Isobel was too busy for the rest of the morning to give any further thought to Evelyn’s words. There was the lecture by Jonathan Mercer to prepare for, and last-minute arrangements for the concert on Saturday evening to organise. Amy, who was to be the chief performer, was coming up from school the following day so that she would be able to rehearse, and Edward was coming home for the weekend too.

It was another gloriously sunny morning. After her tutorial with Catherine the day before, Bunty, newly fired by the idea that self publication might be the best route for her to follow and full of unfounded optimism about her future career as the Beatrix Potter of the twenty-first century, had popped into Blairalder for a little shopping spree. She rather hankered for a genuine St Columba’s teardrop brooch (as wept, a label assured her, by the saint) to put in her new tartan tam-o’-shanter. She had also found, in the chemist, some high factor sun-cream advertised as specially designed for children – safe but fun – and therefore, to Bunty, an irresistible purchase. She had been much taken by the prettily decorated, easily applied little push-up sticks and bought several of them; after breakfast she had anointed herself liberally with this protective potion before sitting on one of the stone seats, eyes closed, confidently soaking up the ultra-violet rays outside the conference room, preparing to ‘tan without tears’ before the first session.

Christopher and Marnie, who had avoided each other at breakfast, came across the courtyard at the same moment and gazed at her in astonishment. Then they looked at each other and constraint between them was instantly banished as they both doubled up with laughter. Bunty presented a very strange sight. Not only was she wearing a skimpy little sundress quite unsuited to either her age or the uncertainties of the Scottish climate, but all areas of flesh – of which there was much on display – appeared to have been decorated with brightly coloured green and blue squiggles like a cross between urban graffiti and Red Indian war paint. Bunty’s face was especially arresting.

‘Do you think she knows?’ whispered Marnie, awe-struck.

‘I wouldn’t put anything past her,’ said Christopher, ‘but it can hardly be an accident. Let’s find out.’

As they approached, Bunty opened her eyes and beamed at them, favouring Christopher with a specially cosy smile to reassure him that he would not find her censorious about what she privately thought of as his sad past. All her years in teaching had made her aware of the importance of encouragement rather than censure and she felt a great urge to give Christopher the full benefit of her support no matter what he might have done.

‘Good morning, Bunty,’ said Christopher, feeling he was about to get his own back for her nosiness. ‘I do admire the rococo decoration. Does it have special significance? Runic writing perhaps? Messages for the fairies?’