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Reverend Jamieson lived in a tidy abode in George Square at the southern edge of the city near the Meadows.

The square had been developed in the mid-eighteenth century, prior to the creation of New Town, and had catered to more prosperous citizens who wished to escape the overcrowding of Old Town.

The Georgian terraced houses were handsome, but rather more modest than those in New Town to the north.

Before his retirement three years prior, Jamieson had ministered to a church on Nicolson Street nearby.

Having asked around about the cleric, we’d learned that he was a Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh as well as the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland—a group with which we’d tangled before.

He was also the author of a number of works, several of them being important to Scottish history and the Scottish language.

As such, his membership in the Bannatyne Club made sense, as did his sympathy toward Mr. Innes.

“?’Tis no’ fair. I’ll state that plain.” He leaned back in his worn but evidently comfortable chair, its legs creaking. “I went round many a time wi’ Lord Eldin aboot it. Mr. Innes shouldna be held accountable for his father’s actions.” He shook his head. “But Eldin wouldna budge.”

“And now his friends in the club won’t.”

He looked up at me where I perched on the striped sofa between Gage and Maclean.

“Aye. ’Tis a sorry business. ‘Specially considerin’ the aim o’ the society is tae promote Scottish culture, be it literature, language, history, or poetry.

Mr. Innes’s tracts would o’ been worthy additions tae the canon. ”

“He said you might be able to help him find funding,” Gage said, his eyes roaming the room, which was neat and orderly except for the stacks of books beside Jamieson’s chair and along one wall.

A sheet was draped over something in the corner, and when I heard twittering, I realized it was a birdcage.

Which seemed fitting given the bird-patterned wallpaper and delicate bird figurines perched on several of the surfaces.

I wondered if it was the reverend or his wife who was so interested in our feathered friends.

Jamieson nodded, folding his hands in front of him. “I’ve a number o’ connections I’ve made over the years. Seems only right I should help him hooever I can since the Bannatyne Club willna.”

“Maybe so. But not everyone would willingly go to such lengths,” Gage prodded further.

However, Jamieson did not take the bait, brushing the matter aside as if it were of no consequence. Except I’d noticed how white his knuckles were and I sensed the shiftiness of his eyes was not entirely due to modesty.

“Then ye and Mr. Innes have made up since yer tiff at the auction,” Maclean stated bluntly.

“Oh, aye,” he responded almost in relief, making it clear the incident with Innes was not his source of anxiety. “He apologized. Told me he wished he could’ve done the same wi’ Mr. Smith.” He shook his head. “?’Tis a sad, sad business.”

I thought back over the things that had been said, trying to identify precisely what had caused his conscience to flinch, and believed I knew what it was.

“Seeing things set right is important to you, isn’t it?”

Jamieson regarded me quietly, his neck and shoulders exhibiting tension. “Shouldna it be important tae all o’ us?” he countered.

“Perhaps,” I answered evenly. “But it isn’t. Not to everyone. Not to some of your friends.”

“We all have our faults, our blind spots. The beam in our eye.”

Obviously, he was referring to Matthew 7:3–5, which began, “And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?

” Reciting it in my head, I couldn’t help but react to the word beam , as a joist and a beam were much the same.

I noted that Gage and Maclean also showed sharpened interest.

Whether Jamieson had actually intended anything by this, I couldn’t tell, but he was struggling to mask the fact he was ill at ease.

“And Lord Eldin’s tendency to hold his family’s, his own consequence above others’ was his beam?” I persisted.

“?‘Pride goeth before destruction’ for many o’ us, m’lady,” he replied, quoting again, this time from Proverbs.

“?‘And an haughty spirit before a fall,’?” I finished for him, suspecting he was lumping me into the category of the prideful.

“Just so.”

I couldn’t prove it, but as I locked eyes with Reverend Jamieson, I suddenly felt certain he was behind the theft, and possibly the tampering with the joist. The latter was more difficult to believe, unless he had an accomplice.

But his reasoning for the theft seemed plain.

There was no contention in his gaze, only firm resolve tinged with strain, and so I decided to test this theory and his obedience to the tenets of his faith.

“Did you steal the coins from Lord Eldin’s collection to fund Mr. Innes’s publications?”

