The fame of Pat Steell’s tavern was its “parliament” of patrons—among whom was the powerful Fourth Duke of Hamilton.

I have a code I keep to when I deal with real-life characters: I don’t make anyone a villain unless I can do it with a clear conscience. That person is no longer here to defend themselves, and I must be convinced, from my research, that I’m portraying them correctly.

In the case of the Duke of Hamilton, apart from his own actions, it was the words of those who knew him best that, in the end, convinced me—particularly those of his longtime friend Nathaniel Hooke who, being sent to Scotland from the court of Saint-Germain in the spring of 1707 to prepare for the coming invasion attempt, came to the dismayed conclusion that the duke could no longer be trusted. “I was quickly convinced that he did not act sincerely,” Hooke wrote in his memoirs, adding, “it came into my mind that he had still an intention of seizing the throne himself.”

The Earl of Seafield is a more ambiguous figure, and therefore trickier to bring to life on the page, but where I could, I’ve used his own words in his dialogue, so that he may speak for himself as much as possible. The part he played in questioning Robin Moray is factual, and the house Seafield lived in then—called by coincidence Moray House—still stands today in the Canongate.

I confess I gave Adam, who became one of my favorite fictional characters, my own love of walking Edinburgh’s Royal Mile, but Adam would find his nightly walk greatly changed were he to do it today.

The Netherbow was taken down in the mid-eighteenth century to widen the street, although its bell, after some adventures, can now be found overlooking the Canongate once again, above the Scottish Storytelling Centre, beside the John Knox House.

And Forrester’s Wynd—sometimes shown on old maps as Foster’s Wynd—was swept away in the “improvement schemes” of the nineteenth century, leaving no trace of the rooms where I lodged Lily, in the house owned by the real Sir John Foulis, whose published account book provides a useful window on the daily life of people of the period.

But Hamilton’s Close, where Simon lounged in the shadows, survives today as Fisher’s Close.

From its entrance you have a clear view across what once was called the Landmarket—what we now call the Lawnmarket—to Gladstone’s Land, the very real seventeenth-century building that became the model, both inside and out, for my fictional Caldow’s Land.

Lieutenant Turnbull was never a tenant at Gladstone’s Land, but he existed in actual fact, as did Helen, his wife. It’s my hope they had more cheerful servants in real life than those I created and gave to them. All their family connections as mentioned are real, as are Turnbull’s endeavours to seek a promotion, while others with better connections advanced before him.

He was still a lieutenant on December 12, 1707, when he and Helen baptized their firstborn child at Standhill—a daughter they named Anna. But by the time their daughter Helen was born in 1711, Turnbull had finally advanced to the rank of captain. Several years later (one source says around the year 1717), he became deputy-governor of Dumbarton Castle, a post he held until his death. His obituary, from the Derby Mercury of July 2, 1756, reads: “At Dumbarton-Castle, on the 5th of May last, died Robert Turnbull, Esq.; of Stand-Hill, Lieutenant-Governor of that Garrison, in the eighty sixth year of his Age. He served sixty-eight Years in the Army with Approbation, and was the only remaining Officer of those who went upon the Darien Expedition.”