Beggars Banquet

Rebus wondered. ‘No,’ he said at last, shaking his head. ‘But think of what he just told us, about how Ribs was tricking us.’

He led Sneddon out of the flat, but instead of heading down, he climbed up a further flight to the top floor. Set into the ceiling was a skylight, and it too was open.

‘A walk across the rooftops,’ said Rebus.

Sneddon just shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he offered.

‘Never mind,’ said Rebus, knowing, however, that his boss would.

At seven next morning, Ribs Mackay left his flat and walked jauntily to the corner shop, followed by Sneddon. Then he walked back again, enjoying a cigarette, not a care in the world. He’d shown himself to the surveillance team, and now they had something to tell the new shift, something to occupy them during the changeover.

As usual the changeover happened at eight. And exactly a minute after Jamphlar and Co

Rebus and Sneddon, snug in Rebus’s car, watched him go. Then Sneddon got out to follow him. He didn’t look back at Rebus, but he did wave an acknowledgement that his superior had been right. Rebus hoped Sneddon was better as a tail than he was as a watcher. He hoped they’d catch Ribs with the stuff on him, dealing it out perhaps, or taking delivery from his own supplier. That was the plan. That had been the plan throughout.

He started the ignition and drove out on to Buccleuch Street. Scott’s Bar was an early opener, and John Rebus had an appointment there.

He owed Bernie Few a drink.

The Serpent’s Back

This was, mind you, back in 1793 or ’94. Edinburgh was a better place then. Nothing ever happens here now, but back then… back then everything was happening.

Back then a caddie was indispensable if you happened to be visiting the town. If you wanted someone found, if a message needed delivering, if you wanted a bed for the night, fresh oysters, a shirtmaker or the local hoor, you came to a caddie. And if the claret got the better of you, a caddie would see you safely home.

See, the town wasn’t safe, Lord no. The streets were mean. The high-falutin’ were leaving the old town and crossing the Nor’ Loch to the New. They lived in Princes Street and George Street, or did until they could no longer stand the stench. The old loch was an open sewer by that time, and the old town not much better.

I was called Cullender, Cully to my friends. No one knew my first name. They need only say ‘Cullender’, and they’d be pointed in my direction. That was how it was with young Master Gisborne. He had newly arrived by coach from London, and feared he’d never sit down again…

‘Are you Cullender? My good friend Mr Wilks told me to ask for you.’

‘Wilks?’

‘He was here for some weeks. A medical student.’

I nodded. ‘I recall the young gentleman particularly,’ I lied.

‘I shall require a clean room, nothing too fancy, my pockets aren’t bottomless.’

‘How long will you be staying, master?’

He looked around. ‘I’m not sure. I’m considering a career in medicine. If I like the faculty, I may enrol.’

And he fingered the edges of his coat. It was a pale blue coat with bright silver buttons. Like Master Gisborne it was overdone and didn’t quite fit together. His face was fat like a whelp’s, but his physique was lean and his eyes shone. His skin had suffered neither disease nor malnourishment. He was, I suppose, a fine enough specimen, but I’d seen fine specimens before. Many of them stayed, seduced by Edinburgh. I saw them daily in the pungent howffs, or slouching through the narrow closes, heads bowed. None of them looked so fresh these days. Had they been eels, the fishwives would have tossed them in a bucket and sold them to only the most gullible.

The most gullible, of course, being those newly arrived in the city.

Master Gisborne would need looking after. He was haughty on the surface, cocksure, but I knew he was troubled, wondering how long he could sustain the act of worldliness. He had money, but not in limitless supply. His parents would be professional folk, not gentry. Some denizens would gull him before supper. Me? I was undecided.

I picked up his trunk. ‘Shall I call a chair?’ He frowned. ‘The streets here are too narrow and steep for coaches, haven’t you noticed? Know why they’re narrow?’ I sidled up to him. ‘There’s a serpent buried beneath.’ He looked ill at ease, so I laughed. ‘Just a story, master. We use chairmen instead of horses. Good strong Highland stock.’

I knew he had already walked a good way in search of me, hauling his trunk with him. He was tired, but counting his money too.

‘Let’s walk,’ he decided, ‘and you can acquaint me with the town.’

‘The town, master,’ I said, ‘will acquaint you with itself.’

We got him settled in at Lucky Seaton’s. Lucky had been a hoor herself at one time, then had been turned to the Moderate movement and now ran a Christian rooming house.

‘We know all about medical students, don’t we, Cully?’ she said, while Gisborne took the measure of his room. ‘The worst si

She patted Master Gisborne on his plump cheek, and I led him back down the treacherous stairwell.

‘What did she mean?’ he asked me.

‘Visit a few howffs, and you’ll find out,’ I told him. ‘The medical students are the most notorious group of topers in the city, if you discount the lawyers, judges, poets, boatmen, and Lords this-and-that.’

‘What’s a howff?’

I led him directly into one.

There was a general fug in what passed for the air. Pipes were being smoked furiously, and there were no windows to open, so the stale fumes lay heavy at eye level. I could hear laughter and swearing and the shrieks of women, but it was like peering through a haar. I saw one-legged Jack, balancing a wench on his good knee. Two lawyers sat at the next table along, heads close together. A poet of minor repute scribbled away as he sat slumped on the floor. And all around there was wine, wine in jugs and bumpers and bottles, its sour smell vying with that of tobacco.

But the most noise came from a big round table in the furthest corner, where beneath flickering lamplight a meeting of the Monthly Club was underway. I led Gisborne to the table, having promised him that Edinburgh would acquaint itself with him. Five gentlemen sat round the table. One recognised me immediately.

‘Dear old Cully! What news from the world above?’

‘No news, sir.’

‘None better than that!’

‘What’s the meeting this month, sirs?’

‘The Hot Air Club, Cully.’ The speaker made a toast of the words. ‘We are celebrating the tenth a

This had to be toasted again, while I explained to Master Gisborne that the Monthly Club changed its name regularly in order to have something to celebrate.

‘I see you’ve brought fresh blood, Cully.’

‘Mr Gisborne,’ I said, ‘is newly arrived from London and hopes to study medicine.’

‘I hope he will, too, if he intends to practise.’

There was laughter, and replenishing of glasses.

‘This gentleman,’ I informed my master, ‘is Mr Walter Scott. Mr Scott is an advocate.’

‘Not today,’ said another of the group. ‘Today he’s Colonel Grogg!’

More laughter. Gisborne was asked what he would drink.

‘A glass of port,’ my hapless charge replied.

The table went quiet. Scott was smiling with half his mouth only.

‘Port is not much drunk in these parts. It reminds some people of the Union. Some people would rather drink whisky and toast their Jacobite “King O’er the Water”.’ Someone at the table actually did this, not heeding the tone of Scott’s voice. ‘But we’re one nation now,’ Scott continued. That man did like to make a speech. ‘And if you’ll drink some claret with us, we may yet be reconciled.’