‘I’ll let you know when the detective wants to interview you, Miss Gillies,’ Mr Weir said, watching her depart through narrowed eyes.

She closed the door behind her and ran down the passage, missing – in her panic – the staircase up to her room. She ran down the corridors until there was nowhere else to go and she found herself in the game larder, surrounded by hanging pheasants, ducks, partridges and quails, but she saw nothing. She could only hear his words echoing in her head – I’ve told them what I know.

What did he know? How much had Mathieson told him?

Because if he knew what she’d suffered at his hands, then he’d know women had killed for a lot less.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Effie stood at the window, as motionless as the marble statue just behind her. She was standing in the hall, the plainest thing in it – at her back were dainty chairs, those brooding life-size portraits, polished tables, a tumbled stone floor; ornate plaster panels were set high up in a frieze and rich gold tracery spun out in the corners of the vaulted ceiling. It was an imposing entrance to an already intimidating house, but for the girl who had until two days ago never known such grandeur existed, it was irrelevant. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the gardens, where Sholto and Sibyl were walking arm in arm. Sibyl had a flower in her hand and was talking animatedly, gesticulating as she spoke. Sholto, by comparison, had his free hand in his jacket pocket and his gaze turned to the ground. He was walking at half his usual speed, his shoes scuffing the gravel. Effie’s heart ached at the mere sight of him. Even at a distance, he shone. Even distracted, he was arresting.

‘Right then, are you ready?’

She turned to find Billy waiting for her.

‘Oh no, you’re not back to that, are you?’

‘What?’ But she knew he was referring to her clothes: brown trousers and an ivory shirt. Clean. Pressed. They fit. Keeping a low-profile in her Sunday best yesterday hadn’t exactly worked out well for her.

Billy himself was looking smart in his shirt and mole-coloured waistcoat, a long clean apron falling to his shins and shoes polished to a high shine. ‘It’s like you want to cause trouble for yourself.’

‘I told you, I’m not a servant, Billy,’ she said tiredly. ‘I don’t have to wear a uniform.’

‘Women’s clothes is all they’re asking for! Weir will have a fit if he sees you in that.’

‘Then he can take it up with the earl, who has never seen me in anything else,’ she said stubbornly. It wasn’t her clothes the steward was concerned with.

‘It’s your funeral,’ he sighed, his gaze falling to her sturdy boots. ‘At least those are suitable. The track can get muddy. C’mon then, this way.’