Fortunately the doctor arrived at the same time as the ambulance, causing Fig to put on a brave face and resume her role as duchess. His face was grim as he examined her. “A nasty business,” he said. “I don’t see any signs of a fractured skull, but to have been knocked out this long would indicate a severe concussion at the very least. We must try and transport her to hospital without disturbing her. Lift her very carefully, men. I’ll come with you.”

They put her onto a stretcher and off they went. Earl went with them, as did the countess and Fritzi. The nearest hospital was in Perth and they announced that they’d take a hotel room nearby. Mrs. Simpson, on the other hand, did not go with them.

“Of course I want to offer support to dear Babe,” she said, “but I see no point in sitting in dreary waiting rooms or hotels, waiting until she is well enough to receive visitors. In fact I rather think it wouldn’t be wise for me to be spotted in a Scottish hotel room. It might give rise to gossip, you know.”

So the prince won out over her dearest friend. Mr. Simpson looked fed up. I wondered how much longer she’d keep him around for respectability’s sake. But they did go out to dine, as did Hugo Beasley-Bottome, so it was essentially only family plus Siegfried who were at dinner when the haggis was ceremonially piped in. Then, of course, we had to pretend that we enjoyed it. It wasn’t awful or anything, just not, as Fig had put it, our cup of tea. But after all the trouble we’d forced poor Cook to go to, we simply couldn’t send any back. So we struggled with it manfully, except for Siegfried, who pushed his portion away, declaring that he never ate anything when he couldn’t identify what part of the animal it came from.

Only Murdoch and Lachan tucked into it with glee, with much chomping and smacking of lips. I glanced across at Lachan. Oh, dear, I could never marry a man who smacked his lips over haggis.