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earlier about the time frame.”
    James was sitting on the arm of the chair occupied by his cousin, his long legs stretched out in front of him, swallowing his tea. “You saw how the skull was up against that big rock in the foundations? Well, that rock was frost-fractured and split, so I think they’d removed the rest of it to level the land before they built the conservatory. A daft thing to do, given the sandy soils, but it left that hollow—”
    â€œSo during those building works, you think?” The inspector stopped writing to look up at him.
    â€œMakes sense.”
    â€œAny chance of finding out who did the work?”
    â€œI doubt it. There’s no estate archive to speak of.”
    â€œBut you reckon it was carried out when?” He began writing again.
    â€œEarly photos show there was open ground there before the conservatory was built, and they’re pre-war. First war, that is.”
    â€œEarlier,” Ruairidh interjected. “The Blakes left the island in 1911 and stayed away for years. There’d be no building work after they’d gone.”
    â€œWhen did they come back?”
    â€œDonkey’s years later. And by then Blake was on his own.”
    The inspector looked up. “The wife?”
    â€œShe’d left him.”
    â€œChildren?”
    â€œNone.”
    Hetty scanned their faces, remembering what Ùna Forbes had said. “Do you think it could be her? His wife, I mean?”
    â€œAch, it could be anyone,” said the inspector, giving her a briefsmile as he put away his notebook. “The locket suggests a woman, but the lab will be able to tell us in due course. They’ll collect DNA too and see where that leaves us. If you’d be willing to give a sample, it might show if there’s any Blake connection.” That frail thread, gossamer thin . . . “Though it won’t help if it is Blake’s wife.”
    â€œTake mine too,” said Ruairidh. “My family’s been on the estate for generations, and his lot are connected too.” He pointed to James with his spoon.
    â€œTake mine by all means, but you could have the whole island’s DNA and be no wiser,” said James. “We’ve been marrying our cousins for centuries. No new blood since the Vikings came, the traffic’s been all the other way.”

Chapter 7
1910, Beatrice
    It took a moment or two before Beatrice’s eyes adjusted after the strong sunlight outside. Her city heels clicked across the tiled hall ahead of Theo, and she halted at the foot of the stairs, swinging her hat, taking in her surroundings while he gave instructions regarding the trunks. A red deer, glassy-eyed and arrogant, snubbed her from the half-landing while a fox crouched warily on top of a bookcase. Other eyes were watching too, a host of baleful creatures, staring blankly. Had they also assembled to inspect her?
    She looked around her. The hall seemed faded and dusty, lulled to sleep by the tick of the long case clock and the heavy scent of burning peat. Fine cobwebs criss-crossed the red deer’s antlers, overlooked by a hasty housemaid, and a mustiness rose from the horsehair settle. She looked up at the glorious light which flooded from the raised glass roof-light, catching floating dust motes in its path. “Where shall we start?” Theo called across to her, and she smiled over her shoulder at him, privately conjuring up a vision of the hall in a pale sunlit yellow with bowls full of flowers from the garden she intended to nurture.
    Her resolve grew as they toured the house. Little had been done since Theo’s father had established his household there half a century ago, and he, she surmised, had valued things for durability, not style. There was so much she could do, but for now, she politely acknowledged and admired, conscious of Theo’s anxiety and his desire that she would be pleased. “I suppose it’s all a bit