Afterwards we rushed home at a quick trot to get lunch laid out. Cook had already boiled a ham ’til it was falling off the bone and she only needed to do the cabbage. By the time the guests filed in, glorious in their states of grace and ravenous for their roast, the parlour had been swept of pipe ash and dropped dice and aired out, and the tables were assembled together and scoured of any stale ale. I was to serve, not sit, and in return I was to be given my own plate in my room for a quiet lunch, which suited me. Truth is, I hardly got any time on my own and I needed thinking-time. Thinking was precious to me. It was the time when I could run through my worries and, most importantly, plan.

But first I was to dish out buttered cabbage and pleasantries.

A pompous-looking gentleman sat near the top of the table, next to the minister. I noticed him straight away, for he was the tallest man in the room, with shiny silvery hair and sharp shoulders. He carried his chin at a high tilt and looked down his nose at everyone. When it came time for me to pour him his water, he fixed me with a cold, unblinking stare and his eyes followed my bosom as I leaned over, saying nothing.

Well, what can you do about that? Not much, so I glared at him and when I went back into the kitchen, I made sure my apron was as high as it could be and I was showing no hint of flesh.

Cook sent me out again with the wine bottle, and of course the silver-haired fellow’s eyes lit up at that.

‘Pour me a generous splash,’ he murmured when I got round to him. I kept my eyes on the bottle, but I felt his bore into me. ‘I’ve seen you around Kelso, from time to time,’ he said. ‘My name is Dr William McTavish.’

McTavish! The wicked Mrs Rose’s so-called uncle? The man she feared had murdered his own wife?

He held out his glass and pursed his lips. He wore a jet-black ring that gleamed lavishly. His hands were slender, with the longest fingers I had ever seen.

A chill raced through me. It must be him. A lewder grin I had never seen; it practically salivated. The Baxters must be turning some blind eye to his antics, to have him at their Sunday table.

‘A pleasure to meet you, sir,’ I lied, ‘I am Mistress Maggie Dickson.’

‘And you are the Baxters’ new maid, eh? Come all the way down here from the fishing ports or somesuch, is that right?’ he asked, a curve of amusement on his lips, his tongue flickering between them. He sipped his wine and put his glass down, readying himself for an answer.