Nicol emerged from the mouth of the close a handful of minutes later. He didn’t notice the dark-pelted wolf hunkered down in the shadows, but no human would have. It was late now and profoundly dark, a cloudy sky veiling both moon and stars.
Nicol set off at a brisk pace up the High Street and after a few moments, Lindsay followed. He did not need to keep Nicol in sight—the man’s scent was a vibrant, silver thread that he followed with ease.
Two watchmen strolled at the top of the Canongate, where the old Nether Bow gate used to be, but they were looking out for ne’er-do-wells sneaking into the Canongate rather than respectable gentlemen leaving it, and so they spared barely a glance for Nicol.
Nor did they notice the shadowy beast stalking him.
The further up the High Street Nicol went, the darker it became. There were fewer oil lamps and those that there were glowed weakly, their fuel running short now, hours after being lit. Here and there, human figures slumped against walls and huddled in the mouths of closes. Sometimes a downbent head would lift as Nicol passed, or a few murmured words would be exchanged, but no one moved to follow or threaten him.
A thousand scents assailed the swift-moving wolf, but none distracted him from the silver thread he followed. In this form, Lindsay finally knew what that flinty scent of Nicol’s was. He encountered it frequently on his runs as he splashed through riverbeds and scrambled up hillsides. It was the scent of dark stones speckled with the glitter of metal.
Now he followed that bright trail devotedly.
Nicol did not go much further. He strode past St. Giles Cathedral, Parliament Square, a half-dozen more closes. When he reached the Lawnmarket, he slowed, turning finally into Brodie’s Close. The wolf waited a few beats before slinking after him.
At the bottom of the close, there was a mansion house, but Nicol did not venture that far. He entered a tall tenement building on the right hand side, quietly closing the main door behind him.
Lindsay waited, but nothing further happened. No light appeared at any window, nor did any human voice penetrate the darkness.
Nicol’s scent lingered for a while, then died away.
Only when it was quite gone, did Lindsay turn and slink home.
Chapter Ten
The next evening was the night of Hector Cruikshank’s supper party.
Lindsay’s suit was ivory silk embroidered with turquoise and gold thread. He wore his finest jewels and had Wynne powder his hair brilliant white. Wynne rouged his cheeks too and applied a round patch at the corner of his mouth and a heart-shaped one with a tiny arrow through it below the corner of his left eye. When he left Locke Court, he looked every inch the proud, vain, wealthy collector he claimed to be.
For the sake of his shoes, he took a chair to Cruikshank’s new house. The chairmen were broad-shouldered, with heavily muscled arms and very quick on their feet. They had him at his destination in under ten minutes and Lindsay gave them a couple of extra coins for their trouble, countering the rear-chairman’s gruff thanks with a flirtatious wink. The man’s scent peaked intriguingly, though he dropped his gaze and jogged away.
Left alone, Lindsay considered his surroundings with interest, noting how very different they were from Cruikshank’s previous residence. The cobbles of the new-built road beneath his feet were immaculate, the whole street quite empty. No barefoot children here, or women in aprons scrubbing steps. No orange sellers or piemen or knife grinders.
Once the chairmen were gone, no one at all.
Lindsay regarded the short row of houses of which Cruikshank’s was one. There were four in all. Four identical townhouses, each with a glossy black front door, a shining brass knocker and three storeys. The ground floor windows were large and arched, those on the higher floors a similar size, but plainer and rectangular. Every measure, from the height of each window to the placement of each block of sandstone, was regular and even, the whole construction elegant and restrained.
Drew Nicol had designed these houses. Something in Lindsay warmed at that thought, an odd feeling of misplaced pride that he impatiently dismissed.
Of the four houses, only one had signs of occupation—curtains at the windows and candles burning. The others stood empty, waiting for their new owners.
As Lindsay approached the door of the occupied house, it opened, revealing Cruikshank’s servant, Meek, kitted out in a new livery of canary yellow breeches and a black coat trimmed with canary yellow braid. Lindsay chuckled, amused by Meek’s sour-faced expression. He was plainly unhappy with his new clothes, and when Lindsay reached the doorstep he saw that the man had made no other effort in their honour. His hair remained as greasy as before, his fingernails as ragged and dirty.
