‘William did not meet his death by accident.’ Her words hit me with the force of a blow.

‘I cared for his body. I saw the wounds he bore. And they were many. But only living bodies bleed fully. Did you know that?’

I was horrified.

‘I took him and I bathed him. It is my belief that he was dead some time before he left the cliffs.’

My skin grew numb. ‘If he did not die in the fall, how did he die?’

‘There were many injuries, but in particular there was a strike to his head; it did not match the other wounds and it had clearly bled a lot. Some hours later his body was cast from Stack Mor.’

Dismay rose like an incoming tide. They had all lied. No wonder his death was never spoken of. And there was Mary lost in the corridors of Iskar in a world of mute horror. Did she know too? Was this what glued her lips shut?

‘Who did it? Has justice been served?’

‘You think too well of people,’ she said, ‘or too ill. I’m no doctor, just a maid to the dead, and people do not like to believe such things can happen. Or, given his nature, maybe they did not care enough.’

And some of my feeling washed back with relief. Perhaps it was not what happened at all. This was one woman’s word against a host of words. The island had not believed her and neither should I, if I so chose.

The afternoon was drawing in its colours and withering under the darkening sky. Ailsa took a breath of her pipe and let her gaze wander to the window. ‘We’re complicated souls, don’t you think? Without the knowledge of who killed him, we are left only to imaginings.’

I had heard more than I ever wanted to hear and pulled my coat closer in anticipation of leaving. But she spoke again and the force of her look kept me fixed to the seat.

‘There are other things that you should know, Miss Swansome. Listen.’ She spoke so quietly that I had to strain my ears, ‘When they brought him to me, I searched his clothing and I found something.’

I tried to resist the seeping sense of dread, but beneath the table I clutched my hands so tightly I could see the whites of my fingertips.

‘Have you heard of a widows’ whistle?’

The word slid through the air like something ailing, something I did not want to hear. I shook my head but my mind had already wandered to the sound I had heard from the attic.

‘I found one in the pocket of his jacket.’

Although a part of me resisted, I had to know. ‘A widows’ whistle?’

‘Do you know what that is?’

I shook my head.