An echo in the bone - Gabaldon Diana (читать книги TXT) 📗

He grinned broadly at the sound of the footman taking the stairs three at a time, but then turned and eyed me speculatively.

“It’s a thought, aye? I could take him back tae my shop. Get him aff your hands, and naebody the wiser, sae heavy as your box there is. Mean to say, like, no one’s going to want to gaze upon the dear departed’s face once ye get him where he’s going, are they?”

I didn’t take offense at the suggestion, but shook my head.

“Putting aside the possibility of one or both of us being taken up as body snatchers, the poor man is my husband’s kinsman. And he didn’t want to be here in the first place.”

“Well, nae one does, surely?” Bell said, blinking. “No much help for it, though. The skull beneath the skin, as your man Eliot so movingly puts it.”

“I meant Edinburgh, not a coffin,” I clarified. Fortunately, my purchases from Haugh’s had included a large bottle of denatured alcohol, which I had brought down, discreetly wrapped in a rough apron procured from one of the housemaids. “He wanted to be buried in America.”

“Really,” Bell murmured. “Quaint notion. Ah, well. Two things I can think of, then. Repair the leak, and fill up the box wi’ a gallon or twa o’ cheap gin—well, it’s cheaper than what ye’ve got there,” he said, seeing my look. “Or… how long can ye stay in Edinburgh, do ye think?”

“We hadn’t meant to stay longer than a week—but we might stretch it a day or two,” I said cautiously, unbundling the bale of rags the majordomo had given me. “Why?”

He tilted his head back and forth, contemplating the remains by lantern light. An apt word, “remains.”

“Maggots,” he said succinctly. “They’ll do a nice, clean job of it, but they do take time. Still, if we can take most o’ the flesh off—hmm. Got a knife of any sort?” he asked.

I nodded, reaching into my pocket. Jamie had, after all, given me the knife because he thought I’d need it.

“Got maggots?” I said.

I DROPPED THE misshapen ball of lead into a saucer. It clinked and rolled to a stop, and we all looked at it in silence.

“That’s what killed him,” I said at last. Jamie crossed himself and murmured something in Gaelic, and Ian nodded soberly. “God rest him.”

I hadn’t eaten much of the excellent tea; the smell of corruption lingered at the back of my throat, in spite of the turpentine and the virtual bath I had taken in alcohol, followed by a real bath in the hotel’s tub with soap and water as hot as I could stand.

“So,” I said, clearing my throat. “How was Madame Jeanne?”

Jamie looked up from the bullet, his face lightening.

“Oh, verra bonnie,” he said, grinning. “She had a good bit to say about the state of things in France. And a certain amount to say about one Percival Beauchamp.”

I sat up a little straighter.

“She knows him?”

“She does indeed. He calls at her establishment now and then—though not in the way of business. Or rather,” he added, with a sidelong glance at Ian, “not in the way of her usual business.”

“Smuggling?” I asked. “Or spying?”

“Possibly both, but if it’s the latter, she wasna telling me about it. He brings in quite a bit of stuff from France, though. I was thinking that maybe Ian and I would go across, whilst the general’s doing whatever he’s doing—how long did wee Andy think it would take to make him decent?”

“Anything from three or four days to a week, depending on how, um, active the maggots are.” Ian and Jamie both shuddered reflexively. “It’s just the same thing that happens underground,” I pointed out. “It will happen to all of us, eventually.”

“Well, aye, it is,” Jamie admitted, taking another scone and ladling quantities of cream onto it. “But it’s generally done in decent privacy so ye havena got to think about it.”

“The general is quite private,” I assured him, with a shade of acerbity. “He’s covered in a good layer of bran. No one will see a thing, unless they go poking about.”

“Well, that’s a thought, isn’t it?” Ian chipped in, sticking a finger in the jam. “This is Edinburgh. The place has a terrible reputation for body snatching, because of all the doctors wanting them to cut up for study. Had ye best not put a guard on the general, just to be sure he makes it to the Highlands wi’ all his pieces?” He stuck the finger in his mouth and raised his brows at me.

“Well, in fact, there is a guard,” I admitted. “Andy Bell suggested it, for just that reason.” I didn’t add that Andy had made a bid for the general’s body himself—nor that I had told Mr. Bell in no uncertain terms what would happen to him if the general turned up missing.

“Ye said Andy helped ye with the job?” Jamie asked curiously.

“He did. We got on extremely well. In fact…” I hadn’t been going to mention the subject of our conversation until Jamie had had a pint or so of whisky, but the moment seemed opportune, so I plumped in.

“I was describing various things to him while we worked—interesting surgeries and medical trivia, you’ll know the sort of things.”

Ian murmured something under his breath about ghoulies of a feather, but I ignored him.

“Aye, so?” Jamie was looking wary; he knew something was coming but not what it was.

“Well,” I said, taking a breath, “the long and the short of it is that he suggested I write a book. A medical book.”

Jamie’s eyebrows had risen slowly, but he nodded at me to go on.

“A sort of manual for regular people, not for doctors. With principles of proper hygiene and nutrition, and guides to the common sorts of illness, how to make up simple medicines, what to do for wounds and bad teeth—that sort of thing.”

The brows were still up, but he kept nodding, finishing the last bite of scone. He swallowed.

“Aye, well, it sounds a good sort of book—and surely ye’d be the person to write it. Did he happen to ‘suggest’ how much he thought it might cost to have such a thing printed and bound?”

“Ah.” I let out the breath I’d been holding. “He’ll do three hundred copies, a maximum of a hundred fifty pages, buckram binding, and distribute them through his shop, in exchange for the twelve years’ rent he owes you for your printing press.”

Jamie’s eyes bulged and his face went red.

“And he’s throwing in the maggots for free. And the guard,” I added hastily, shoving the port in front of him before he could speak. He seized the glass and downed it in a gulp.

“That wee grasper!” he said, when he could speak. “Ye didna sign anything, did ye?” he asked anxiously. I shook my head.

“I did tell him I thought you’d maybe want to bargain with him,” I offered meekly.

“Oh.” His color began to recede toward normal levels.

“I do want to,” I said, looking down at my hands, clasped together in my lap.

“Ye’d never said anything about wanting to write a book before, Auntie,” Ian said, curious.

“Well, I hadn’t really thought about it,” I said defensively. “And it would have been terribly difficult and expensive to do while we were living on the Ridge.”

Jamie muttered, “Expensive,” and poured another glass of port, which he drank more slowly, making occasional faces at the taste as he thought.

“Ye really want this, Sassenach?” he said at last, and at my nod, set down the glass with a sigh.

“All right,” he said with resignation. “But ye’re having a leather-bound special edition, too, wi’ gilded end pages. And five hundred copies. I mean, ye’ll want some to take back to America, won’t you?” he added, seeing my stunned look.

“Oh. Yes. I would like that.”

“Well, then.” He picked up the bell and rang for the maid. “Tell the young woman to take away this wretched stuff and bring some decent whisky. We’ll toast your book. And then I’ll go and speak to the wicked wee man.”

I HAD A FRESH QUIRE of good-quality paper. I had half a dozen sturdy goose quills, a silver penknife with which to sharpen them, and an inkwell provided by the hotel—rather battered but filled, the majordomo had assured me, with the very best iron-gall ink. Jamie and Ian had gone to France for a week, to look into various interesting leads given them by Madame Jeanne, leaving me to mind the general and commence my book. I had all the time and leisure I required.