Helen, who had been all this time in the room with us, spoke up. “Sergeant Williamson is very well acquainted with the African Company. He is one of our brave men who went to Darien. He fought at Toubacanti, with my husband.”

Gilroy’s level grey eyes held a new appreciation. “Did you? Then you’ll not need me to waste my breath on that.”

“No.” I knew all about the Company.

“The people who lost money, and the men still owed their wages, have been publicly invited to apply for payment,” Gilroy said. “As have the heirs of those who died.”

I worked to smooth the brittle edge from my own tone. “I should imagine the commissioners are overrun with claims.”

“They are. But this one,” he said, untying the string that bound the file of papers, “they have passed to us. A woman who has recently come forward with a claim to be the widow of a sailor.”

Helen looked at him. “You do not think she is?”

“I did not say that.”

“No,” she mused. “You did not.” Leaning closer, she glanced at the few pages that were topmost in the file. “So we are meant to ask her questions?”

“Sergeant Williamson is, yes.”

I felt at sea. “What sort of questions?”

“Ones that will determine whether she was truly married to this sailor, and establish whether she is owed his wages,” Gilroy said, with patience. “When Lieutenant Turnbull has returned, he will assume the inquiry, but until then you have the lead, sir.”

Not a thought that gave me comfort.

Somebody was coming up the curved steps of the forestair. Gilroy turned toward the sound and said, “That’s probably the lady now. Lord Grange said he would tell her to be here at half past two.”

MacDougall let her in.

She was not tall. She did not have to duck to miss the lintel, but as she entered, she turned her head slightly toward me and I felt the breath leave my lungs.

I’d seen beautiful women. Society women. Their faces would fade from my mind. But the face of this one unremarkable widow, I knew beyond all doubt, I’d always remember.

Our eyes met.

She’d paused just inside the door, hesitant, as though she hadn’t expected to see us all waiting there, but when I smiled reassurance, she took a step forward.

Gilroy made the introductions. “Mistress Aitcheson,” he called her first, then correcting himself, “Mrs. Graeme.”

She offered me her gloved hand and said, “That is what we’re all here to decide, is it not, Mr.—?”

Gilroy gave her my name. I was grateful, for I doubt that I could have managed it.

I paid her my honors and felt her hand slip from mine. I missed the touch.

“Well, Sergeant Williamson,” she told me, steadily, “shall we begin?”

* * *

From self-preservation, I gave her the chair to my left at the table, for had she been seated across from me I should have found it impossible not to stare openly, much less to concentrate. Opposite me I sat Helen, whom I’d asked to stay for propriety’s sake and to make Mrs. Graeme more comfortable, since I could hardly imagine a woman would feel at ease when being questioned alone by two men. Helen, facing me, was at least not a distraction, although she had arguably the more classically beautiful face.