Jessie bobbed and headed upstairs. Ann heard her taking the stairs two at a time. She strode into the drawing room, the letter in her hand, thinking of what she might say. This would not be easy. She reached for the decanter on the table and then paused. No, she must keep a clear head.

It was a cold winter’s day; frost lay thick along the branches of the magnolia tree and on the ground. She gazed at the summer house and sighed. Damn those interfering servants and their chatter. She stood up straight and looked out beyond, to the river. It was calm, there was a stillness upon the water that was unusual. On most days, the Tay flowed gently from the hills in the west, through Perth, then at Dundee it began churning up as it approached the sea. Downstream of the bridge the waves were beginning to roll down towards the North Sea.

As she watched the little fishing boats bob about, she thought of Janet Clark’s father who fished for mussels at the other side of the river. What would become of him now? What did he think he would gain by blaming Robert for his daughter’s death? The simple sister must have told him about Robert’s visit and this was his attempt to deflect any blame. But now it would backfire as he would no doubt be arrested and his family would bear the shame of both the affair and the murder. Should she feel sorry for him? Perhaps. He had tried in vain to shift the blame for a crime he had done onto someone else. She felt her heart race as she thought of how she had done the same with Alfred Johnston. She hoped he’d already given Mattie back the needle so that, even if the police visited the morgue and insisted on a reexamination, there would be no evidence with which he – or she – could be implicated. No one would suspect an old blind melodeon player.

There was a tap on the door and in walked the Baxters and Jessie. Ann nodded at them. ‘Please, take a seat. Is Miss Graham coming, Jessie?’

‘Aye, said she was on her way, just settling the bairns.’

The three servants shuffled and looked at their feet while Ann sat down in the wing chair before them. There was a flurry of movement at the door and in rushed Miss Graham, her skirts flapping.

Ann cleared her throat. ‘I have news that you must all hear. Just before breakfast, I received this letter from the morgue. It tells me that my husband’s body was washed ashore with the other poor passengers from that fated train that went over the bridge last month. He was found on Broughty Ferry beach late on Monday night. He was identified by the doctors and his body will lie there until the funeral.’