At least the wind was blowing in the right direction and the great fire kept the room warm.

As the first course was served, Rose felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. She looked around. Aunt Elizabeth had not hired another butler, and three footmen were on duty to serve the dinner. Rose saw one she had not seen before. He was a youngish man, tall and thin, with a white face, dusty fair hair and blue eyes.

She waited impatiently until they had retired to the drawing room and asked her hostess, ‘Who is the new footman?’

Just some English lad who came looking for work. He has excellent references. He worked for the Countess of Sutherland before this, but his mother in Dunoon fell ill and died, and when he returned to work it was to find he had been replaced.’

‘I do not know why,’ said Rose, ‘but he makes me feel uneasy.’

‘Now, listen to me,’ said Aunt Elizabeth. ‘Young gels are apt to exaggerate. I am sure you lost your footing and fell in the Seine.’

‘What about the note?’

‘Oh, that. Probably some prankster.’

‘Aunt Elizabeth, two women have been murdered!’

‘But what kind of women, hey? Tarts, that’s what. And that sort of creature is always getting into trouble.’

Rose opened her mouth to argue further, but then decided against it. She feared Aunt Elizabeth might become angry and send her away.

That night, she tossed and turned, wishing the shrieking wind would abate. She wondered about that new footman. He wasn’t exactly young, perhaps in his early thirties. But Aunt Elizabeth had said he had good references. If only Harry would return.

She remembered there was a bookcase in the drawing room. The castle did not boast a library. Perhaps it might be a good idea to read herself to sleep. She got out of bed and pulled on a dressing gown, lit her bed candle and went out into the corridor and down the stairs. She began to experience that earlier feeling of unease. Her candle threw great shadows up on the stone walls as the flame streamed in the draught. The fire was still lit in the drawing room. The sound of the wind was less than it was upstairs. She lit an oil lamp, chose a copy of an old favourite, The Master of Ballantrae, and settled down in an armchair by the fire to read. After an hour, her eyelids began to droop. She closed the book, extinguished the oil lamp, lit her bed candle again and made her way back upstairs.

When she went into her room, she stiffened. There was a foreign smell in it, a smell of sweat. Rose hurried to Daisy’s room and woke her up.

‘I want you to come with me, Daisy. I went downstairs to the drawing room to read and while I was away, I think someone entered my room.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m coming.’ Daisy got out of bed and picked up a brass poker from the fireplace.