in great gouts of embers on to the men below. Smoke, not the grey powder stuff of battle, but thick, heavy, choking black smoke, filled the place, curling down the walls and writhing over the wailing injured.
“Get them out!” someone was shouting.
Men were running about at the fringes of Quire’s vision, and all the time he was lying there, staring up into the inferno above him, and feeling that it was he who floated, up above, looking down upon some terrible fire raging in the hull of a boat.
There was a sudden crashing descent: parts of the roof structure collapsing, falling down towards him in a roaring mass of flame and smoke. A huge blow struck the left side of his body, bringing searing heat that made him try to roll away. A burning roof beam pinned him, crushing his injured arm beneath its orange-hot weight. Screaming. Quire screaming, though it took him a moment or two to realise it was him.
Someone pulled at him. He did not know who. He could see nothing any more. Could feel nothing but the white, stultifying agony of his arm.
Dancing with the Uncle
Edinburgh, 1828
The sky came in brutish on Edinburgh, bearing rain and sleet on its turbulent wings. Hard weather always came out of the west, breaking across the castle on its rocky promontory like waves beating at the prow of a rising ship, spilling over and around its walls and tumbling on down across the Old Town. At such times, those city folk who could not avoid venturing forth encased themselves in high-collared coats and capes and low, tight hats, leaned into the sky’s blustering force and went on about their business with dogged resignation.
Dogged resignation was as good a description as any of Quire’s demeanour as he trudged up the High Street. The weather, though, weighed less heavily upon him than did his own thoughts. He was preoccupied by the image of Edward Carlyle’s ravaged body. That was unfinished business, and it nagged at him. Once or twice, it had even dislodged memories of Hougoumont, of Jamie Boswell and of fire from their dominion over his dreams. Visions of teeth had come to him in his sleep, and set Quire himself fleeing through an endless maze of closes with a pack of spittle-spewing wolves upon his trail.
As he strode towards the police house, head down into the wind, eyes narrowed against the flecks of sleet riding the gusts, one figure amongst the few braving the foul elemental mood caught Quire’s attention. The sight drew him to a halt, and turned him about to observe: a slightly stooped man hunched up beneath a rain cape, wearing black gloves. Blegg. Ruthven’s man. Hurrying along with an air of intent, so focused upon whatever his mission might be that he passed within two dozen paces of Quire without noticing him.
Quire watched the man disappear into the narrow maw of Toddrick’s Wynd, a straight, steep close running down towards the Cowgate. Not a place of obvious and natural interest to the household of a man like Ruthven. He followed to the head of the wynd and peered down its gloomy length. Blegg hastened between the tenements, and met a dishevelled, rangy youth waiting in a very particular doorway. The two of them conferred briefly, and Quire shrank out of sight behind the corner as they looked about them. When he ventured to peer down the wynd once more, they were gone. Which was of great interest to Quire, given what—and who—lay behind that door.
He waited, buffeted by the ill-tempered sky, feeling slugs of melting sleet slip from his hair and inside his collar. It did not take long to tire of that. He sought refuge in Mallinder’s dairy, a dingy little shop opposite the entrance to the wynd.
“You don’t look like a man after milk,” Mrs. Mallinder observed despondently as Quire took up station just inside the threshold.
“No,” Quire admitted without looking at her. “Just a bit of shelter.”
She went back to folding paper around the slabs of butter on her counter.
“Well, fine,” she muttered. “Don’t you worry. You make whatever use you like of my roof. It’s there anyway. Costs me nothing, of course, to keep a shop for the service of them as don’t like a bit of rain or wind. My wee ones eat air and wear sackcloth, so it’s nothing to me if I never see the King’s head in my hand all day. Which I’ll probably not, unless this dreich weather softens up a bit.”
Quire backed up and spilled a few tiny silvery pennies on to the counter.
“There you are. Feast your eyes on good King George all you like.”
Mrs. Mallinder grunted.
“Fine man, no doubt, but he’s no treat for the eye. Here.”
She slapped a wrapped block of butter into Quire’s palm before he could withdraw his hand. He glanced down at it.
“I’m not wanting butter,” he said a touch plaintively.
“That’s as may be, but you’ve bought it fair and square. I may not be running a charitable shelter here, but I’m not after the charity of others either. You take it; that way I’ll not have to take offence.”
Bemused, and rather disappointed with the way the exchange had turned out, Quire slipped his purchase into the pocket of his greatcoat and resumed his position at the open door.
“Could you not shut the weather out?” Mrs. Mallinder enquired.
“No,” Quire replied, and that was the end of that.
It was perhaps a quarter of an hour or so before Blegg reappeared, striding out of the close, turning into the teeth of the wind and making his determined way off up the High Street. Quire watched him go, and rubbed his bristly chin thoughtfully for a moment or two. He was curious about what the rest of Blegg’s itinerary for the day might be, since it had had such an interesting start, but he was more curious still about what his business had been in Toddrick’s Wynd, and that trail might go cold all too quickly.
He crossed the High Street smartly and ducked into the close. The door to which he went was nondescript, a little broader and more solid than most of those lining the looming tenements, but unremarkable. Inside, though, was different.
A short, cramped passageway opened out into a wide hall with a low ceiling, the beams of which had turned almost black from long exposure to smoke and other fumes. The floorboards creaked beneath Quire’s feet. They were cracked and worn and scratched. There were benches around the edges of the hall. On one of them a woman of indeterminate age was asleep, bundled up in threadbare, moth-shot blankets. On another, a creased old man was sitting, blowing out a reedy, sharp tune on a wooden whistle. His crooked fingers jerked up and down as they tapped away at the holes. Before him, eyes closed, a girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen was dancing alone, jigging about wearily as if long spent but driven by the melody to continue. Not that her movements, so far as Quire could see, bore any relation to the old man’s tune. Other than that, the Dancing School was deserted.
He had hoped to find the youth Blegg had met still here, but the thicket of tables and chairs at the far end of the hall was unoccupied, save for a scattering of empty bottles and cups, and a sheen of broken glass strewn across the floor beneath them. He picked out a path between the tables, the brittle debris crunching and crackling beneath his feet.
The door to the kitchen was of the sort a farm cottage might have, top and bottom halves separate, and individually hinged. The lower section was locked, but the upper swung easily back when he pushed on it. He leaned over and peered around.
“Only whisky,” said the portly man bent over the sink without looking round. “Not a drop of ale left, if that’s what you’re after.”
“I’m not a man for the early drinking, Donald. Glad to see you washing your own dishes, though.”
The man turned about and rolled his eyes.
“Quire. Just the face I want to see at the start of a day.”
Donald MacQuarrie was not the owner of the Dancing School—that distinction belonged to a clutch of men a good deal more reclusive than him—but he had run the place for as long as Quire had been in the police service, and that he had not yet found himself jailed for it was a bitter miracle built out of wit and corruption and the playing
