Gilroy answered with a short nod that appeared to be dismissive, and because I sensed this line of talk might lead us to an argument, I smoothed the waters with, “I do remember Captain—Colonel—Graeme well. A man most worthy of respect.” A sudden thought occurred to me. “Did he know of your marriage?”

Mrs. Graeme shook her head. “We kept it secret, for personal reasons. Beyond our two friends and the minister, we shared the news with no one.”

I replied, “You cannot know that. Not for certain.”

“Do you doubt my word?”

“Of course not. It is only that you cannot answer for your husband’s actions,” was my argument. “The fact you kept your marriage secret does not mean he did the same. It’s possible he did confide in any of his friends or near relations, without telling you.”

“I’d think it most unlikely.”

“But it’s possible.”

Her eyes were very blue. “I’ll allow you that nothing in life is impossible.”

I counted that as a victory. “Assuming he did tell someone, whom would he have told?”

She was giving this some thought when Helen cut in with, “Perhaps his mother?”

Mrs. Graeme smiled faintly. “No. His mother would not have approved.”

Gilroy’s tone was certain. “I believe he would have told his father, if he did respect him.”

“He respected him, but—”

“Then,” said Gilroy, “it will do no harm to write to Colonel Graeme. I will be discreet,” he promised, “but if he does know, and will sign a testificate stating you were married, then his word will be believed by the commissioners.”

She shook her head, and Gilroy asked, “You don’t agree?”

“My husband’s father is a soldier, fighting on the Continent, and for an exiled king. How will your letter find him?”

“I can promise you,” said Gilroy, “letters find their way from Scotland to the court of young King James, and back again, with regularity.”

“But it will take too long.”

Everyone seemed to be in a great hurry to see this claim settled. I knew Mrs. Graeme might simply have need of the money, but somehow the fear I had glimpsed in her eyes made me feel there was more at the back of her urgency. She looked so defeated now, I sought a way to cheer her. “There may yet be someone here in Scotland. You knew your late husband best. Who were his nearest friends?”

It was a version of the question I had asked before, but framing it in this way seemed to make her answer easier.

“His elder brother Patrick, and his cousin Robin Moray.”

“Well, then—”

“Patrick is a monk,” she said. “A Capuchin, who lives somewhere in France. I don’t remember where. And Robin, last I heard, was also somewhere on the Continent, attending to his private business.”

Gilroy noted all this down, then asked, “And what of John?”

She looked a question at him, and he said, “Your husband’s cousin John. John Moray.”

Mrs. Graeme said, a little cautiously, “I have not seen John since I was a child. He went to France, and joined the army there.”