We live above shop. My mother never tires of telling me as much and insisting it’s a joke. In fact, Sam and I live across the drawing-room and bedroom floors of a rather lovely Georgian townhouse, with a surgery each on the dining-room floor and what nicer ladies than I call ‘the usual offices’ below stairs in the old servants’ quarters. Mind you, I don’t suppose they are the usual offices. Down there is our welfare officer Helen’s consulting room, our medicine dispensary, Helen’s waiting room, what has come to be Helen’s private lavatory (ever since she met Sam coming out as she was going in and couldn’t look him in the eye for the rest of day) and, I believe, the kitchen.

That’s my little joke. I’m not quite so unacquainted with housewifely arts as all that, but first and foremost I am a doctor. If Sam had wanted a wife within the strict meaning of the act, there were plenty of willing applicants. He chose me and if I knew how to spell a raspberry I would deliver one now.

Besides, I make the coffee every morning. I make the toast every morning, if it comes to that. And I make Shabbat dinner every Friday night. The other six evenings, we muddle through. When I say I make Shabbat dinner, though, if scrupulous honesty is needed, I no longer risk Sam’s beautiful smile with the crust on my home-made challah. I tried, in the early months of our marriage, but then I saw a woman on the street near our home wearing a tichel, and threw myself off the tram to ask her if she was much of a baker. She was so charmed to meet me and so proud of there being a Jewish woman doctor, here in Edinburgh, that we came to an arrangement without further ado.

Sam has never asked me about the provenance of these new edible challahs. He is the kindest of men. And we are shaking down very nicely together, in life and in work, although there has been some . . .

Truly, I thought the poor of Manchester had to be the most prudish, straitlaced, willfully superstitious people in the land until I came north and found out what happens when Methodism gives way to Calvinism. Phew! Not only do they not officially* drink, but neither do they believe in “luck”, women’s advancement or what I have learned to call “the judicious spacing of children”.

So, you see, I shocked a lot of Sam’s patients in the early months and it was only because that same prudishness sometimes had them rather tell a woman what ailed them than even the kindest of men, that I didn’t sit in my surgery doing the crossword while queues built up outside Sam’s door.

We have all rubbed our corners off now. They deign to put up with me instead of him if they must, and I try never to make them faint with my brusque ways. I know a lot of them would far rather I wore a dress, stockings and heels than slacks and brogues. But there are limits and I spend a great portion of every day out on my rounds, climbing the stone steps of tenement blocks, sometimes five storeys high. It’s like a trip to the Alps, all told, and if I had to do it in heels I’d be blistered and weeping.

Even in my trusty brogues, I’m always glad to get home in the evening. Sam and I have a cocktail cabinet, a wireless and three long windows in the drawing room, which we can throw open onto three darling (but pointless) little balconies to let the evening breeze blow in, bringing with it the scents of the brewery, distillery, tannery and dairy stables where our patients work. “The Dear knows” as they say in these parts what my mother would make of that!

*For people who don’t drink intoxicating liquors, our patients certainly sustain a good many jaw, nose and knuckle injuries between Friday night and Monday morning. (I am preferred for these sudden requirements too, as it happens. They know Sam would suspect them of brawling, but they think I’m too innocent. Ha! Clearly, their wives don’t gossip about me to menfolk. Long may it stay that way.)

Giveaway: Catriona has generously offered to give away one print copy of THE EDINBURGH MURDERS. To enter, please leave a comment below. One entry per person and the giveaway is limited to U.S. residents only. Giveaway ends July 29, 2025. Good luck everyone!


The Edinburgh Murders – A Helen Crowther Mystery, Book 2
Genre: Historical Mystery
Release: July 2025
Format: Print, Digital, Audio
Purchase Link

Edinburgh, 1948. Welfare Officer Helen Crowther has enough on her plate between her hectic job, her complicated love life, and her growing reputation as a troublemaker. Last year’s scandal did nothing to help with the disapproval she already gets as a woman in her line of work.

All she wants now is to focus on doing what she loves: helping the poor of the Fountainbridge ward in the city of Edinburgh. The last thing she needs is another string of murders to distract her . . .

But when a gentleman dressed in working-man’s clothing winds up dead right under Helen’s nose, and she catches her own father in a very risky lie, Helen is propelled back into the dark world where class rules, justice is hard to come by and gruesome death is everywhere.

Helen has already learned some hard truths about her city, but this investigation is about to reveal just how deep corruption can go . . .


About the author
Serial awards-botherer, Catriona McPherson (she/her) was born in Scotland and immigrated to the US in 2010. She writes: preposterous 1930s private-detective stories about a toff; realistic 1940s amateur-sleuth stories about an oik; and contemporary psychothriller standalones. These are all set in Scotland with a lot of Scottish weather. She also writes modern comedies about a Scot-out-of-water in a “fictional” college town in Northern California. Catriona is a proud lifetime member and former national president of Sisters in Crime.

For more information, visit her website at www.catrionamcpherson.com.