She looked at me with patient eyes. “’Tis not as though one has a choice of churches in these times.”

“That’s not entirely true. There are still outed ministers who do hold services in private meeting rooms, if you know where to find them.”

Lily glanced around as if amused that I had said as much aloud. “I thank you, no. I do have more than enough troubles.”

It made the perfect opening. I was about to ask her what those troubles were, exactly, when a cultured voice addressed me. “Sergeant Williamson?”

The Earl of Seafield, in his Sabbath finery, made heads turn in the transept, and the firm tap of his heels as he approached was like the rapping of a gavel.

“Mrs. Turnbull said I’d find you here.” He looked from me to Lily, and I made the introductions. If he recognized her as the woman our inquiry was about, he did not say so. All he said was, “I see you’ve been spending time with Regent Murray.” Tipping back his head in admiration he remarked, “It truly is a most impressive monument. I’ve always found these figures on the brass plaque very moving—Justice, with her weapons lost, and Faith deprived of her defender.”

Justice, to my eyes, looked lost herself, despondent in her chair, her broken scepter, scales, and sword upon the floor. Faith bore her cross, of course, but she at least was doing something, seated at a desk and writing in an open book. I did not think that Faith had wholly given up the fight.

The earl went on, “I do but hope that I’m remembered with a monument that’s half as grand, when I am gone.”

In her straightforward manner, Lily said, “Perhaps they’ll raise one like it one day for Montrose.”

“Montrose? You mean the first marquis?” The earl looked at her in surprise. “He’s buried in this church, you know. Just over there.” He pointed to the aisle, not visible from where we stood but not far distant.

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen the place,” said Lily. “It is plainer than he does deserve.”

The earl observed her, curious. “Are you a Graeme by your birth, or by your marriage?” When she told him, he replied, “Then I commend you, Mrs. Graeme, on your fierce attachment to your husband’s family. I would that my wife would defend the Ogilvys as bravely.”

She returned his smile, but this time absently. From how her gaze was drawn off for a moment in distraction it appeared she’d spotted somebody outside the transept door.

I looked, too. It was not the man I’d thought to see. This man was older. Thinner. With a lean, sharp face.

“You will excuse me,” Lily said, and curtsied prettily to Seafield, and we made our bows. I watched her walk away to join the older man, and went on watching until they were gone from view.

Seafield was talking, but I only caught the end of what he said. “—and naturally the challenge is to find the means by which we may be let into the secret.”