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ghost?”
    “Can’t I? I don’t see any other explanation.”
    “But that’s insane!” he cried. “There’s no such thing as ghosts! It’s just not possible! And even if it was true – why kill Bruce? He wasn’t in South America. We’ve never even met him before.”
    “No … poor Bruce,” Isabella said quietly. Then her voice became harsh. “You were the one who planned to fall on that demonstration, weren’t you? It should have been you who died, not Bruce. He should never have swapped places with you.” Isabella began to cry in soft, despairing sobs.
    “I’ll get you something to drink. A cup of tea will help.” Mike’s words might have been soothing but his tone wasn’t. He sounded half strangled, as though he was forcing the words out between gritted teeth, and I realized he was extremely angry. Murderous, even.
    I could hear him moving quickly towards the door so I fled upstairs, leaving my book abandoned in the sitting room. I wrapped myself up in my duvet but it was a long time before I could stop shivering.

frostbite
    We woke up the next morning to find that the rain had stopped, although the wind was so strong that helicopter and boat travel was still impossible. No rescue teams would be able to leave the mainland. We were stuck here for at least another day. Once we were dressed, we trooped down to the kitchen, where Donald was cooking a big fry-up.
    “Just the thing for keeping out the cold,” he told us heartily. “You’re going to need it today.”
    “What are we doing this morning?” asked Jake, tucking into a slice of bacon.
    “We were supposed to be canoeing, but the weather’s a wee bit rough for that,” replied Donald, squinting out of the window. “There’s a loch in the hills where I wanted to take you but it will be too dangerous up there for beginners just now.”
    “How about bringing your ride forward to this morning, Cathy?” suggested Mike. “You could go down past the woodshed and along the valley – the wind won’t be so bad there.”
    “That’s true,” agreed Cathy. “Yeah, we’ll do that. All OK for a ride then, guys?”
    A mostly enthusiastic series of replies rang around the kitchen, almost but not quite drowning out Graham’s, “Statistically speaking, more people die while out hacking than they do showjumping.”
    When we’d finished breakfast, it was on with the hard hats and sensible shoes, and off to the stables.
    Mike and Isabella joined us there. “We decided we could both do with some air,” Mike said, although Isabella’s face was an impenetrable, expressionless mask. She didn’t look as if she was capable of deciding anything. “Donald’s staying behind to do the lunch,” he added.
    Cathy smiled at Mike, though she seemed less pleased at the sight of Isabella.
    We were ready to go when Cathy suddenly patted her pockets. “Oh! I’ve forgotten my gloves!” she said. “Won’t be a minute.” She disappeared into the house for a few moments but was soon back, fully equipped for the great outdoors. She sprang into the saddle with practised ease, and I couldn’t help feeling a little bit envious as I clambered awkwardly onto the back of the pony I was riding. I took up the reins the way we’d learnt yesterday and, nose to tail, we set off across the yard. Donald was silhouetted in the kitchen window, his hand raised in a farewell salute, as we rode away.
    We followed the winding road down to the bottom of the hill, where a stone building stood in a clump of trees. Opposite it was a gate that led to the open moor. Cathy opened it from the back of her horse in a skilled manoeuvre and then led us along the valley floor.
    It seemed that horses didn’t like foul weather any more than Graham did. They plodded along in a dreary, weary walk, and when a sudden squall doused us with icy rain, the creatures all swung round, bums into the wind, heads down, refusing to budge. All we could do was sit there until it had blown over.
    But even