The search for Big Kate and Mr. Elias was methodical, a plan laid out in his head. Each place and each message left like a note he wrote down, a skill obtained in the past.
Then another and another in a well-known pattern as if laid out on a map, with a coin left here, another left there, in places where even the smallest coin had value. And then he waited at a table in the corner of the White Hart Inn, where he refused the house whisky—it was not her ladyship’s Old Lodge whisky—and instead ordered beer.
Word came just after midnight that Big Kate was hosting a ‘private party’ of gentlemen at a residence off the Royal Mile—enterprising woman that she was. There was no word about Elias, but he was confident she would know where to find him. Or perhaps, he simply had not arrived yet with such a lucrative clientele present for the usual gaming and whoring.
He paid for the last beer, then left the White Hart Inn.
“Canongate,” he told the driver he found outside the inn.
It was formally called the Acheson House, just off Bakehouse Close. A dignified name for a less than dignified establishment.
To the fine gentlemen who frequented it, it was often referred to as the Cock and Trumpet, with that steel door and the name carved in stone above, and assorted pleasures within.
He arrived at the Canongate, made note of the time, then continued afoot with the assurance from the driver that he frequented the area as others did from early evening until the small hours of the morning.
The fares were plentiful for those who wished to travel about discreetly back to their private residences.
It was not far, as he remembered, and found the entrance with that stone carving over the door, then lifted the handle and stepped inside.
If he thought that he might have difficulty finding the woman known as Big Kate in a large gaming house, doubt faded as he moved among those who had arrived earlier for a celebration.
He heard her laughter first, big and boisterous, then the red gown that was boisterous as well, and the woman.
She must have weighed a good thirty stone in the red gown, with pale blonde hair swept atop her head as she towered over some of the men nearby at a gaming table. And the make-up she wore was brilliant as the colour of the gown, with green above each eye, brows drawn in fake arches, her lips curved in a constant smile, no doubt at the money she would make that night.
If the murderer was there, it would be difficult to find him among the well-heeled gentlemen who crowded about the tables, brandished a glass for more champagne or whisky, bet at those tables, and then made their way up the stairs to private rooms.
There was an invitation from more than one elaborately gowned woman with just enough flesh revealed at a ripe breast to make certain of her charms.
He played at one of the tables, bet, then won and dropped a coin down the bodice of the woman beside him for information.
“That one,” the woman sniggered when he asked about Elias. “He keeps company with Kate most nights.” She angled a look toward the large woman who moved among the gaming tables.
“Though he ain’t above tryin’ one of the others, like he thinks that will make a man of him. Not meself, mind ye. I dinna hold with them that asks for credit and then acts like he’s already paid up when ye remind him.
“He usually comes round before now, but he ain’t been in tonight. That’s when he goes about boasting afterward that he had work to do.”
A man with a solid gold reputation, Munro thought as he slipped her another coin.
“I like a man who knows the value of a person’s time... Would you like to go upstairs now?”
He declined the offer as he made his way across the entertainment floor where a small person, undoubtedly a woman, in a clown costume juggled balls in the air.
Big Kate was an appropriate name. She easily was the size of two other women who had paired off with their guests nearby.
She turned, her eyes narrowing as she looked him over from head to toe then back, no doubt speculating over the amount of coin in his pockets.
“Not seen ye around before,” she greeted him. “Wot might we do fer ye tonight?”
“I’m to meet Mr. Elias here.” He went for a lie, the common language of the street. “I’m told that ye know him.”
“I might,” she replied, both cautious and curious. “Wot might it be about with a handsome devil such as yerself? He’s not one to favour men.”
Munro smiled, another lie. “It is business, not wot yer thinkin’.”
“Wot sort of business?” she replied, more curious now.
He knew well enough that a man like Elias would never share his business with another, particularly a woman like Big Kate, who earned her living in information when she wasn’t on her back.
