituted some grave social misdemeanour. There were few things he cared for less than the strictures of society’s hierarchies, yet he could not help but be aware of them, and of the difference that lay between him and those who would live in such a house as this.

She hung his coat on an ornate stand in the hallway. He watched her neck as she did so: the line of her dress fell almost as low across her back as it did her front. He could see her shoulder blades moving beneath her white skin.

“Mrs. Ruthven,” he said. “It is Mrs. Ruthven, is it?”

“Indeed.” That smile again, which seemed at once guileless and far too suggestive.

“Could you tell your husband that I have something of his that I would like to return to him?”

“Of course. Come, he is in the drawing room. There is a seat just here you may wait on.”

She escorted him down the hallway, walking fractionally closer to him than was entirely comfortable or proper, so that her voluminous skirt brushed heavily against his leg. He thought it must be deliberate, but an instant later found that notion silly and chided himself for being so foolish.

A single rug was stretched out the length of the hallway, all burgundy, blues and creams. A massive side table, its chestnut surface so thoroughly polished that it almost glowed with an inner fire, held an ornate mirror fringed with gilt curlicues. As they passed it by, Quire glimpsed himself at Mrs. Ruthven’s side in the glass, and noted how each of them accentuated the other by their proximity: her grace and porcelain beauty rendered his rough edges and weathering all the more acute, and his shadows made her shine all the more brightly.

A stairway folded itself up the inside of the house, light pouring down from a vast skylight four floors above. Mrs. Ruthven led Quire beneath it, and beyond, to a padded bench with thick, carved legs.

“If you would just wait here a moment, I will announce you.”

Obedient, he sat, and watched her approach a tall panelled door opposite. At the last moment, as she raised one hand to tap at the wood, she looked back and settled on him a thoughtful gaze. She washed it away in a moment with a smile, and turned back to the door.

Quire heard only murmured voices from within as she leaned into the room, then she was beckoning him, and closing the door behind him, and he was looking around one of the most luxuriantly furnished chambers he had ever seen. A glittering chandelier that hung from a huge moulded rose in the centre of the ceiling; paintings the size of dining tables on the walls, dulled by age; a small piano of lustrous ebony; high-backed, long-armed chairs so thickly upholstered they looked fit to smother a man should he sink carelessly into them.

And three men. Standing closest to Quire, regarding him with expectant curiosity—therefore, Quire guessed, being John Ruthven—was a tall figure with a strong, if rather thin, face and a white neckcloth tied about a high, wing-tipped collar in a bow so ebullient it could not help but draw the eye.

Beyond him, peering around his shoulder, was a man a good deal shorter and older, with a face browned and leathered by years of sun, and fronds of fine lines at the corners of mouth and eyes. His greying hair was in the process of deserting his scalp, falling back in some disorder towards his temples.

Third and last, reclining in one of those mighty chairs with legs crossed and the elevated foot bobbing slightly, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, a man of rather wan and pinched countenance. His hands, encased in smooth black gloves, were steepled, the two index fingers just touching the tip of his aquiline nose. He regarded Quire impassively.

John Ruthven advanced and extended a hand, which Quire duly shook.

“Sergeant Quire, was it my wife said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. This”—he stood aside and indicated the older man just behind him—“is Monsieur Durand. A house guest of mine.”

Quire hid his surprise at finding himself in the company of a Frenchman, and they exchanged nods. Ruthven flicked a casual hand in the direction of the seated man.

“And that is Mr. Blegg, my assistant. A factotum, you might call him.”

Quire duly gave another nod of acknowledgement, but there was only the most miserly of responses. Blegg barely stirred, other than a slight upward tilt of his chin and a little twitching bounce of that raised foot. One less inured to the sour eccentricities of the human spirit than Quire might have taken offence at such want of common courtesy. He, though, turned his attention back to Ruthven.

“I have a snuff box of yours, sir,” he said. It was not his custom to delay in reaching the nub of any conversation.

