A drew gaun aboot.
(An unidentifiable illness attacking people all over town.)
When Patrick learned Alexander McGregor was at the door asking to see him, his first instinct was to send the ragabash away. It had been a while since he’d last enjoyed time alone with Peter Morton. God knew, the lad wanted to forget what happened in Edinburgh — they both did.
Not even his weekly entreaties from the pulpit about witchcraft had yielded the results he’d wished, never mind what the congregation’s reactions had promised. He knew folk were fearful and, as winter loomed and their food supplies shrank and the old parts of the pier continued to fall into disrepair, he hoped they’d be keen to attach the blame to someone. They always had in the past. This time he intended it would be the witches.
But McGregor had never come to the manse to seek him out before and, despite the lateness of the hour and his young companion, Patrick’s curiosity was whetted. When the fisherman was brought to the study, reeking of whisky and the musty smell of damp clothes seldom washed and dried by a fire, all tinged with the odour of fish and the ocean, he wondered what had dragged him out on a night like this. Wringing his cap in his hands, eyes darting, feet shuffling, McGregor was as disoriented in the study as the reverend would have been on his boat.
The reverend rose from behind his desk and crossed the room to direct his visitor towards the fireplace. The last thing he wanted was to have the malodourous man dripping all over the furniture.
‘Well, Alexander,’ he said, as the fisherman stood with his back to the flames, gazing in bewilderment at the picture of the crucifixion on the wall opposite. ‘What can I do for you this dreich night?’
Mesmerised by the painting, Alexander seemed lost for words. Nae, thought Patrick, looking at him closely, it wasn’t so much he’d lost the power of speech, as he was afraid of what he had to say.
‘Come, lad,’ said the reverend, though Alexander was of an age with him. ‘Anything you say to me is as if you were speaking to the Almighty Himself. Whatever ails you, you can share.’
Alexander’s eyes widened before they slid to Peter sitting quietly in front of the desk. ‘It’s not you I be worried about talking in front of, reverend, so much as the laddie.’
‘Whatever you have to say to me can be said before Peter. He’s as trustworthy as the sea is cold. He’s been forged in the hottest of fires and emerged unscathed.’
Alexander raised a brow.
‘The fires of witchcraft,’ said the reverend solemnly.
Alexander swiftly moved his hands from the small of his back to clasp them over his belly, his cap strangled between them. ‘It’s upon that very matter that I’m here, reverend.’
The reverend’s heart quickened. ‘Oh?’ He hoped Alexander couldn’t see how thrilled he was.
Peter sat up in his chair.
‘Come, come,’ said the reverend, walking towards his desk. ‘Why are you standing over there? Make yourself comfortable. Take a seat, take a seat.’ He led Alexander to a chair. ‘Don’t worry about a bit of water upon your clothes. Peter, pour the man a wee drink.’
Once Alexander had a glass in his hand and had downed at least half the contents, the reverend propped himself on the edge of his desk, folded his arms, and tried to appear casual. ‘Now, what is it that you wish to tell me?’
As Alexander voiced what had happened last Hogmanay, how he woke to find Isobel Adam casting a spell over him, Patrick wanted to shout with joy. At last. Here was the proof he needed.
The more Alexander spoke, gleaning the grave interest of the reverend and Peter Morton, it was evident he began embellishing. He said how he understood, in light of what the reverend preached in the kirk that morning and many more Sundays besides, that Isobel and her accomplices had summoned a demon to dispatch him or worse. ‘Do to me what was done to you, Peter,’ said Alexander, looking at the lad. ‘But when her efforts failed, she must have done something so I couldn’t remember. Not until today. Not until your words, reverend, juddered the memory free.’
Patrick wasted no time but found a quill, inkhorn and paper. Pulling up another chair, he sat beside Alexander, glancing occasionally at Peter, who was working not to show his relief. If Alexander was tormented by the witches as well, then it cast a whole new light on what had happened to him.
As he questioned the fisherman carefully, Patrick made sure to catch the details. It was remarkable what, with a little prodding, the man could recall.
‘There were others with Isobel, Alexander?’ asked Patrick softly as the man finished, staring into his empty cup.
At a sign from the reverend, Peter swiftly refilled it.
‘I… believe so, reverend, but I can’t be sure who they were.’
‘Was Nettie Horseburgh one of them? She’s a good friend to Isobel after all. You might remember, they were locked in the Tolbooth together.’
‘And sat near each other in the kirk today,’ added Peter. Patrick cast him an approving look.
‘Aye, aye,’ nodded Alexander. ‘She was there. I remember now.’
‘And what of Beatrix Laing?’ asked Patrick. Peter nodded encouragingly. ‘It’s unlikely Isobel would dare do something without that auld witch to guide her.’
‘Beatrix was there too.’ Alexander gave a violent tremor. He then named Lillie Wallace and her friend Margaret Jack — they’d been imprisoned in the Tolbooth. Why? Because they were witches. Witches stuck together so as to use their collective powers to cause harm — wasn’t that what the reverend said?
