“Charlie!” Kate frowned. “We’ve talked about this. Those men were unwell. They had breakdowns, but people didn’t know much about mental health back in those days. We understand a lot more now. There’s really nothing to worry about, so please don’t cry.”

But Charlie wasn’t crying – in fact, he still looked delighted.

“The Scottish Seabird Centre want to increase their income by running boat tours to some of the more remote islands,” Dad went on. “So tourists can see the birds up close and so on. I guess they figured that if they made more of the lighthouse mystery then it would be an even bigger draw. They’re actually in the middle of collating some of the lighthouse’s paperwork to eventually create displays here for the tourists. Logbooks, telegrams, newspaper clippings, that kind of thing.”

Kate sighed. “That hunter’s got Charlie all upset. You go on with the tour – I’m going to take him off for some quiet time. Sorry, girls, he’s just a bit sensitive about these things.”

I assumed Kate was just trying to get out of joining 53us, perhaps to give us some alone time with Dad or something. She went upstairs with Charlie, and Dad suggested we might like to see the remains of the old keeper’s garden. The three of us traipsed outside.

There wasn’t much to see – just a few crumbling old walls and long-barren vegetable patches. I suspected that he’d really brought us outside so he could check that Will had gone. Sure enough, as soon as Dad saw his figure retreating down the cliff path, he tried to lead the way back in, but my eye was caught by something at the base of the tower.

“What’s that?” I asked, walking over to it.

“That? Oh, it’s just a memorial. To one of the keepers who used to work here.”

It was a plain wooden cross with a brass plaque fastened to it. The engraved words read: John Porter. Rest in Peace.

I nudged Rosie. “Perhaps a good place to take some photos at night,” I said. “In case his ghost comes out to haunt the grave.”

“It’s not a grave, stupid,” Rosie replied.

“Well, the cross could still make for a spooky photo,” I said.

“What’s all this about spooky photos?” Dad asked. 54

I felt a flare of irritation towards him, like I always did when he asked questions like this. If he was even the tiniest bit involved in our lives, then he would know what kind of stuff Rosie was into. She didn’t seem to mind, though, and eagerly told him about the competition.

“Now I’m with you,” Dad said. “Well, I can’t say I’ve seen anything strange here yet, but perhaps you’ll have more luck with that camera of yours. As long as the ghosts aren’t camera-shy, of course.”