“Mr. Somerville,” Meek said, his tone accusing, his gaze communicating his distaste for Lindsay’s glittering clothes. “Yer the last tae arrive.”
Lindsay smiled brightly at this welcome. “Ah, Meek. A lovely evening is it not? Look at that moon!” Three-quarters full, she was, but Meek didn’t even look, merely grunted and turned away, walking back inside the house, leaving Lindsay to close the door behind him.
Lindsay followed Meek inside, amused by the man’s appalling manners.
“They’re up here,” Meek said, mounting the stairs and leaving Lindsay to follow him.
“Where?” Lindsay asked. “The dining room?”
“Aye—they’re all sittin’ at their places, waitin’ for their dinner.”
Lindsay raised his brows behind Meek’s back. It was only just gone six—criminally early to be dining in his opinion. He’d assumed there would be some drinking and conversation before the meal was served. Well, he reminded himself, this wasn’t Paris.
As they neared the dining room, the rumble of multiple masculine voices talking was discernible behind the stout wood.
Meek lifted his fist and gave the door three sharp knocks, then, without waiting for permission, threw the door open and announced in aggrieved tones, “Mr. Somerville, sir,” before nodding at Lindsay to enter.
When Lindsay strolled inside the room it was to find a well-proportioned and elegantly furnished dining room in the modern style. There were a dozen or so men around the long table, at the head of which Cruikshank sat, frowning with displeasure. His brown velvet evening coat had an antique look to it and on his head, he wore a nut-brown wig of improbable luxuriance that somehow only made the lines on his little round monkey face look deeper.
There was someone else Lindsay knew at the table. Drew Nicol. As soon as Lindsay discerned his scent, his gaze snapped to him. Nicol looked handsome as the devil tonight, grim expression notwithstanding. His barley-gold hair, caught at his nape with velvet ribbon, gleamed in the candlelight, an affront to his sober attire. He sat at the opposite end of the table from Cruikshank, and the single empty seat was at his side. Lindsay’s immediate rush of pleasure at this development was soon curbed when Nicol gave Lindsay a brief, unfriendly nod.
It seemed that regret had had plenty of time to sink in, which was not terribly surprising, but disappointing nonetheless.
Lindsay returned the nod with an easy smile then turned his head back to his host.
“Good evening, Mr. Cruikshank,” he said, with the briefest of bows. “I do hope you will pardon my tardiness. I hadn’t anticipated you would be sitting down to eat so promptly.”
Cruikshank glared at him. “We’ve been waiting for ye, Mr. Somerville. No doubt it took ye all day tae get dressed?” There were one or two smothered laughs at that. “At any rate, ye’re here now. Sit yersel’ down o’er there, next tae Mr. Nicol, if ye please.”
Not the best of starts, Lindsay thought ruefully.
As he walked to the other end of the table, the general murmur of conversation began again.
THE FOOD WAS EXECRABLE. Thin soup, thinner stew, a few scraggly roast fowl, some sort of braised cabbage that tasted entirely of nothing.
The company was, for the most part, awful too. Cruikshank’s guests comprised a collection of po
mpous magistrates, self-satisfied merchants and a fire-and-brimstone minister who eyed Lindsay with hostile suspicion. Nicol was the only tolerable man present, and so far he’d met Lindsay’s conversational overtures with taut, monosyllabic responses. Lindsay decided he was tired of it.
“You are very quiet, Mr. Nicol,” he said, looking straight at the man. “Have I offended you?” He was speaking too quietly for any of their fellow guests to overhear, but still Nicol’s gaze darted cautiously from side to side before he replied, his own voice equally low.
“Why would I be offended?”
“I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea,” Lindsay replied. He poked at the unappetising food on his plate. “But since you’ve scarcely spoken a word to me since I arrived, I have to ask, since otherwise, I can’t account for your behaviour.”
