‘If she wants to go back to her quarters,’ Mr Weir said, stepping in, ‘she’s clearly well enough.’

‘No.’ Sholto shook his head firmly, looking directly at her for one of the only times that evening. ‘You’ve had a nasty shock, Miss Gillies. You should stay up here and rest, in case.’

In case of what?

‘Graves, if you could ask Mrs McKenzie to arrange for Miss Gillies’s night things to be brought up.’

‘Are you sure this is strictly necessary, my lord?’ Weir asked, stepping in again. ‘Miss Gillies is fully revived, her colour has returned—’

Sholto frowned as he turned to stare at the steward. A silence like a thunderclap boomed between them. ‘. . . Where is your humanity, man? Miss Gillies has just learnt of the tragic death of a man who was a friend to all St Kildans. She knew him far better than you or I. Every year, for six years, he was their direct and constant link to the mainland. Why should you presume she is not suffering? Clearly she is in shock.’

Weir backtracked. ‘Of course, sir. Forgive me.’

‘I’ll speak to Mrs McKenzie now. Henry, with me, please,’ Graves said, leaving the room.

Weir and Sholto both hovered, watching her in the bed. Effie sensed they both wanted to say something, though it wasn’t appropriate for either one of them to remain.

‘. . . Well, we shall leave you to rest, Miss Gillies. Ring the bell if there’s anything you need. I assure you someone will attend to you directly.’ Sholto turned his gaze straight back towards the steward in a clear warning.

‘I’ll draw the curtains first, shall I, sir?’ the steward asked, walking towards the window. She couldn’t very well sleep there with them left open.

‘Yes. Very good, Weir,’ Sholto muttered, standing by the door for a moment before reluctantly walking out.

Effie watched him go, her voice stoppered in her throat. She desperately didn’t want to be left alone with the steward, but what could she say?

She swallowed and looked back at Weir. He was pulling the curtain cords with exquisite slowness.

‘This is a troubling development indeed,’ he said quietly, pulling at a pleat and shaking it out so that it fell in a way more pleasing to him. ‘A missing persons case has now become a suspicious death inquiry.’

She swallowed. ‘Is it suspicious?’ she asked quietly. ‘It’s awful, of course, that Mr Mathieson was somehow left behind, but it’s a tragic accident surely? Nothing more. No one’s to blame.’

Weir turned to face her. The evening light shone behind the curtains, silhouetting him. ‘That’s the question though, isn’t it, Miss Gillies? How did he get left behind?’