Sarah returned to the waiting room to collect the empty cups and bowls from the morning’s repast. She carried her loaded tray down the hallway, negotiating a route past David and Walter, who were using umbrellas as Arabian tents, and Glen the dog, who was as usual stationed beside the coat-stand, hoping to accompany his master should he choose to go out. She entered the kitchen to find Lizzie scrubbing at the porridge pot and Mrs Lyndsay chopping vegetables at the kitchen table.

‘Has he finished feeding the five thousand then?’ Mrs Lyndsay asked. Sarah was never sure whether the cook was a supporter of Dr Simpson’s largesse or not. She was a religious woman in the conventional sense – a supporter of the Free Church and regular attender at Sunday services – but whether this extended to opening your house and your kitchen to the poor of Edinburgh was not apparent.

‘I think that’s all for now.’

Sarah took her tray over to the sink. Lizzie looked up from her scrubbing and gave her a thin smile. Lizzie had been rescued from the Lock hospital, one of Dr Simpson’s waifs and strays – as Sarah had once been herself, although mercifully not under the same circumstances. Lizzie had been a fallen girl – Mrs Lyndsay’s words – and though her venereal disease had been cured, the canker on her soul had yet to be expunged. Hard work had been deemed the remedy for that, and as a result the poor girl was given the work of two.

‘The good doctor should have more care for the contents of his pocketbook,’ Mrs Lyndsay said. Sarah was about to reply that funds did not seem to be in short supply when Mrs Lyndsay gestured to her to come closer. In a conspiratorial whisper she said: ‘There is money gone missing. A discrepancy in the household accounts. It has Mrs Simpson worried.’

‘A simple mistake, perhaps?’ Sarah suggested, but she could tell from Mrs Lyndsay’s tone that the cook thought something more sinister was afoot.

‘Has anyone checked the windows?’ Sarah added, referring to the time when Dr Simpson had used a ten-pound note to stop a rattling sash.

Mrs Lyndsay did not smile but looked over at Lizzie, still up to her elbows in hot water. ‘I have my own suspicions,’ she muttered.

On her way back to the waiting area, Sarah was called into Dr Simpson’s consulting room, where he had finished examining the older lady, a widow by the name of Mrs Combe. He helped her into a chair, then sat himself down on a stool beside her, preferring to be at eye level when discussing a patient’s condition. He disliked standing over people, particularly when imparting bad news.

‘Dr Simpson, don’t sit on such a lowly seat,’ Mrs Combe said, evidently unimpressed by his solicitude. ‘It’s not fitting for a man such as yourself.’