Leith was yet a vibrant place, where every day the offshore roads and harbor came alive with sails and hulls of ships from different lands, all bearing merchandise for trade. The long, broad Kirkgate where I stood was one of the main thoroughfares, as was the Shore—another road that ran along the length of the Leith Water by the harbor—and between the two there lay a tangle of connecting streets and wynds and closes filled with houses, shops, and manufacturies.

I did not relish the idea of walking into any of them. Leithers were a breed of people who, resourceful to the core, asked little and thought less of their more privileged neighbors, and preferred to keep their own community.

It might not be so easy to get Henry Browne to speak to us.

Gilroy had clearly been thinking the same thing. Having seen our hired horses settled with his friend the stabler, he stepped out to join me in the Kirkgate, tugged his own hat lower, and said, “I would recommend we take a new approach with Henry Browne.”

“In what way?”

His explanation was pure logic: if there was a fraud intended, and if Walter Browne had been involved, it stood to reason that the other Brownes might be untrustworthy. Asking Henry Browne if he knew Lily had been married to James Graeme would be of no use if he were going to lie. “We ought to hold our cards with care and not reveal them,” Gilroy said. “At least, when we begin. In fact, if you have no objections, I should like to ask the questions.”

Even if I’d had objections, I could tell that raising them would not have altered Gilroy’s purpose. He was very single-minded.

I said, “If you like.”

The house we sought was not far off, in Riddell’s Close. It was a smaller house, only two floors with a garret above, shouldered in on either side by taller buildings and yet managing to hold its ground. A sign hung near the window read: “A. Browne, Notary.”

I stood a little to one side as Gilroy knocked upon the door, to let him take the lead.

A voice within bade us be patient. There were dragging footsteps and a thumping sound as of a wooden stave or stick that old men use to help them walk, but when the door creaked open it did not reveal an older man but one a few years younger than myself, who plainly found it most uncomfortable to stand.

His mouth hardened to a tight line as he heavily leaned on the stave and took our measure. “Aye?”

I’d never seen Gilroy discomfited, but he recovered briskly. “Henry Browne?”

“That’s right.”

“I’d like to ask some questions, if I may, about your brother.”

Henry Browne was a true Leither, through and through. He did not answer straightaway, but looked suspiciously from Gilroy’s face to mine and back again before he asked, “Which one?”

Gilroy said, “Walter.”

“Walter’s dead.”