The laird’s small eyes squinted into her face, looking for what she wasn’t telling him. “Had he said anything to you? Was anyone out to get him, or was it suicide?” He slurped his tea, leaving thin lips wetter than they were before. Margo shivered in disgust. “There, there, I realise this must be difficult for you.” He stood and made to put an arm around her shoulder, misunderstanding the reason for the quiver in her, and Margo moved quickly to the other side of the kitchen, pretending to look for sugar. He sat down again, looking displeased to have been rebuffed. “I’m only trying to help, you know.” His voice carried a peevish tone that had been absent before, a little boy’s selfish whine when every wish wasn’t instantly gratified.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Margo dabbed at an imaginary tear. “It’s all been too much.” She made a show of regaining her composure, allowing her time to think. “The police don’t think it was suicide. They had me in for questioning – as if I was capable of anything like that!”

The laird’s expression returned to calculating. Was she capable of murder? Quite possibly, in his view. “Well, the police will find whoever was responsible, I’m sure.” He stood up, banging his half-full cup back down on the table top. Margo watched a wave of black tea wash back and forth: a mesmerising miniature tidal system enclosed in cheap china. Turning back from the door, he faced her and issued an ultimatum. “You can’t stay here, Margo. I’ll need to find another gamekeeper and, when I do, you’ll have to leave.” He attempted a kind smile, it looked to Margo as if he was salivating over a fresh steak. “I’ll let you stay here as long as I can. We’ve always been good friends, haven’t we, Margo?”

She nodded wordlessly, horrified at what might be the unsaid message in that exchange.

He looked satisfied, for the moment. “Good. I’m glad we can help each other through this difficult time.” His smile remained as insincere as it had been when he first arrived, and he turned away to leave. The laird hesitated in the doorway, blocking the only exit from the cottage. “Does Oscar keep any papers here, any records?”

She looked at him in puzzlement. Oscar kept bullets, snares and knives – and poison. She’d never seen him with any paperwork. “No, sir, none that I ever saw.”

The laird frowned briefly, then made light of his query. “Well, if you do find anything, be sure to let me know. They’ll just be recordings of grouse numbers – boring things like that. Probably look more like meaningless squiggles that won’t mean anything to you, but I need the records to pass onto the next gamekeeper. I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon after court and have a rummage through the sheds in case he’s left it all there. Will that be alright?”

She nodded again. “Yes. Of course. No problem at all. I’ll check through his things, see if there’s a notebook in his pockets.