He drew the little silver casket from his pocket and held it out on the palm of his hand. Ruthven bent forward a touch, tapping his lips with an erect forefinger as if pondering some weighty puzzle. Then, quite abruptly, he took up the box and closed his large hand about it, almost entirely hiding its silvery gleam.

“Now here is a mystery,” he said with a thin smile. “Quite a mystery, eh, gentlemen?”

He cast an inclusive glance towards Durand, who gave a snorting half-laugh, which made Quire think that the Frenchman was a trifle overeager to find humour in his host’s words.

“How does a silver snuff box with my name upon it come to be in the possession of the police?” Ruthven said, turning back to Quire and becoming wholly, heavily serious.

“It was found in the pocket of a corpse in the Old Town, sir. A man a little older than me, perhaps, with dark hair, clean-shaven. I thought at first that that name might be the dead man’s, but it is evidently not so.”

“Indeed not. Did you have my address from the Antiquaries, then? They will have embroidered it with some unkind words, no doubt.”

“No, sir. There was no need for that. The Town Council records were enough.”

“I see. The Antiquaries and I did not part on the best of terms, but this trinket is a token of happier times. A gift in acknowledgement of some donations I made to the Society and its collections.”

“And this dead man had it from you? Stole it?”

“Stole it,” Ruthven said sadly. “Yes, so it appears. I confess: I did not know it was missing. But yes, certainly it was taken without my leave, as were some few other small items and coin.”

“All of it gone, no doubt, save this. Most likely he thought better of offering the uncles something that would so clearly betray his guilt and the identity of his victim.”

“Uncles?”

“The brokers, sir. Pawners of stolen goods. The thieves call them uncles. Like to think of it as a family affair, perhaps.”

“Ah. Well, as you say, officer. As you say.”

Ruthven appeared bored now. He had not looked at the snuff box since taking it from Quire. He gave no sign that being reunited with it brought him any satisfaction.

“I would be grateful for his name, sir,” Quire said. “From what you say, it seems you knew him.”

“Does it?” The momentary flutter of discomfiture, perhaps even irritation, did not escape Quire, though it was ruthlessly extinguished almost as soon as it was born. “Well, yes, I did know him. He was in my employ, in fact, for several years. Edward Carlyle. I was recently forced to dismiss him over some minor matters, and before departing he saw fit to help himself to certain of my possessions.”

“I will need to find any family he might have had.”

“I cannot help you there, Sergeant,” Ruthven said, pressing his lips together in regret that Quire found not entirely convincing. “He had no family that I knew of. A solitary man, at least in all the time he worked for me. He came from Glasgow originally, though. Perhaps that would be the place to look.”

There would be no effort to find any of Carlyle’s relatives so far afield, Quire knew. A thief dying alone in the Cowgate would not merit it. But still: thief or not, it had been the kind of end few men deserved, and it troubled Quire. As did Ruthven’s lack of curiosity as to the manner or circumstance of Carlyle’s death.

“Where did he live then, sir?”

“He had a room here, until I turned him out. After, I have no idea.”

“Did he leave any belongings?”

“Nothing of consequence. I believe my wife sent it all along to the charity workhouse, Sergeant. She has a most generous soul.”

“Oh?” Quire raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That seems a little… premature, sir. To dispose of his property, I mean.”

“Does it?” Ruthven frowned, and he barely troubled to conceal his irritation this time. “I can assure you, we were in no doubt that he would not be returning. He made that abundantly clear, and had ample opportunity to clear out his room before he left.”

Ruthven’s ill temper was not matched by the other two men. Durand had more the retiring air of a servant than that of a welcomed house guest, though a charitable interpretation might ascribe his reticence to a limited command of English. Blegg, by contrast, was all still, passive observation. It was, Quire thought, a peculiar manner for a servant. The man’s face did, though, have an unhealthy, colourless sheen to it. Perhaps the sign of some malady.

Quire’s gaze drifted as he puzzled over the disjointed, odd feel of this house and its inhabitants. He found himself staring at an object unlike anything he had ever seen before: an animal’s horn of some sort, as straight as a rod, almost as long as the span of his arms, tightly spiralled and coming to a sharp point. Like a lance. It rested on a wooden stand atop the mantelpiece.

