It had been a simple but delicious meal with a choice of delicately spiced Thai chicken with rice, or a vegetarian alternative, followed by Canterbury tart and home-made ice-cream. There was cheese for anyone who wanted it and what Giles called a good but uneventful Sauvignon Blanc to drink. Everyone always enjoyed the food at Glendrochatt, which the Grants took great trouble over and of which they were justifiably proud.

At exactly quarter past eight, Giles, who was good at keeping an unobtrusive eye on the clock, had caught Isobel’s eye and brought the meal to a close by tapping on his glass. ‘I expect you’d all like a chance to collect your notebooks and pencils,’ he said, smiling at his motley assortment of guests, ‘so let’s meet in the conference room in quarter of an hour when it will give me great pleasure to introduce Catherine Hickman, our wonderful tutor for this week. Some of you may have heard Catherine read her poetry on the radio, or on that literary guessing game “Who Wrote That?”, but I assure you that by Saturday morning she will also have discovered talents in all of you that you didn’t know you possessed. Oh, by the way – I’m afraid this is a no-smoking house, but if any of you are longing for a cigarette you’ve just got time to go and have one in the garden – and for once you can do it in comfort because our unreliable Scottish weather is in a benevolent mood. See you all shortly.’

‘Thank God for that,’ muttered the tall man who walked with a noticeable limp and had been sitting on Marnie Donovan’s other side. He’d made well-mannered efforts to engage her in conversation, but had received no more response than Giles had. ‘Would you excuse me,’ he asked her now, ‘but I don’t think I can hold out for much longer without having a smoke – pathetic, I know,’ and he went off purposefully towards the front door where he stood on the steps gasping down restorative lungfuls of nicotine as though inhaling oxygen at a high altitude.