Finally, Nicol looked at him, his gaze stony. “You can think of no reason? Truly?”
Lindsay met his gaze, feigning a surprise he did not feel. “Is this about last night?”
Nicol’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing.
“It is,” Lindsay surmised. “Why?”
Nicol flushed. “Well, obviously it’s... awkward.”
Lindsay ignored the pang Nicol’s words caused, giving a negligent shrug. “No need to feel awkward. If you wish, we can proceed as though it never happened. I will not speak of it again, if you do not wish me to.” He pretended interest in his dinner, resisting the urge to watch Nicol’s reaction to his words. But he felt the man’s gaze upon him.
After several too-long moments, Nicol said quietly, “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Lindsay merely shrugged again, as though it didn’t matter to him in the least, when in truth it felt as though his heart was bleeding, which was utterly ridiculous and entirely overdramatic, of course, but there it was. It seemed he was moonstruck by Drew Nicol.
“Tell me,” he said, as much to distract himself as Nicol. “Why are you here this evening? I didn’t get the impression the other day that you and Cruikshank were particular friends.” He paused and raised a brow. “Are you hoping to win new business from his guests?”
Nicol grimaced. “Hardly,” he said, then muttered, “One of this lot’s enough.”
“This lot?”
Nicol looked at him, curious. In a low tone he said, “Don’t you know who these men are? Didn’t Cruikshank tell you?”
“No.” Lindsay admitted. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Who are they? Other than the biggest shower of bores I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”
That surprised a burst of laughter from Nicol, who looked so startled after, that Lindsay’s own lips quirked.
“Most of them are members of the House of the White Ravens,” Nicol explained, keeping his voice low.
“The House of the what?” Lindsay replied, amused. “Is that some kind of freemasonry club?”
“Something like that,” Nicol agreed vaguely. “My uncle was a warden or secretary—some kind of officer anyway.”
Just then, Lindsay remembered the paperweight on Nicol’s desk. “What about you?”
Nicol shook his head, smiling faintly. “It’s not my sort of thing. The only reason I’m here is because I called on Mr. Cruikshank this evening to collect the last payment due to my firm for this house—he invited me to stay and said he’d speak to me about it after dinner. What about you? Why are you here?”
“I also have some business to discuss with Mr. Cruikshank.”
“The same business you were discussing with him last time?”
Lindsay smiled blandly. “Yes.”
Nicol opened his mouth to say more—perhaps ask another question—but he was interrupted.
“Mr. Nicol,” Cruikshank called from the top of the table. His voice was thin and querulous, oddly carrying over the deeper general rumble. “My friend Mr. Hadden here was admiring the design of the house and asking how long it would take to acquire one like this for himself. Perhaps ye could enlighten him?”
Nicol leaned forward to look down the length of the table. “I am afraid that presently demand is considerably outstripping supply, Mr. Hadden. My advice is to get your name down for a plot as soon as you might, but it will likely be two years at least, if not longer.”
Hadden was an angry-looking man. His face had a distinctly purplish hue and the buttons of his waistcoat strained for release, as though he was bursting with bad temper.
“Two years!” Hadden exclaimed, his tone incredulous. “What nonsense is this, Mr. Nicol?”
Absurdly, Lindsay felt himself bristle on Nicol’s behalf.
“I can assure you it is the standard waiting time,” Nicol said calmly.
Hadden seemed to go even more purple. When he opened his mouth to say more, Lindsay found himself interjecting. Which was ridiculous when Nicol was plainly quite capable of standing up for himself.
“It’s terribly aggravating, isn’t it?” he said, in his most languid voice. “Mr. Nicol gave me the exact same news just the other day.” He sighed dramatically. “I could have wept.”
Hadden glanced at Lindsay with mingled dislike and distaste, then turned his attention back to Nicol. “Are you not aware, Mr. Nicol, that I am a White Raven?”
Lindsay snorted with amusement at that pronouncement and Hadden sent him another filthy look.
Nicol, who clearly had rather better control of his impulses than Lindsay, didn’t react at all, merely observing, “I assumed as much, Mr. Hadden.”
