She was already far beyond his help. Now that Weir had the book, it was all the evidence he needed to prove the ‘unnatural’ relationship he suspected between her and Frank Mathieson. It was done, the clock already ticking, but she could see the angst in Sholto’s eyes. He was a man in torment. If it would help him, even just for this moment, to believe something could be done . . . She took a breath. ‘The night before the evacuation, he caught me outside the kirk – like Bonner said – and told me he was going to tell my father we were wed. He said he’d been “reasonable”, giving me that last week on the isle with my father – but that I’d be going to the mainland with him. As his wife.’

Sholto blinked. ‘What did you say?’

‘I agreed with him. I’d been braced for it for months. Ever since he went away with you that night, I knew he’d be back. So I got myself ready; I dug my bait and planned for it. I tried never to be alone but I knew it was an impossible task; he’d catch up with me eventually, one way or the other. Poppit wouldn’t let him anywhere near me during the days but all it took was a few moments alone outside the kirk that last night . . . So I told him I was reconciled to the marriage; that I believed it was a better match than I could have hoped for and that he’d been patient long enough.’ She swallowed, trembling as she remembered her bold lies. ‘I got him to meet me on the other side at midnight,’ she said quietly.

‘Glen Bay?’ Sholto frowned. ‘He didn’t query being so far from the village?’

‘I told him we should be somewhere private where we could . . . take our time and not be disturbed—’

He blanched, understanding perfectly.

‘I got him drunk till he passed out, then tied him up. I put a knife out of reach, but where he could see it. I left him a sheep’s bladder full of water – enough for four days if he was careful – and some oatcakes. The SS Dunara was due a few days after we left, but . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘The winds got up and they were late in getting across. Too late for him.’

He frowned. ‘. . . So you didn’t go there to kill him?’

‘I just wanted to get away. But it led to the same thing.’ She shrugged hopelessly.

‘Yes, but motive matters, Effie! At worst, it’s manslaughter, not murder. And you were afraid of what he was going to do. We could argue self-defence. That’s hugely significant.’ He was looking at her intently now. ‘Think carefully now – were you seen?’

‘I don’t think so. It was dark and everyone was so busy.’

‘Does anyone know what you did?’ He looked back at her, desperation in his eyes.