We are perswaded [sic] the government will examine this affair to the bottom, and lay little stress upon what the magistrates or the minister of Pittenweem will say to smooth over the matter…
— A Letter From a Gentleman of Fife to his Friend in Edinburgh, 1705
‘Now,’ said Bailie William Bell, drawing together the documents spread out on the table in the council room on the top floor of the Tolbooth, ‘we need to discuss how we’re going to afford this.’ He shook the paper he plucked from the pile. ‘This latest directive from the lairds in Edinburgh demands that the men we arrested be taken to the city for trial as soon as possible.’
Bailie Robert Cook’s head slumped into his hands and he clutched what remained of his hair. ‘Just when we’ve some funds to continue repairs to the pier.’ He raised his chin and, reaching for the letter, took it from William and scanned it quickly. ‘It’s not just the cost of transporting the prisoners. They expect us to pay for their upkeep while they await trial in the city as well. The cheek!’
‘Knowing how slowly the wheels of law grind in Edinburgh, that could be weeks. Months even,’ said Bailie Robert Vernour, scraping back his chair and rising to his feet. He locked his fingers behind his back and began to wear a track in the floor.
Below them, within the cell on the first floor of the Tolbooth, the most recent captives could be heard. The low grumble of voices, a wet cough and clearing of the throat, the steady thump of a boot or fist striking a wall.
‘Bad enough we’ve to keep them here. But to finance their stay in an Edinburgh gaol —’ Bailie Bell shook his head. ‘That’s another expense we can ill afford.’ He wearily smoothed the material of his coat and stared at the pile of papers in front of him without really seeing them.
For all he gave the appearance of being focussed on the latest orders from Edinburgh, Patrick Cowper was thinking about Sorcha McIntyre, Nettie Horseburgh and Beatrix Laing. Would nothing quell those women? They needed to learn their place; to be schooled in it, and by him. Congratulating Sorcha McIntyre the way Beatrix did down by the harbour that morning — making a spectacle of the woman who’d not only been arrested once herself, but ever since had done nothing but actively undermine the authorities, his authority, and turned them into laughing stocks — it would not do. He would punish Beatrix first. After all, was she not the cause of all this? If she hadn’t put that charm outside the smithy last year, none of this would be happening. And she still bore the stain of the McGregor affair, having been named leader of the damned coven. It would be easy to justify disciplining her again. Shut that wicked mouth once and for all. After that, he’d turn all of his energy to Sorcha. He looked forward to that moment.
In the meantime, as Bell noted, there was the problem of the prisoners — specifically, the cost of transporting them, then maintaining them at inflated city prices. And that was before he even began to consider the fate awaiting himself and the Weem council once Edinburgh initiated proceedings against them. What was the old saying? There was more than one way to skin a seal? Or was it a cat? Time to sort this out.
‘Gentlemen,’ Patrick began, stretching his arms out on the table in front of him, waiting until the blether ceased. ‘I’ve an idea to put to you that may save us all time and money, may even restore our good name in the eyes of the city officials.’ Vernour paused mid-stride. All eyes were upon the reverend. ‘What if, instead of sending the lairds the prisoners as they demand, you ride to Edinburgh and present our case to them in person?’
The men looked at each other, their interest piqued.
‘How do you propose we do that?’ asked Cook. ‘The lairds read all the witches’ confessions, the retractions, even the council minutes and still concluded we were to blame for the events a few weeks ago.’
‘Say it, Robert,’ grumbled Bailie Bell. ‘That we were to blame for the death of Janet Cornfoot.’
The wind rattled the windows. A lamp briefly guttered before flaring to life again.
‘Aye, the lairds held you liable.’ Patrick waited for a protest that he excluded himself from responsibility, but none came. He lifted the letter from the table and slid it towards Bell. ‘But did you not also read that it won’t be those lairds, the ones who came here before, who will hear the case, but a different group. Some other magistrates according to this.’ His finger stabbed the page. ‘One presumes they’ll bring fresh eyes and ears to our sorry tale. A new perspective.’
Cook left his seat and he and Bell bent over the document; as he did, a look of optimism altered his expression. Vernour snatched up the paper and read quickly. ‘By God, you’re right.’ His eyes lit up with something that had been in short supply of late: hope.
Patrick worked quickly to keep it there. ‘If you leave at first light tomorrow, present our case to these magistrates along with all our supporting documentation —’ he gestured at the stack in front of Bell, ‘there’s no reason to send the prisoners.’ He paused. ‘Even if you’re forced to remain a few days, the costs will be a fraction of what we’d incur should those men below be sent to languish at Her Majesty’s pleasure. If we do this — if you do —’ he corrected himself, ‘then we take care of two problems at once.’
Vernour didn’t waste a moment, but strode over and clapped the reverend on the back. ‘It’s a brilliant notion, Patrick. You’ve outdone yourself.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Bell and Cook, exchanging a look of blessed relief.
Cook rubbed his face and gazed around. ‘I for one will be grateful to escape the Weem for a day or two. This… this matter has consumed the town. I’m heartily sick of it.’
‘It’s consumed us all,’ said Patrick. ‘And when we’ve done naught wrong but obeyed the word of the Lord, and for that matter the law, in all things.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Cook. ‘It’s time to go to Edinburgh and lay it to rest once and for all.’
‘Put the lairds and the Edinburgh magistrates straight,’ said Vernour.
‘And in their place,’ muttered Patrick as seats were resumed and plans swiftly made. A budget was agreed upon.
As the councillors, with the help of their notary, organised which documents they’d take and which they’d leave safe in the Pittenweem council rooms, and debated what points they would emphasise and those they’d try and deal with swiftly, Patrick made his own plans.