The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [100]
But Eilish did not turn up towards the Lawnmarket; she continued on and plunged into the filthy cavernous gloom of Cowgate.
Monk followed resolutely after her.
Here the lamps were farther between and the pavement in places only eighteen inches wide. The cobbles of the street were rough and he had to go carefully to avoid turning his ankle. Huge tenements reared above him, four and five stories high, every room filled with a dozen or so people, crowded in without water or sanitation. He knew it from long familiarity with London. The smell was the same, dirt, weariness and all-pervasive human effluent.
Then suddenly the darkness was total and he fell into a violent sensation of pain, both before and behind.
When he woke up he was numb with cold, so stiff he had difficulty in making his arms and legs obey him, and his head ached so badly he hated to open his eyes. There was a small brown dog licking his face in friendly and hopeful curiosity. It was still dark, and Eilish was nowhere to be seen.
He climbed to his feet with difficulty, apologizing to the dog for having nothing he could give it, and set off on the short, bitter walk back to the Grassmarket.
However, he was all the more determined not to be beaten, least of all by a shallow and worthless woman like Eilish Fyffe. Whether her midnight trysts had any relevance to her mother’s death or not, he was going to find out exactly where she went and why.
Accordingly the following night he waited for her, this time not in Ainslie Place but at the corner where the Kings Stables Road ran into the Grassmarket. At least he would save himself the walk. During the day he also purchased a stout walking stick and a very well constructed tall hat, which he jammed on his still-throbbing head.
During the day he had taken the precaution of walking the length of Cowgate so he would know every yard of it in the semidarkness of its sporadic gas lamps. In the shortening autumn light it had been a grim sight. The buildings were in ill repair, crumbling stonework, battered, half-obliterated signs, walls stained and weatherworn, gutters shallow and running with water and refuse. The narrow wynds leading off it up towards the High Street were crowded with people, carts, washing and piles of vegetables and rubbish.
Now as he stood in the doorway of an ironmonger’s, waiting for Eilish, he could picture every yard of it in his mind, and he was determined not to be caught again.
It was twenty minutes past midnight when he saw her slender figure emerge from the Kings Stables Road and turn into the Grassmarket. She was going a little more slowly this time, perhaps because she was carrying a large parcel of some sort, which, to judge from her less graceful, more awkward gait, was quite heavy.
He waited until she was about fifteen yards past him, then he moved out of the doorway and walked after her, keeping close to the wall and swinging his stick casually, but with an extremely firm grip.
Eilish walked the length of the Grassmarket, crossed the George IV Bridge without looking right or left, and went into Cowgate. She gave no sign whatever of knowing that anyone was following her. Never once did she hesitate or glance backwards.
What on earth was she doing?
He closed the gap between them now that they were in the dim cavern of Cowgate. He must not lose sight of her. She might stop any minute and disappear into one of these high buildings and he would have great difficulty in finding her again. They were all at least four or five stories high, and inside would be like a rabbit warren, passages and stairs, half landings, room after room, all crowded with people.
And of course there were the stairways and alleys and wynds, any one of which she might have taken.
Why did