“Striking, is it not?”

Quire nodded in agreement.

Ruthven carefully lifted it from its stand, holding it horizontally before him. He did not offer it to Quire.

“It is,” Ruthven said gravely, “the only unicorn’s horn in private possession in Edinburgh.”

Quire blinked in surprise, and looked to Ruthven’s eyes for some clue as to his sincerity, but the man was gazing down at the artefact with fascination, as if encountering it for the first time himself. Only slowly did he lift his eyes to meet Quire’s silent enquiry. Then he laughed.

“No, Sergeant. Of course not. It is the horn of a whale from the icy northern wastes.”

Quire, normally sure of his ability to read another’s nature, could not tell how much of that laugh was shared mirth and how much mockery. It seemed an untrustworthy, malleable sound.

“Forgive me,” Ruthven said as he returned the horn to its wooden cradle with precise care. “It is a flaw in my character to find the credulity of others a source of amusement. But I imagine one cannot be both credulous and an officer of the city police, eh?”

“Do you know of anyone who might have wished Mr. Carlyle harm, sir?” Quire asked.

Ruthven gave a mildly exasperated sigh.

“Quite the dog with the bone, aren’t you, Sergeant? Are all our officers of the law so persistent, or is it merely our good fortune to be visited by the most tenacious?”

“A man’s dead, sir,” said Quire flatly. “I’m required to understand how, and why. It’s not a matter of choice.”

“No. Well, I cannot be of further assistance, I’m afraid. I was not privy to Carlyle’s private dealings. He was merely an employee, you understand. A low sort of man, as it turned out. Untrustworthy. Just the sort to make enemies, and come to an unfortunate end.

“Well,” Ruthven said with an air of brisk finality, clasping his hands, and glancing towards the Frenchman as if to solicit agreement. “Our business is done, I suppose. We are rather busy, as it happens, Sergeant, so you will forgive me if I ask you to leave us to our deliberations. Thank you again for your diligence. I have some acquaintance with one or two members of the Town Council, and I will be sure to convey to them my appreciation of our police force’s efficiency.”

“No need,” said Quire.

He allowed himself to be escorted out, back into the long hallway. His business here felt unfinished, but he could summon up no plausible reason to outstay his welcome, which for all Ruthven’s restored mask of geniality had very clearly expired.

“Your Mr. Blegg,” Quire said as Ruthven accompanied him to the door. “Is he unwell? There’s a pallor to his face and demeanour, and the gloves…”

“Oh no, Sergeant.”

Ruthven took Quire’s coat down from its hook and held it open for him. Another oddity, thought Quire, as he slipped his arms into the sleeves. Where were the servants, other than Blegg? For a man with such a house to be helping his guests into their coats himself… Quire was no expert in the manners of New Town society, but that seemed unusual.

“I’d not expend any concern on Blegg’s account, if I were you,” Ruthven went on. “An illness a year or two ago left him somewhat diminished, but he is well enough in himself these days. And the gloves… an affectation, that is all. He has his little peculiarities, as do we all.”

With the door closed behind the police officer, John Ruthven stood for a few moments in his hallway, looking down at the silver snuff box in his hand, turning it slowly over and over. He grunted, and closed his fingers so tight about the box that his knuckles whitened. Anger put an arch into his tight lips. He spun on his expensively shod heel and strode down the hall.

Quire walked slowly along Melville Street, head down, dissatisfied. He disliked being lied to, having things kept from him, particularly by those who thought themselves his better. And though he could not say precisely how, or when, he had little doubt that he had been mocked, or deceived, or in some way gulled by the performance he had just witnessed.

He was, too, unsettled by the presence of the Frenchman Durand. It had called forth memories—seldom far from the surface, often in his dreams—that made his left arm ache, and his mood darken still further. He remembered, despite all his efforts to put it from his mind, Hougoumont.