Mr Munroe is standing on the doorstep of his office, looking out across the darkness of the Forth as if it holds some answers or some secrets he is trying to work out. As I approach, I can just about make out the details of his face from the light of the harbour lanterns. He looks as though he has not had a lot of sleep. He is a smart-looking man, handsome enough, but not showy with it. Decent, I’d say. I call out to him and, when he sees it’s me, he stares, as though he can’t believe I’m here.

‘I am sorry,’ I begin. ‘Terribly sorry, but something happened to me when you went out yesterday and I had to go and deal with it urgently.’

I think Mr Munroe will say something – scold me or tell me I am not welcome back in his harbour or in his office again – but he nods at me to go inside and sits me down by the fire.

‘I was about to call the constables,’ he says. ‘Your sister said to trust you a little and that, with everything that has happened to you these past few weeks, you have become flighty. But even so, I was very worried about you.’

‘I had no choice but to leave for a while on urgent business,’ I reply. ‘But I can promise you I’ve no more plans to go away again. And if I do, I will give everyone proper notice.’

He takes his pocket watch from his waistcoat and fiddles with it, then wipes his lips and paces up and down for a few minutes, as men do when they are pondering what to say next.

‘I did enjoy my morning’s work with you here,’ I tell him, ‘even though it was cut short. I should like to keep working here, with you.’

He stops and glances at me.

‘I did enjoy your company,’ I add shyly.

‘I dare say my company is not as exciting as some of the company you have kept,’ he says.

‘Mibbie that’s what I like about it,’ I answer.

The cottage in Musselburgh has been vacant since Spencer’s lease expired. The landlord, who turns out to be a friend of Mr Munroe’s, gives me the key so that I can go back and take another look at it.

It’s always the smell of a place that brings back the memories, is it not? The Musselburgh cottage smells of the ghost of Spencer’s perfumes, as though they have seeped into its very bricks and boards. It also still smells of freshly laundered linens and rush-light smoke and rum; but oh, it is still. It is empty of people and laughter and stories.

It needs to be filled with these things again.