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.”
“And you’ve not seen him since? You’ve no idea where he might be now?”
“No. It’s been years since I’ve spoken to any of that family.”
Helen offered to make use of her connections to inquire.
I said, “Thank you.”
It was growing late. The sun was not yet down and there was light enough to see by in the street, but it had gained the golden glow that meant we’d stretched the day as long as it was possible and it would soon be coming to its end.
I did not want to let it end. I would have wished for Mrs. Graeme to stay longer, but there was no reason for it, nor could I see any reason for her to return here for another meeting until Gilroy and I had made further inquiries on her behalf. She’d told us everything she could, and given us what documents she had. I ran a finger down the edges of my papers so they formed a tidy stack. “I think we’ve made a good start, then,” I said, making an effort to mask my own disappointment.
Gilroy agreed. Then surprised me with, “Is it convenient, Mrs. Graeme, for you to return tomorrow morning?”
“Yes,” she said.
I was not about to argue with him, even if I could not fathom what we’d be discussing. Still, since I was meant to be the lead man of this inquiry, I took the lead.
I said, “Shall we say ten o’clock?”
She gave a nod, and stood.
There was a scrape of chairs as Gilroy and I stood as well. And then it struck me that she would be walking in the street alone, and I had no idea where she lived.
“I’ll walk you home,” I said.
The light coming in through the windows was angled directly behind her at that exact moment so I couldn’t see her expression as she turned, and paused. “I do thank you, no. It’s a kind offer,” she said, “but I’ll find my own way.”
*
“Forrester’s Wynd,” Gilroy said, at my shoulder.
He’d come to stand next to me at the tall windows that looked to the Landmarket. I had positioned myself at the middle one, from which I had the best view of the length of the street, with its colorful flow of activity and the high solid bank of lands and tenements opposite, rising from arched shops to uneven rooftops, the windows unshuttered still to catch the last of the light.
When the shifting wheels and carts and people parted, I could see the shadowed narrow gaps between the buildings, at street level, giving entry to the wynds and closes that ran back between the Landmarket toward the Cowgate behind.
This time of day called out the thieves and pickpockets, and worse. I cast a keen eye on the young lad with no shoes who watched the ladies passing, and the older “gentleman” who seemed to take an interest in the stationer’s displays.
Another man had settled indolently into the squared opening to Hamilton’s Close, his shoulder to the wall, his grey cocked hat and grey coat blending well into the stone.
Forrester’s Wynd was not much farther beyond that spot, toward St. Giles’s church.
Gilroy said, “That is the address of her lodgings. Or at least, the one she gave to us. She’ll not have far to go.”
It wasn’t that I did not trust him, but I watched myself as Mrs. Graeme walked the distance through the crowd of people in the street, went safely past the man in grey, and took the turning into Forrester’s Wynd.
“I think you need not worry for her welfare,” Gilroy said. “She seems an independent woman.”
Helen pointed out that this was only natural. “If her husband died at Darien, then she’ll have been a widow seven years. That’s long enough for any woman to learn independence, of necessity.” Helen had not joined us at the window, staying in the comfort of her chair beside the table, from which she could clearly view the both of us, although her words were meant for Gilroy. “You do not approve of her.”
He turned. This time the eyebrow was most definitely raised. “Madam, I honestly have not formed an opinion of her.”
“You spoke brusquely to her.”
“Speaking brusquely is my habit,” he admitted with a shrug. “I shall rely on Sergeant Williamson to be the one who speaks to her more kindly.” And to me, he added, “You did very well this afternoon, I must say.”