Gage and Maclean’s shock at my asking this outright was obvious, but Jamieson’s reaction was far more interesting.

Though he visibly flinched, he didn’t grow angry or defensive.

Instead, he began to rise from his chair, relying heavily on the leverage he gained from pushing on the arms. “My dear lady, do ye truly think me capable o’ such a thing? ”

Watching him hobble several steps toward the door before his gait smoothed out told me that if he had been behind the joist being sabotaged, he must have had an accomplice. Perhaps Mr. Sullivan, who had thus far eluded Maclean and remained at large.

Before we could protest, he’d disappeared into the corridor, leaving us to stare after him. For several moments, none of us moved, all wondering if he would return, I supposed. When he didn’t, Gage and I both turned to Maclean.

He gestured emphatically toward the doorway. “He’s a reverend and a respected member o’ the community. Wi’oot proof, I canna do anythin’.”

“And his failure to answer?” Gage rejoined.

“People will argue that a man of his position shouldn’t have answered a question like that. That it’s below his dignity,” I said, knowing full well the stakes against us.

Gage grumbled under his breath, being less accustomed to butting up against the restrictions so often thrown in the way of the less powerful.

A maid appeared in the doorway. The same timid woman who had admitted us.

Having no justification for remaining, there was nothing for it but to allow her to usher us out.

Though that didn’t stop Gage from peering into the open doorways we passed on our way.

At one, he hissed, compelling me to backtrack several steps to see what he was motioning toward.

It was a cabinet similar to the type which displayed the coins of Lord Eldin’s collection. Something he pointed out to Maclean as soon as we returned to the pavement and the door was shut behind us.

“If he has a similar cabinet, then he must have a similar key to open the lock.”

Maclean scowled. “Aye, but I looked intae that cabinet, and ’tis remarkably popular. There’s probably a hundred or more households throughoot Edinburgh and the surroundin’ area that boast ’em. ’Tis no’ distinctive enough tae implicate ’im.”

“Perhaps not alone but added together!” Gage was growing agitated and drawing stares from those gathered in the square opposite.

I pressed a hand to his arm in an attempt to calm him. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion inside the carriage…”

“A case, an unanswered question, and yer wife’s uncanny intuition dinna make a compellin’ argument,” Maclean interrupted.

I stiffened at his use of the word uncanny for anything that smacked of the slur unnatural raised my hackles.

After all, I’d been slandered with the term more times than I could count, and it was still a sore spot for me.

However, it was more important to maintain my composure and calm their tempers.

“Gentlemen,” I scolded firmly. “If you will please…”

“Do not call Mrs. Gage uncanny,” Gage snapped.

Maclean’s jaw worked and his hands balled into fists. “I meant no offense. But ye have to admit her intuition is almost supernatural. Like the second sight.”

Being half Scottish myself, I recognized that this wasn’t meant as an insult. Many Scots, even the dourest of Presbyterians, gave credence to the existence of abilities and creatures beyond their knowledge.

But as an honor-bound, exceedingly rational Englishman, Gage could not grasp this. “No offense! Well, you’ve just given us one.”

I gripped his arm, insisting, “No, he hasn’t.”

Neither of them was listening to me, instead leaning toward each other as their sniping escalated.

I’d had enough. Turning on my heel, I strode away, quickly approaching the corner with Charles Street and turning left.

Whether they’d noticed my departure yet or not, I didn’t know, but I was determined to walk home if this was the bickering I was to be subjected to.

Gage was so intent on solving this inquiry that he was becoming almost unbearable.

After all, Sergeant Maclean hadn’t countered with any arguments that I wouldn’t also have raised.

My theory that Reverend Jamieson was guilty of some part of the crimes committed at Picardy Place was, taken together, just that—a theory.

We needed to prove it. That was how the law worked.

Gage knew this. He knew this even better than me.

And yet at the smallest provocation, he’d lost his head.

I veered left, cutting across the grounds of the Lying-In Hospital, and then up Park Street toward the triangle of streets including Teviot Row.

The Charity Workhouse and, beyond it, Heriot’s Hospital were to my left, while Greyfriars Kirk loomed before me.

It wasn’t the most genteel of areas, with unmentionable things running through the gutters, but in broad daylight with ample traffic moving north and south, it was safe enough.

Or so I thought.