At such times he consoled himself with the thought of Simpson’s humble origins, the seventh son of a Bathgate baker. Nobody had a choice over what they inherited, into which home they were delivered or what would greet them there: riches or poverty, love or cruelty, nurture or neglect. But Simpson proved that a man did not have to be defined by the start he was given.

To Raven’s mind, the corollary also held true. If you were born into wealth, it was not difficult to make your mark, and thus your achievements ought to be measured accordingly, but this was not a perspective shared by the rich. With a smile he recalled his friend Henry, back in their university days, speaking of a wealthy student given to diatribes condemning ‘the lowborn’ as somehow deserving of their fate: ‘He has the right to judge harshly, for he chose his parents well.’

When Raven emerged once more into Old Sugarhouse Close, the early summer sun was high enough to find him between the buildings. He put a careful hand to his pocket watch, mindful of the press of bodies he would have to navigate as he got closer to Leith Shore. There were subtle hands at work down here with a dexterity that would be the envy of any surgeon. The timepiece was the only thing of value that his father had left him, though he could hardly call it a bequest.

The crowd was thickening with every yard as he made his way along Tolbooth Wynd towards the Shore, indicating that a ship had recently docked. This had troubling implications for his chances of hailing a cab. He would probably have to walk. It was a pleasant enough day for it, but time was against him. Raven’s trip to Leith had left his new colleague, Dr Morris, to cope with the morning clinic on his own.

As he was calculating how quickly he could cover the distance on foot, and how much the extra time taken would add to the hostility of his reception back at Queen Street, he noticed that a small group had gathered at a quieter part of the quayside. They were looking over the side at something in the water. A man at the centre of the crowd was using a fishing pole to retrieve whatever it was that had fallen in.

It was a parcel of some kind. The fisherman’s rod bent as he raised it up, water pouring from its underside.

‘It looks heavy,’ someone said as it was carefully lowered to the ground.

‘Well, it’ll no’ be full of sovereigns if that’s what you’re hoping for,’ the man with the fishing pole replied.

‘Ye cannae know that until ye take a look.’

The fisherman snorted and shook his head. ‘As it was floating and no’ sunk to the bottom of the Forth, I can tell ye now it’s no’ full of gold coins.’