The Edinburgh Dead

The Widow

A closed black carriage processed slowly along the road skirting the southern edge of Hope Park. Most folk called it by the simpler title of the Meadows now, this long stretch of open grass, edged and crossed by stately paths that ran between avenues of trees, but Hope Park suited its grace a little better.

It pleased a certain type of Edinburgh resident to promenade there, when the weather was compliant. Many strolled, at a pace fit for contemplation and for the certainty of being observed, along the tree-lined walkways. Couples arm in arm, soft with love; groups of ladies, parasols bobbing like clumps of flowers; men of business or of learning, deep in conversation as often as not. Others took to their carriages and rolled along behind horses groomed to their highest state of beauty.

Most of these carriages went with hoods folded down, their occupants sitting tall, displaying themselves. Not so the black one easing its way round the Meadows. It went along like a great dark molluscan shell mounted on wheels, heavy curtains drawn, secrecy preserved. A more suitable home for it would have been in the midst of a funeral cortège, but there it nevertheless was, in all its brazen sobriety, taking its place amongst the jaunty barouches and fancy phaetons that paraded their equally gaudy passengers for all to see. Even the horses hauling this austere interloper were funereal: black and sedate.

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 the sentiment, “Cath told me you wanted to see me, but not the why of it.”

“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 for anything but taking pennies off the gullible—but I need to talk to someone who knows about… whatever it is such folk know about. Darker matters. Can you oblige me?”

There was an element of suspicion in the gaze to which the Widow subjected him. An appraisal, too; trying to reach a judgement, perhaps, on whether or not he was serious.

“You’re a man full of surprises,” she said at length. “It’s an appealing trait, in moderation. I’ll see what I can do for you, but I make no promises. The woman concerned makes her own decisions.”

“Fair enough. There’s one more matter. I’ve a feeling I’ll be needing somewhere to stay. My own rooms have been attracting some unwelcome attention of late, and I need to be a wee bit harder to find, just for a time. I was thinking Cath might…”

The Widow laughed, a rich and strangely generous sound to Quire’s ear.

“Why, Adam. You must be in the direst of straits if you think the Holy Land a safer bolt-hole than your own roof. There’s one or two in there who’d not count themselves your friend.”

“You put it about I’m under your protection, I’ll be safe enough. It’ll not be for long.”

“And you think Catherine will have you, do you?”

“I think so.”

“You might be right, at that.”