‘There is no need for that,’ he says. ‘We shall proceed as you wish. We can settle our marriage in a way that is satisfactory to us both.’

‘This is how we shall proceed,’ I tell him. ‘We will consider our marriage ended with my hanging. For there is a death-certificate after all. And you are a widower, and I – well, I am not sure exactly what I am, but as far as I am aware, my dear husband is lost at sea, presumed dead. But I should like a settlement from you. Enough so that I might go back to Musselburgh and live again in that cottage we had, or one like it, and so that Ma and Joan might join me if they wish, for it is no life for them living with my da and keeping smuggled tea beneath the bed, and waiting for a knock on the door from the Excise men.’

‘That sounds like an awful lot of money, Maggie,’ he begins. ‘And there was a decent stash in the safe, wasn’t there? I presume you found that and put it to good use? Surely you don’t need anything more from me?’

‘That stash is long gone. Stolen from me. And anyway you can manage to spare more,’ I assure him. ‘You are a man of means, as I can see from this shop; and you are a man of cunning ways, as I have learned from knowing you a bit. Second, I should like an extra sum of money from you in order that I can bury our poor babe in a kirkyard, so that she may finally rest in peace.’

‘The babe is not buried?’ At this he looks horrified.

‘I believe her to be kept by the anatomists,’ I say. ‘And that is no way to spend eternity. We must both do better by her.’

Patrick Spencer is not a good man. I know nothing of where he came from in life, for I made the mistake of marrying a man I barely knew. I can only guess at his fate, which will be well heeled and lonely, I believe. But in the moment of our final conversation he does his best by me, which is to give me the settlement I ask him for.

He disappears upstairs for a while, and I hear the creaking of floorboards overhead and the murmuring of two voices.

Oh, I do feel the pierce of cut-glass in one of them.

But it is only a momentary twinge of pain at knowing that Spencer trots from woman to woman as easily as a ship calling at ports. I brush the dust off my skirts with my hands and think ahead, to seeing Ma and Joan again and mibbie, hopefully, Mr Munroe the harbourmaster, if I might still have my job.

And Mr Munroe might take me out for that lunch.

Spencer thuds downstairs and puts a purse on the countertop.