… it is the fashion to [refer to the witch cases of Pittenweem]… in a strain of mingled contempt and indignation at the superstition and severity of the ‘sapient Bailies of this benighted burgh;’ but it is easy to prove that in that matter they were neither in their creed nor their action worse than their neighbours. The minister for the time, Mr Couper, who seems to have lacked prudence and moderation, was more culpable than they.
— David Cook, Preface to The Annals of Pittenweem, Being Notes and Extracts from the Ancient Records of that Burgh, 1867
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Patrick Cowper, pacing the room, ‘we’re better off without her.’ He swung around to face the other councillors.
He’d insisted on bringing them into the cell where Janet Cornfoot had been held so they could see for themselves what her unnatural strength had done. How she’d pried the grating off with her own two hands before leaping from the window. They weren’t to know a bairn could have breathed on the metal bars and they would have fallen. He’d ordered Camron to remove the evidence and sweep the floor. He’d also insisted clean straw be laid and her blankets brought from upstairs. It had to look as if they’d at least attended to her basic needs. She was entitled to that, as the lairds from Edinburgh had been keen to remind him.
Outside, the crowd had increased. There were those baying for blood, for justice. Wild rumours were spreading that Janet had flown off in the night, that she’d cursed the town; that all the witches were planning to have a sabbat and recruit whoever remained to the devil’s cause. Children were crying; some women were openly weeping. Others were white-faced. The men were furious. They wanted this to end, to put a stop to the terror and suspicion, only they didn’t know how.
They didn’t, but Patrick did.
Still, no one in the cell said anything. They shifted uneasily on their well-shod feet. Not even their coats and cloaks could keep out the bitter cold. The air was freezing; the walls damp and the place reeked of putrid water, rotting food, sweat and old stockings. Dried blood had seeped into the floor. The air was thick with that too, and silent screams. Patrick saw William Bell ploughing his hair with his fingers, as was his habit, staring and swallowing. He half-expected the man to lose his breakfast. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Patrick longed to retreat to the comfort of his study, a fire and a dram, but he had to persuade these men that what he was about to propose was right; that he was right. That they all were.
By God, but they were weak men. Bailie Whyte was again conveniently out of town. Bailies William Bell and Robert Vernour wouldn’t meet his eyes. Cleiland was making notes — about what, Patrick couldn’t fathom — anything to avoid a decision. Only Robert Cook had the gumption not only to hold his gaze, but nod in consent.
‘She won’t last long out there at this time of year.’ Cook gestured towards the window. ‘More snow’s due.’ He picked at a scab on his large chin. ‘You said she had nothing in here with her?’
A cheer erupted outside.
‘Nothing,’ said Patrick, forced to raise his voice to be heard. ‘As Camron can confirm.’
The bailies turned to Camron who blushed to the roots of his thinning hair and gulped.
‘Men are searching nearby towns as we speak. Others are checking the convicted witches’ houses and combing the fields. We’ll find her,’ said Patrick. He waited for someone to challenge his use of the word ‘convicted’. No-one did.
‘And what of the rest of those McGregor named?’ asked Bailie Cook when no one spoke. ‘What are we going to do about them?’
‘Nothing… yet,’ said Patrick. ‘Our priority has to be the Cornfoot woman. Once we have her back in custody, then we can discuss what to do with the others.’
‘He’s right,’ said Bailie Bell finally. ‘Only, the people might seek retribution — for Cornfoot’s escape. They may well hold her friends, her fellow accused, responsible.’
‘Perhaps they’re right,’ said Patrick.
‘Maybe. But shouldn’t we be keeping those women safe? After all, Edinburgh acquitted them.’ Bailie Bell pointed to the window. ‘Listen to the folk out there. They want blood. They want justice.’
‘Let’s be clear here: they want witches’ blood.’ Patrick folded his arms.
The men stared at each other.
‘In order to distract them from doing anything… hasty,’ said Bailie Cook, ‘to guarantee their, let’s say, co-operation in apprehending the main offender, I think we need to offer a reward for Mrs Cornfoot’s return.’
‘How much?’ asked Patrick, worried the kirk might be asked to provide it.
The bailies exchanged a look. ‘Ten pounds should suffice,’ said Bailie Vernour. The others nodded.
‘I take it the town council will raise the money?’ asked Patrick.
Wincing, Vernour looked to Cleiland, who gave his agreement. The other men assented too.
‘Very well,’ said Patrick, suppressing a grin. ‘Ten pounds it is then. Camron, ask the Stuart brothers and Sergeant Thatcher to meet me at the manse. I will organise for news of the reward to go not only to the people of the Weem, but to outlying parishes as well.’
‘The sooner the better,’ said Bailie Bell as another roar came from outside.
‘Aye. The sooner we catch the witch Cornfoot, the sooner we can ensure that this time, the right judgement is delivered.’
Patrick gestured for the bailies to proceed him out of the cell, his mind racing. At last he had the freedom to bring at least one of the women to trial. While he might not have Sorcha McIntyre in his grasp yet, it wouldn’t be long before all the witches would face the Lord’s justice for their devilish crimes.
And this time, there’d be nothing Captain Ross or Edinburgh could do about it.