The fisherman leaned over and pulled something from the body then moved towards her with it on his outstretched hand.

‘Mr Aird thought he recognized this, Miss Gillies.’

The brooch was passed to her.

Argylle crunched across the silty beach. He gave Miss Gillies a pitying look. I wanted to turn from the remains but I could not stop looking, revulsion looping my insides.

‘To be found so close to shore, she must have died before the boat had got far on its crossing to America,’ Argylle said.

The fisherman nodded. ‘Those big ships trade with all the islands before returning. It’s hard to say when she died and a storm can take something like this and carry it a long way.’

‘She was not ill before she left?’ Argylle asked.

Miss Gillies shook her head. ‘She mentioned nothing in her letter.’

‘Those big boats spread disease quicker than you can say.’

And so the questions and speculations began, and Argylle crouched over the corpse in prayer. The scar on Miss Gillies’ face was livid against the blanching of her pallor.

I glanced up. Paterson was with his wife and children. For once, the arrogance was absent from his expression. I searched the planes of his face, looking for anything behind it to hint at a deeper grief, but could not find it. It was then that I noticed the knowing way his wife regarded him and I believed that the truth was there.

Robert Argylle cleared his throat. ‘We shall carry her up to the boathouse and then I suggest we give her prayer for such a premature end.’

The whispering rose – a bee-swarm of noise.

‘I wonder what she died of?’ someone said, starting a volley of questions.

Mrs Lenister went over and put a hand on her mistress’s shoulder. I took Mary’s fingers in mine and we made our way from the foul stench and up to the church. As we walked, I listened to the villagers talking of ‘a doomed girl’ and shivered, imagining her body cold, listing on the seabed at the mercy of the tide. Their eyes flicked constantly to our party and in their looks there was a sort of accusation.

As I followed, I could not take it in, could not imagine her dead. As we passed Iskar the windows of the attic were dark and pressing on my retreating back.

In church, the walls rang with prayer, and although Argylle’s sermon was impassioned, there were no tears. As we left the pew, Greer gave me a stony look but there was a spark of colour on her cheeks.