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
