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face and said, “Don’t tell me you’re full up already?”
    Kate nodded, feeling like a little girl confronted by a fearsome nanny.
    Miss Weir shook her head from side to side. Kate half-expected the beehive would stay where it was while the rest of her head swivelled, but it moved as one complete unit, not even a hair drifting out of place despite the vigorous head-shaking; testament to either the quality or quantity of her hairspray.
    “You’re not one of those dyslexia nervosics, are you?” Miss Weir asked.
    Kate laughed and shook her head.
    The denial didn’t seem to convince the older woman, who said, “Well, we’ll soon have you cured of that, don’t you worry.”
    Kate knew there was no point protesting any further, and instead said, “Wouldn’t you like some tea yourself?”
    “Well, now that you mention it.” Miss Weir whipped out a mug, filled it with tea and milk, and perched herself on the stool opposite Kate. “I’m just hoping you’re not going to suggest that I try one of the scones I made for you this morning, because I might be tempted and I should really be watching my weight.”
    “Go on, be a devil.”
    “Well, I’ll maybe just take a little one. Can I be getting one for yourself as well?”
    “I won’t have room for dinner if you do, and it smells too good to miss,” Kate said diplomatically.
    With surprising agility, Miss Weir flew off the stool and over to a big platter of scones on the worktop next to the bread. “I’m just looking for the smallest one,” she said, a predatory hand hovering over the scones.
    Kate suspected Miss Weir was thinking aloud, but that her words weren’t a perfect match for her thoughts.
    This suspicion was confirmed when the housekeeper returned with a scone that wasn’t much smaller than the teaplate it was sitting on. She cut it open and spread a thin layer of butter on it. After taking a bite she said, “Hmm, a bit dry. It needs a wee spot of jam to moisten it.” Again she seemed to be thinking aloud when she said, “I suppose there’s no harm if I just have the one spoonful.” She dismounted from her stool once more, and when she came back she had a jar of strawberry jam in one hand and a tablespoon in the other. After rolling off the elastic band and peeling back the wax paper she dug the spoon into the jar in agricultural fashion and brought out a mountainous, wobbling heap of jam. Upending the spoon over the bottom half of the scone, she scraped every last trace of jam from it with a knife, which she then meticulously wiped on the top half.
    “That looks good,” Kate said as Miss Weir set aboutdevouring the scone.
    “Aye, but it could do with a bit more jam. I just wish I didn’t have to think about my figure,” Miss Weir lamented. “Are you sure I can’t get you one?”
    Kate shook her head. “I really am stuffed, thanks.”
    “I’ll just leave the rest of the sandwich on the table if you don’t mind,” Miss Weir said. “It’ll do for Finlay. There’ll be a timid, mouselike knock at the door any minute now, mark my words, and a wheedling little voice saying, ‘Miss Weir, I wonder if I might trouble you for just the smallest bite to eat’.”
    Kate laughed at the perfect imitation of Finlay’s singsong lilt. “Something tells me that, underneath it all, you’re quite fond of him,” she said.
    “I suppose I am, at that,” Miss Weir conceded. “He must have been quite a man,” she said thoughtfully, and for once in a quiet voice. “You might have noticed a wee ribbon on his blazer. Well, I once asked him what it was for, but he changed the subject and wouldn’t tell me. I’m a nosy besom, I have to admit, so I asked Auld Davie about it—he’s one of the crofters who served with Finlay during the war. He said that the pretty little ribbon is for the Military Medal. He also said it’s second only to the Victoria Cross.”
    “How did Finlay win it?” Kate asked, impressed even before hearing the