“He’s—what’s the word—stolid. I think he’s the sort of fellow you could tell about a problem in confidence, though I don’t know if he’d come up with any particular ideas himself to fix it because he’s not imaginative at all. Really not. Almost whatever the opposite of imaginative might be, actually.” He squinted at the paper. “I bet he’s terrifically practical in whatever he does. Probably he’s good with his hands. In personal terms, I expect he’d be a solid friend. Maybe you wouldn’t go to him for advice on your love affair, but I expect he’d buy you a pint while you talked about it. Not a romantic husband, I wouldn’t think, but a useful one. How can I put this: I bet he’s never bought his wife flowers in his life, but he’d happily dig her a rose bed if she wanted one.”

Aaron felt himself jolt, and cursed internally as those bright, light eyes caught the motion. Wildsmith gave it a second without comment, as if waiting for him to speak, then moved on. “At work, this is probably one of Nature’s NCOs. He won’t come up with brilliant new ideas that change everything, but he will make sure it runs to the best of his ability. I wouldn’t expect him to handle disagreements with any particular flair, but I doubt you’ll find him in a fight either. Insults tend to bounce off men this self-sufficient. In a word, he’s reliable.”

Aaron stared at him. Wildsmith gave a tiny shrug. “That’s my opinion.”

“Based on his handwriting. What, precisely, about the angle of his letters or the way he joins them tells you he dug his wife a rose bed?”

Wildsmith exhaled. “I’m trying to say, this is the hand of someone who does sensible, practical things, for good or ill. I’d imagine he’d propose with a ‘What about it, old girl?’ rather than sweeping her off her feet, but he would also be there in sickness and in health, like you’re supposed to. This is the hand of a reliable man.”

Aaron made himself nod slowly. “I see. How can you be sure?”

“I can’t be sure. I’m not offering guarantees, I’m telling you my impressions.”

“Extraordinarily detailed impressions.”

Wildsmith shrugged again. Aaron took the letter back, mind racing.

There were tricks of the trade: flattering statements that sounded plausible to anyone, leading questions to help the faker draw truths from an unsuspecting client, and of course private investigation to get information another way. He found that last very hard to believe, given he’d supplied a false name and only made the appointment yesterday, and his brother-in-law Roger, whose letter this was, lived in Sheffield.