‘What is it you want, Sergeant?’ Sholto repeated, drawing the officer’s attention again.

‘Ah yes – well I’d like to ask you some questions, if I may, sir,’ he said, pulling a notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket. ‘You are friends with Sir John MacLeod, are you not?’

‘We are.’ The full weight of his distinguished family hung in that small two-letter word.

‘And were you aware of the spate of thefts from the Dunvegan estate in recent months?’

Sholto frowned. ‘. . . Of course. Sir John lost several valuable artefacts that were irreplaceable. He was most upset.’

‘Do you recall any specific losses?’

Sholto thought for a moment. ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’s gold ring was mentioned.’

‘Anything about a book?’

Effie felt her pulse skyrocket, though Sholto remained calm in his ignorance.

‘Yes, now you mention it. His copy of the Dalwhinnie book was taken. It’s rather valuable. There were only ever eight issues printed. We have one of them here.’

‘Indeed. And is it still here?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you’ve seen it recently?’

Sholto’s frown deepened. ‘Yes.’

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘I’m absolutely certain. Look, why are you asking me all this?’

‘Your steward, Mr Weir, visited an antiquarian bookshop in Glasgow on the ninth of September. Do you know anything about that, sir?’

‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat, glancing at Effie. ‘Um . . . our copy needed some urgent repairs. Some pages had come loose.’

‘But it’s back here now?’

‘Yes. I collected it myself from the station.’ Sholto pinned a hard stare on the detective.

‘And are you looking to sell it, sir?’

Sholto scowled. ‘Of course not! It’s been in the family for almost two hundred years. It’s one of my family’s most treasured possessions. Why?’

‘The bookseller reported that the gentleman enquired as to the book’s value on the open market.’

Sholto’s eyes narrowed. ‘What? But why should he do that?’

‘I was hoping you could tell me, sir.’

‘I have no idea! We have no intention of selling the book. Furthermore, I don’t understand what our book being repaired has to do with MacLeod’s factor’s death?’

The sergeant straightened up and put his notebook and pencil back in his jacket pocket. ‘I’m sorry to tell you, sir, that we believe the late Mr Mathieson was stealing valuable, if not priceless, objects from Sir John MacLeod and selling them on to private collectors – and we believe Mr Weir was his accomplice.’

There was an astounded silence. ‘. . . What?’

‘The Dunvegan copy of the book which you have just had repaired, was found in a suitcase under Mr Weir’s bed following a search of his room just now. He has been arrested for possession and handling of stolen goods and taken into protective custody.’