Patrick wrote the names down. ‘And what of Sorcha McIntyre? Did you see her, Alexander?’
Peter’s eyes flickered. Patrick knew the boy was torn. But whereas Peter, in his foolish young heart, still carried a torch for Sorcha and wished she could be his, Patrick wanted to rid himself of the temptation she posed, not only to himself, or Peter, but to all the men of the Weem.
He also saw how the love the lad thought he felt for the fishwife had twisted upon itself. So long as Peter didn’t learn that Aidan Ross had been sent to war and, most likely, his death, he could use this jealousy to his advantage.
Time to put it to the test. ‘Did you not say Sorcha was one of those who tormented you the most, Peter?’ asked the reverend.
Peter raised his chin and gazed steadily at Patrick. Doubt marched across his face and Patrick could see he was recalling her lovely features.
‘Does she not enchant men, Peter, and use her female wiles to bewitch them?’ The reverend waited. Rain pummelled the windows. Something thudded deep within the house.
‘Did you not tell me, Peter,’ added Patrick, ‘that she has bewitched a soldier so he has no choice but to do her bidding and that of the other witches?’
Peter took a deep breath; a flicker of annoyance drew his brows together.
Patrick knew he was treading on dangerous ground, revealing a secret like that, but he had to risk it.
‘I did say that,’ said Peter reluctantly.
‘Do you not think she could have been trying, along with Isobel and the others, to bewitch poor Alexander here? That he might have been the first of their victims, even before you? What if the truth is that they waited until Sorcha McIntyre returned to the Weem and then pounced? Imagine what the men in Edinburgh would say to that. How differently they would regard you once that information came to light.’
Alexander was gripping his glass so tightly, his knuckles were white.
Peter wriggled his legs, shifted on the seat as if something uncomfortable was upon the cushion. His lower lip thrust out. ‘All I ken is that Sorcha McIntyre be no ordinary woman. She be —’
‘Aye, aye,’ cried Alexander, his fist thumping the arm of his chair. He slammed down his empty glass. ‘She was there. I remember. I remember everything. They came together, all of them, Thomas Brown among them, and burst into my cottage. They called upon the devil to do me harm. They thought I was asleep, but I was in a trance and saw them. I saw them all.’
Patrick stopped writing. He put down the pen slowly and stared at Alexander McGregor. Why, this was far better than he had hoped. The muckle sumph even named Thomas Brown. How could his death be deemed unlawful if he was a witch? If he was among those hellbent on tormenting McGregor? This would clear both him and the bailies of any wrongdoing in either his imprisonment or death. Patrick wanted to cheer.
Reaching out, he held Alexander’s shoulder reassuringly, much as a proud father would a son. ‘What you have done here tonight, Alexander, is a brave thing. ’Tis righteous.’ Alexander’s cheeks suffused with colour. ‘God will reward you for this.’
The reverend regarded Peter, who stared at the floor, his face unreadable, then the fisherman, whose bloodshot eyes shone with unshed tears. Rising to his feet, he removed his hand from Alexander’s jacket.
‘Between you both, you’ve saved not only your own souls, but the souls of every person in this village. God be praised.’
‘God be praised,’ said Peter and Alexander in unison.
With a grim smile, the reverend went behind his desk and found a fresh piece of paper. He sat and began to write again.
‘What are you doing, reverend?’ asked Alexander, pushing his glass along the desk, a clear signal of what he’d prefer to be doing.
Without looking up, the reverend answered, ‘I’m writing to the bailies.’
‘The bailies? What for?’
‘To do what must be done.’ He raised his head. ‘It’s clear that I was right all along. Edinburgh was swift to judge, not the witches, but me. The council. Swift to judge you, Peter. Now, with Alexander’s testimony, we will be vindicated and the village saved.’ Signing the page with a flourish, he read over what he’d written and sanded it.
Peter poured himself and Alexander another drink.
Patrick tipped the candle and watched as wax dropped onto the back of the folded paper. He waited for it to cool slightly, then pressed his seal against it and gave a satisfied look. ‘Take this, lad,’ he said to Peter. ‘Go straight to Bailie Cook’s house and make sure he reads it now.’
‘May I ask what it says, sir?’ asked Peter, putting down his glass and sliding the letter beneath his jacket.
The reverend stood up and stared past the men, through the window and into the night.
‘It’s an order for the arrest of Isobel Adam. She’s clearly the chief tormentor here and thus the one we must break. Once we’ve questioned her and extracted the names of her accomplices — those you’ve revealed, Alexander — then we can move on them.
‘This time, there’ll be no one to help them, no one to plead mercy on their behalf. This time —’ his eyes took on a faraway look, ‘they’ll not escape the Lord’s justice. Nor will they escape mine. Unlike some, I’ll not suffer a witch to live.’