‘I don’t believe this!’ Sholto looked across at her but Effie couldn’t say a word. The blood was rushing through her head, her pulse like a drumbeat. Mathieson and Weir . . .?

‘Weir? A thief . . .?’ Sholto looked confounded. ‘What’s he got to say about it?’

The police sergeant looked straight at her. ‘Well, it’s a funny thing, but during the course of our interview, Mr Weir repeatedly mentioned you, Miss Gillies.’

‘Me?’ Her voice was a whisper.

‘He said he found the book under your bed and had been intending to hand it in as evidence into Mr Mathieson’s murder investigation.’

‘That’s preposterous!’ Sholto blustered. ‘Evidence of what?’

But the policeman would not be rushed. ‘Did you know Mr Mathieson, Miss Gillies?’

‘Aye, of course. I’m from St Kilda and he was the landlord’s factor.’

‘How would you describe your relationship with him?’

‘. . . Polite.’

‘Polite? Nothing more intimate than that?’

Effie managed to gasp. ‘Of course not! He’s almost twice my age.’

‘Sergeant! I object,’ Sholto said forcefully.

‘I apologize for asking such an indelicate question, but Mr Weir alleges that Mr Mathieson stole the book from Lord MacLeod and gave it to you, Miss Gillies – as a love token.’

Sholto scoffed. ‘I think it’s perfectly clear that Mr Weir is grasping at straws here. He desperately wants to deflect attention from his criminal activities and is trying to implicate Miss Gillies simply by virtue of the fact that she is from St Kilda, where Frank Mathieson died.’

There was a pause.

The sergeant watched her carefully. ‘Do you have anything to say on the matter, Miss Gillies?’

‘No, sir. I don’t know why Mr Weir would say such a thing.’ Her voice tremored under the weight of the lie. She sensed her life was like a spinning coin. On one side was liberty, on the other was loss: loss of freedom, loss of a future, loss of Sholto . . . But which way would she fall?

‘How . . . how do you know the book you found belonged to Lord MacLeod?’ she asked quietly.

‘It is stamped with the MacLeods’ bull crest, Miss Gillies. Each family has their own.’

‘Ours is the wyvern,’ Sholto said distractedly. He looked back at the policeman. ‘Do you believe he was intending to steal ours too, then, and offer both to market?’

‘Possibly. A pair of such rare books would certainly command a premium. We think he was sounding out the bookseller for any possible interest.’

Could it be that? Was he as wicked as the factor, his partner in crime? Or had Mathieson worked alone and Weir’s chance question, asked in curiosity, had taken his life down a new path in which he was now the villain, not she?