She felt her heart pound as she tried to think through whether he could prove his own innocence, just as he’d tried to prove her guilt. There was nothing in the book to show it had ever come into her possession – no mark, no inscription. It would be her word against his as the very piece of evidence that had linked her to Frank Mathieson now linked him indelibly to his former friend instead. They were two men of similar age and standing, known to be friends, each working in trusted positions for powerful families . . . She could almost taste her freedom; it glided before her like a seabird on the thermals, daring to be caught. She knew she was not innocent but she couldn’t say for sure that Weir wasn’t either. The story fit and she wouldn’t do anything to dismantle it. After all, Weir had come after her. Why should she save him?

She glanced at Sholto, her eyes infused with a pale, flickering hope. She could see the desperation in his, a silent urgency that they be anywhere but here.

‘Miss Gillies, while I have you here, I would like to ask you some further questions,’ the policeman said, putting out the sputtering flame and delivering another spike to her pulse. ‘As I mentioned, I was due to visit you next anyway. I understand you and your father live in a cottage on the estate?’

‘Actually—’ Sholto began.

‘We do, sir,’ Effie said, speaking over him again. For as long as the sword swung above her head, he couldn’t publicly reveal their relationship. She wouldn’t let him.

‘Scotland Yard is in the process of interviewing all your former neighbours from the isle. We’re trying to identify the owners of the objects in this photograph.’ The policeman reached into his jacket and pulled out a small photograph, handing it to her.

She took it with a noticeably trembling hand, her guilt pushing forward like an impudent child. The colours were all shades of grey but the objects within were clearly defined. Just in the top right corner, four fingers of a hand inched into the frame.

Effie’s stomach turned as she understood what she was seeing. She didn’t want to see it. Him.

But . . .

She frowned, peering closer, a cold sweat prickling her skin as she saw the old rusted knife she had left lying beside a loop of rope – that was now cut. And the heavy whisky bottle – had its base shattered. Splatters of something dark stained the rocks and grass . . . Blood?

She looked up in alarm at the police officer. He was watching her closely. The notepad and pencil were in his hands again.

Sholto, standing beside her, stiffened too. She could tell he could see this didn’t correspond to what she’d told him. The bloodied chaos bore no relation to the scene she had left – but how could she tell him that?