“Nights are drawing out,” Rutherford said companionably. “Merrilees and his like should’ve hung up the tools of their trade for the summer by now. Too much by way of light. Word is he’s short of coin, though. Needing to do the work out of season.”
Quire stared down at the racing current below. The Water of Leith was nowhere very deep, not until it got down almost to its mouth on the Firth of Forth, and he could see the rocks of its bed quite clearly. There were a few traces of green weed streaming out from them like storm-stretched pennants. A pair of ducks were paddling furiously, making no progress upriver but holding station against the current. There must be some reason, Quire assumed, for their determined exertions, but he could not divine it.
The futility of his own assignment gnawed away at him. It was punishment, of a sort. He knew that well enough. Lieutenant Baird meant to grind his nose into the fact that it was not for him to choose who was pursued.
It galled Quire all the more that he was standing here on a bridge no more than a few minutes’ walk from Ruthven’s house. The New Town had spread so far in recent years that its north-western boundaries ran right down to the Leith Water. The banks of the river itself, though, remained a noisy, cantankerous bastion of industry; the workers laboured there while the owners enjoyed their luxurious new accommodations within earshot and eyesight.
To think of Ruthven and Blegg somewhere up there, savouring the comforts of their graceful home, left Quire thoroughly sour. There was unfinished business between them. To judge by the events at Duddingston, and what Emma Slight had told him of Carlyle’s last weeks, it might be brutal work.
“That’s him there,” Rutherford said in a calm and conversational tone. “Merry Andrew.”
The two of them, in almost perfect synchrony, lifted their elbows from the bridge’s parapet and stood straight.
“Which one?” Quire asked.
“The one on the wagon. Walks like a puppet on sticks. You’ll see when he gets down.”
The cart had turned into the yard from the lane that ran along the landward side of the chain of warehouses and workshops. The man sitting atop it, tugging at the reins of a big dray horse, was tall and thin and angular. Like a scarecrow. He even had unruly little clumps of hair sticking out from under his soft cloth hat, like so much brown straw. And when he dismounted, and led the horse over to a water trough, he did indeed walk like a puppet on sticks. He was all stiffness and jerks, as if his limbs had a life of their own.
“Huh,” Quire grunted in amusement.
“Aye, he’s a funny-looking fellow,” Rutherford agreed, “but he’s a mean and vicious bastard too, so watch yourself.”
“Shall we go down and introduce ourselves, then?”
“Give it a minute. We’ll get two of them if we employ a wee bit patience.”
Quire suppressed his frustration. To be moving, in whatever cause, would be better than all this waiting. But this was Rutherford’s hunt, not his.
“There you are,” Rutherford murmured soon enough. “Spune.”
A man in a tight leather cap, a much less remarkable figure than Merry Andrew, had come out from the dark maw of the distillery. He had a close-cropped beard and a red sheen to his features.
“That’s who Merry Andrew’s come to fetch,” Rutherford said. “Never lifts a spade or digs a grave without Spune on his right hand. Shall we meet them on their way out, then?”
Quire fell in behind as Rutherford led the way off the bridge. He spared a last glance towards the yard. Spune walked lazily up to Merrilees, and they exchanged some casual greeting in the manner of men long and well acquainted. A little of Quire’s slumbering enthusiasm bestirred itself. It might not advance his own particular concerns, but there was no harm in giving some of Edinburgh’s more notorious Resurrection Men a fright. And those engaged in the odious trade were a tight-knit community; it might just be that Merrilees would know something about Duddingston, if it could be prised out of him.
From the bridge, the narrow lane bent back sharply to parallel the Water of Leith’s curving course, itself overshadowed by looming brick cathedrals of industry just as the river was. As it turned out, Merry Andrew and Spune had spent little time on pleasantries, for the big black horse pulled the cart out from the distillery gateway just as Quire and Rutherford drew near. The horse was a dull-looking beast, but Merry Andrew was a good deal more alert to his surroundings. He looked up and down the lane as they bumped out on to the cobbled roadway, and then glanced sharply back to stare directly at Sergeant Rutherford.
“He knows me!” Rutherford called to Quire, and broke into a run.
Quire sprinted forward himself, and was amazed and not a little annoyed to see Merrilees flailing away at the horse’s rump, goading it into life. The animal, it transpired, had a better turn of pace than its appearance might have suggested, for it leaped away and swept the wagon off, thumping and banging over the uneven cobblestones.
There were plenty of folk in the lane—millworkers, barrowmen pushing along handcarts piled with bloated sacks and rolls of cloth—but the spectacle and cacophony of a big horse hauling a cart at such speed cleared a path quickly enough. People pressed themselves against the walls as the wagon thundered past with Quire and Rutherford in furious pursuit.
Merry Andrew was all elbows and wild gesture as he beat at the horse, twisting now and again to look back over his shoulder. He and Spune were bouncing violently on their seat, and Spune at least seemed less than happy with the situation, for he clung with both hands to the bench and hunched down.
The lane sloped gently up, and the river bent away in a sharp loop, a cluster of grim-looking manufactories crowding the triangle of land thus enclosed. There was another bridge up ahead, Quire knew, and beyond that only countryside and the long, straight road out to Queensferry on the distant shore of the Forth estuary. Whatever Rutherford’s thoughts on the matter, he reckoned he was not paid nearly enough to be chasing a cart on foot all the way out of the city, and he redoubled his efforts, racing over the cobblestones with a certain sense of exhilaration.
Jack Rutherford evidently shared the sentiment, for he put in a burst of speed and got himself up to the back end of the cart, seizing hold of the rocking frame.
“Merrilees, you daft beggar…” Quire heard his fellow sergeant shouting, and then Rutherford fell and Quire was leaping over him.
He glanced back—Rutherford was sitting on his backside, rubbing his arm but wearing a look that said that his pride had taken the worse injury—and then threw himself onward.
The bridge was up ahead, much higher and broader than the one Quire and Rutherford had kept watch from. The cart was heaving up and down and from side to side as it approached. Coming to a quick calculation of where his best interest lay, Spune suddenly jumped from his seat and rolled inelegantly to a halt in a heap up against the low wall bounding the lane. Quire ran past him, interested only in the chief of this particular gang. If Baird would not let him pursue Ruthven and Blegg, and wanted him chasing Merry Andrew instead, that was what he would get, and let him try to complain about Quire’s inability to take instruction then.
The clatter of the cart’s wheels took on a deeper, heavier sound as it rattled out on to the bridge. The wind, much brisker up on this exposed viaduct, snapped the hat from Merry Andrew’s head and sent it tumbling out over the parapet and spinning down towards the river far below.
It took Quire several paces to catch the wagon, and get a grip he could trust on its bucking bed. His weaker left arm ached at the exertion. Man and cart, the one clutching the other with fierce determination, flashed by a couple of washerwomen, who stopped and stared at the unlikely coupling.
Quire jumped up, and flung himself on to the back of the cart. It bounced and smacked him hard in the face and chest as he came down, which did nothing to improve his humour. He looked up from his prone position. Merry Andrew seemed oblivious to his arrival, and was lashing at the horse with ever more wild abandon. A long roll of white cloth, tied with coarse rope and containing something heavy to judge by the way it thumped up and down, lay close to Quire.
He got carefully on to one knee, swaying from side to side, and edged himself further up the cart’s length, all the while clinging to the side.
“I think you’re done now,” he shouted to Merry Andrew.
Who looked round, at first startled and then fiercely resolved. Twisting on his seat, he raised the switch with which he had been belabouring the horse.
