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Excellent. Plenty of time to get there and back before the police arrived.

Douglas walked me to the end of the village—the end farthest from Loch Furness—and pointed out a fork in the road.

“Go right,” he said, “that way leads to Maitland House but dinnae go all the way to the house. After you’ve been walking for about fifteen minutes you’ll see a track, also on your right. It leads to the clearing.”

“Thanks.” I set off but I had gone no more than a few steps when Douglas called out.

“Beware of Wilson’s Creag.”

I turned to face him. “What’s Wilson’s Krayk?” I asked, imitating his pronunciation.

“It’s a cliff near the clearing. One minute you think you’re in the middle of the wood, the next you’re at the edge of a sheer drop.”

After promising I’d look out for Wilson’s Creag, I headed up the steep road. Sir Alastair kept it in good repair. I guess he didn’t want to damage his Rolls or Mercedes or whatever fancy car he drove. I wished I could have driven my rental car but strictly speaking this was a private road. According to Douglas, Sir Alastair allowed pedestrians but drew the line at cars.

Keeping an eye out for the track that led into the clearing, I noted that, in direct contrast to the land surrounding the loch, the land beside the road was thickly forested. From here I couldn’t see Maitland House. If it hadn’t been for the road I could have been in the middle of nowhere. I was surrounded by the sounds of nature. Birds, mostly, but there were occasional rustlings in the undergrowth that might have been rabbits.

I had been walking for fifteen minutes when, just as Douglas had predicted, I saw the beginning of the track. Turning off the road, I moved deeper into the wood.

I had gone only a few yards when I noticed the birdsong had stopped. The wood was plunged into a deep, dead silence. I slowed my pace. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, I crept down the path. I was making steady, if slow, progress when my big toe began to itch.

I stopped walking. Cautiously, turning in a complete circle, I took note of my surroundings. Trees. Undergrowth. More trees. A patch of sky. My eyes took it all in, missing nothing, but it was my ears that alerted me to what lay ahead.

The voice was feminine, but hoarse, as though the owner had laryngitis. Despite the hoarseness the sound was melodious. I was reminded of McEwen’s description of Lady Justina’s singing. Not exactly singing was how he had described it; more like chanting. I struggled to make out the words but the language was foreign. Witch? I’d heard Witch before and this didn’t sound like it. This was something I hadn’t encountered in seven years of paranormal investigating.

I crept along the path until I could see the woman. It had to be Lady Justina. How many other women danced and chanted in the wood?

To my relief she wasn’t naked. She was wearing a long white dress, the kind they wore in the hippie communes of the sixties and seventies.

Her sleek, unadorned hair was black as midnight. It swirled like a silken river as she danced around the clearing. Her skin was very pale.

My gut instinct, which I rely on a lot, told me I had nothing to fear from this woman. Most likely she was a foreigner who had a penchant for dancing in the woods, which, although eccentric, didn’t mean she had anything to do with McEwen’s death.

Ignoring the itch in my toe, I stepped into the clearing. Immediately she stopped dancing. Like a startled fawn, she poised ready for flight.

“I’m not going to harm you,” I said. Then, just to make sure she was who I thought she was, I added, “Lady Justina.”

She seemed surprised that I knew her name. “Who are you?” Although she still appeared wary, the blind panic had left her eyes. “Do you want to see my husband?”

The question was the kind any Lady who lived in a stately home might ask. So why did it disturb me?

It took a few moments to realize that it was not her question but the tone of her voice that bothered me. She sounded like the saddest woman in the world.

Resisting the urge to ask why she was so