Hadden glared at him. “Well?” he demanded. “You are indebted to us, are you not?”
Nicol went very still at that and Lindsay glanced at him, intrigued now.
“My uncle’s debt to the House has been repaid,” Nicol said coldly. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Cruikshank?”
Every guest at the table turned to look at their host.
“Repaid?” Cruikshank said, with a puzzled frown. “I’m not sure I understand ye, Mr. Nicol.”
For several long moments, Nicol just stared him, his own expression disbelieving. Then he said, very slowly and distinctly, “I think you understand me perfectly well. We discussed this. I agreed to move you up the waiting list maintained by my firm, and what’s more, I deducted a considerable sum from the price of this house. That’s more than ample to repay the debt my uncle left.”
Cruikshank gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “I cannae say I recall agreeing the debt would be written off.” Glancing at Nicol, he spotted the other man’s angry expression and quickly added, “Which is not tae say I’m not grateful for the favours ye’ve done me, Mr. Nicol. We Ravens are always very mindful of good turns. But ye see, we dinnae simply write off debts between ourselves—we keep tally o’ everything and then—recognising our mutual obligations—help each other whenever help is needed. ’Tis our way.”
“As you well know, I am not a member of your House,” Nicol bit out, “Furthermore, you knew I would not have put you at the top of our list or reduced the price, had I not believed that I was repaying that debt. It was plainly understood between us that I was doing that to extinguish any remaining obligation. It is quite dishonourable of you to claim otherwise.”
Cruikshank’s face went red with anger at that blunt accusation.
“I find ye offensive, sir,” he exclaimed. “I am shocked to be spoken to like this by a guest at my own dinner table! In fact, I think I must ask ye—”
Nicol stood, the screech of his chair legs against the polished wooden floor interrupting Cruikshank’s flow. He tossed his napkin on the table and stared directly at his host. “Ask me what?”
Cruikshank shrank back in his chair a little. “I think,” he said, his voice wobbling a little, “I must ask ye to leave.”
Nicol gave a mirthless laugh. “For once, we are in agreement, Mr. Cruikshank. I will return another day to collect the payment due to my firm. In the meantime, I will leave you to your dinner.”
And then he was striding out of the room, without so much as a backward glance, and slamming the doo
r behind him.
Lindsay watched him leave with dismay. He’d rather counted on Drew Nicol being around for at least the rest of the meal.
The other men at the table yammered like a flock of angry birds, every one of them decrying Drew Nicol’s behaviour and vowing never to use or recommend his services to another living soul.
And through it all, Cruikshank sat there, saying nothing, his little round monkey eyes fixed on the door that Nicol had slammed behind him, his expression quite cold.
Chapter Eleven
Lindsay had to wait another hour—through a stodgy suet pudding studded with dry currants and two glasses of cheap port wine—before Cruikshank finally caught his eye and said, “Well now, Mr. Somerville. Are ye ready to conduct our business? I am sure my other guests will excuse us. It should not take too long.”
He rose stiffly from his chair, grimacing a little as he headed for the door, Lindsay following him. The other guests ignored their departure, still swilling the nasty port wine and chattering loudly as Lindsay followed his arthritic host from the room.
When the door closed behind them, Cruikshank shuffled a few steps down the corridor, pausing to lift a candle from the narrow hall table and handing it to Lindsay. “Would ye carry this for me, Mr. Somerville? As ye can see, I’m a wee bit shaky on my feet.”
“Of course,” Lindsay said, accepting the candle. “Have we far to go?” Pray God they wouldn’t have to tackle a flight of steps—it’d take all night to get there at this rate.
“No, the strongroom where I keep my collection is just down here.”
“Strongroom?” Lindsay repeated.
“Aye,” Cruikshank said. “Though it’s no’ just a safe. I use the chamber as my study too—I like to have my things around me. When Mr. Nicol was designing the house, I told him what I wanted: a room in which I could securely store my personal collection that would also be large enough to work in.” Turning away, he began shuffling down the corridor at his painfully slow pace.
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