“I know he is, and my condolences. But he did sign a document we’re trying to authenticate. We’re hoping you can help us.”

I could see that he was going to close the door. I took a chance, and moving forward said, “It has to do with Lily Aitcheson.”

He looked at me directly then, and I could see him thinking.

“Best come in,” he said.

He brought us to the room in which the notary received his clients, first along the passage from the front door, with a window letting in what light it could from Riddell’s Close and a small hearth that kept things tolerably warm. Two walls were hidden behind cabinets filled with papers and old books, and set against the wall that faced the window was a writing table bearing pens and jars of ink and quairs of paper waiting to be used.

But there were also three good chairs, with broad cane seats and backs, and cushions over those to make them all more comfortable for sitting. One had arms, and Henry Browne chose that, a footstool placed before him to support his left leg as he propped his stave against the hearth and faced us.

Gilroy did not waste his time, but introduced himself and me and took the seat next to the writing table, where he set down his files. “Would your father mind, do you think, if I were to use one of his pens?”

“He rarely comes by these days,” Henry said. “I doubt he’d notice. Please yourself.”

His tone was offhand but there was a nervous edge beneath it and I sought to put him at his ease.

I asked, “You live alone?”

“I take in lodgers, Sergeant Williamson.” No nervousness, but now a different kind of edge. “And what has that to do with Lily Aitcheson?”

Gilroy resumed control. “How old was she when she first came to live here?”

I could not have said who was the more surprised—myself or Henry, for we turned to Gilroy at nearly the same time.

He asked Henry, “Was she a child? Or a young woman?”

“How’s it your business?”

“We’re trying to help her claim some money,” Gilroy said. “To do that, we must prove the document she carries is authentic. One of those who signed their name upon that paper as a witness was your brother, Walter, which is why we’ve come to you. The other was a woman by the name of Barbara Malcolm.” I was watching Henry and I saw how he reacted to that name—not in his face, but by the way his fingers curled to a half fist against his leg. Self-consciously, as though aware that I had noticed, he glanced over at me and relaxed his hand again as Gilroy carried on, “If you can help us to establish that she knew them, it may well advance her claim.”

Gilroy was lying. He was doing it as expertly and well as he rode horses, and for me it was a revelation to sit there and watch him, and to know that this was how his face appeared when he was twisting truth. Completely calm.