Isobel enjoyed making scones more than almost any other kind of baking. It was quick, and she felt it required some deftness with the temperature of the butter and the oven. It wasn’t as easy as it looked, and if pushed she would have said that it made her feel rather clever. She held the sieve high over the earthenware mixing bowl and shook it gently so the white powder fell in a cascade, gathering air as it fell, mixing flour and baking powder together. She chopped the butter with a blunt knife against her thumb and began to rub the mixture into fine breadcrumbs. This was what she enjoyed most, the transformation from one form to another; she had heard Finlay talking to his friend Daniel in the garden about changing states. He had said it was chemistry, and she supposed that baking was a sort of chemistry, but a lot more genteel than the bangs and smells the two young men had been describing. He was clever, she thought, the sort of person who would change the world, given a chance.

Ursula appeared in the doorway, interrupting Isobel’s thoughts.

‘Isobel, I need to talk to you.’

‘Yes, Mrs Black.’

‘I have been thinking about something for several weeks, and I need you to be honest with me.’

Isobel stopped mixing the scone dough and rested her hands on the edge of the bowl. ‘Of course.’

‘I want you to tell me your impression of the late Mrs Black.’

Isobel hesitated before replying. ‘Why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?’

Ursula sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and pointed at the other chair.

‘Just tell me what you think.’

‘I’m not sure I want to do that,’ said Isobel eventually. She stayed on her feet.

‘Why not?’ Ursula had discovered that it was better to be direct with Isobel.

‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.’

‘There is something ill to be said, then?’

Isobel was trapped by her own words. ‘I’m not sure how it would be helpful.’

‘It would be helpful to me,’ Ursula said, emphasising the last word. ‘I’ve been told some things and I want to know if they are true,’ she paused, ‘before I speak to my husband.’

‘I might lose my job.’

‘You won’t.’

‘I might, if Mr Black doesn’t like what I would tell you.’

‘Please let me be the judge of that.’

Isobel sighed.

‘Just tell me whatever you want to, or not. And if you really don’t want to say anything, then we will leave it at that.’

Ursula waited. It would have been easy to pepper the space with more questions, but she allowed the silence to rest until Isobel might be ready to speak.