by Douglas Watt
Scougall suddenly realised that the weapons must be for those who opposed the King. Men who wanted to overturn the rule of the Papist tyrant. Another rebellion was being planned. He withdrew the crumpled pamphlet from his pocket. Presbyterianism was to be restored by force. The rebels had failed two years before. This time they might succeed.
He remembered his excitement on hearing the news of the risings in 1685. He had followed the history of Argyll’s ill-fated attempt closely. The Cameronians would not join one who was not a Covenanter. Argyll was captured in Renfrewshire and executed, the glorious Monmouth meeting a similar end.
Scougall had sympathised with the aims of the rebels. They wanted to re-establish Presbytery, restore Godly rule to the kingdom and end the despotic reign of James Stuart. To remove a king who was the servant of Antichrist was surely just. But these weapons unsettled him. They would cause death and destruction. He recalled the words of George Sinclair: ‘Do not give up hope, Mr Scougall. The time comes.’ The meeting at the manse was surely concerned with some kind of plot. ‘We will not fail.’ Sinclair’s brother had returned from exile. Hundreds of others were waiting in Amsterdam and Groningen until the time was ripe. With the help of William of Orange, they might succeed.
It dawned on him that he had discovered something of great importance, something much bigger than the affair of Euphame and Lady Lammersheugh. The thought was daunting, exciting. He would enjoy telling MacKenzie. He knew he had no time for such zealots. The MacKenzies were a clan that opposed the Campbells. MacKenzie despised those who advocated violent insurrection. He was an Episcopalian who thought ill of Presbytery. For an instant Scougall wondered if he should tell him. There was a chance that the plotters might succeed if he did not. The reign of Antichrist would end. But his desire to please MacKenzie was stronger. This was about a girl’s life, not politics.
He replaced the sheets and retraced his steps, judging that about fifteen minutes had passed since he entered the castle. He climbed the stairs with care. At the top he blew out the candle, slowly opened the door, and advanced into the half-light of the hallway.
At the back door he noticed a pair of riding boots. Kneeling down, he took a piece of string from his pocket and measured the length of a boot as MacKenzie had shown him. He was delighted by this other discovery.
Scougall did not see the figure in the shadows at the end of the corridor.
He came out of the back door just as MacKenzie and the servant disappeared into the outhouse. The flames were no longer visible. As he moved gingerly round to the front to find the horses, he remembered that he had not searched all the rooms on the ground floor. But it was too late to go back in.
CHAPTER 40 - A Conversation with Theophilus Rankine
A THIN WOMAN with piercing blue eyes answered the door. Scougall recalled with embarrassment that he had bumped into her the night before. She bore the same disgruntled look on her face. MacKenzie conquered his feelings of repugnance. ‘I wish to speak with Mr Rankine please. Is he at home?’
The sides of her mouth dropped even further. ‘Who is calling upon him, sir?’
‘We are lawyers from Edinburgh. I seek your husband’s…’
‘He is my brother,’ she interrupted. Noticing her reptilian neck, Scougall reflected that disgust seemed to be her natural disposition.
‘I seek your brother’s opinion on a legal matter of some consequence.’
‘I will ask him if he will see you.’ She closed the door. After a short while she returned, the scowl still on her face. ‘This way,’ was all she said.
They followed her down a hallway to a chamber at the back of the house containing a few pieces of dark furniture. Rankine stood in the middle of the room rubbing his hands. He was a thin creature like his sister. Scougall felt sure they were earnest Presbyterians. He shared some of their views, particularly on church government, but the puritanical zealotry which derived satisfaction from such bare surroundings had no appeal for him. He thought of the warmth of his mother’s house. He was a Presbyterian who liked home comforts.
‘Welcome, gentlemen. Perhaps we might share a few words of the Lord before talking.’ Rankine nodded towards a large Bible resting on the table. ‘I am reading from Genesis Chapter 19.’ He closed his eyes and recited: ‘The sun was risen upon the earth when Lot entered into Zoar. Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven. And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.’ He looked up for a moment to meet MacKenzie’s eyes.
‘But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt.’ Scougall completed the verse.
‘Ah! I see you know your Bible, Mr Scougall.’ There was a sarcastic note in the session clerk’s voice.
‘We have no time for theology, Mr Rankine,’ said MacKenzie.
‘Of course, I forgot that you are an Episcopalian. You care little for the Word of God.’
‘I do not care to discuss theology when Euphame Hay’s life is in danger.’
‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’ said Marion Rankine from a rocking chair at the window on which she had settled. ‘God’s words are as clear as fresh water. The young whore is a witch. Her mother was a witch!’
MacKenzie had to control an impulse to slap the woman across the face. He wondered how humanity could spawn such bitter creatures. But he smiled, kept his voice even, and turned to her brother.
‘I have some questions on a matter of law. I believe you are a creditor of Lammersheugh.’
‘Only for a small amount, sir. I have no grievance with the house. The laird always paid interest. Lady Lammersheugh did the same.’
‘What about the Laird of Clachdean?’
‘What about him?’
‘Were there financial obligations between him and Lammersheugh?’
‘I believe not. But he owes considerable sums to Lady Girnington.’
‘Is the colonel an honourable man?’
Before Rankine could answer his sister cut in shrilly: ‘He is a debauched sinner. The vilest of hypocrites! He whores wherever he rides – in Lammersheugh, Haddington or Edinburgh. His bastards are the spawn of witches! He has brought eternal damnation upon himself.’
Rankine gave her a look. ‘The laird is a soldier. He has lived the life of a soldier. He finds it difficult to follow a settled life in the parish.’
MacKenzie turned to Marion Rankine. ‘I have heard that he is an honourable man, Miss Rankine. A fine soldier…’
‘He is an oaf! He abused me in the street, pulling me into a vennel. I had to fight off his drunken advances!’
‘He mistook you for another,’ snapped Rankine.
‘He is a vile fornicator who should be dragged before the session. I do not understand why he has not been.’ She looked accusingly at her brother. ‘I believe the minister is as afraid of him as the rest of you.’
‘What do you make of Woodlawheid?’ Again MacKenzie addressed the question to the sister.
‘He is a malignant! A vile Erastian – a companion of witches!’
‘What do you mean?’ probed MacKenzie, guessing her proclivity for hysterical denunciation might work to his advantage.
‘He was always in Lady Lammersheugh’s company after Lammersheugh’s death. They were seen often in the hills together. Meanwhile his wife rotted in darkness, afflicted by melancholy. He was polluted by lust.’
‘What is wrong with his wife?’
‘A malady of the mind, I believe. I have not seen her for years.’
‘And what is your opinion of Lady Girnington?’
This time she looked at her brother before answering. Her bile seemed to have abated. She did not say anything.
‘Her ladyship is a devout woman. Now, I have work to do gentlemen,’ replied Rankine.
There was a knock on the front door. Rankine’s sister rose and left the room. When she returned there was an excited look on her face.
‘A body has been found in the midden,’ she announced.
CHAPTER 41 - Clem Bell’s Midden
THE REEK HIT them as they approached. A crowd stood around the steaming mound as a man raked through the detritus of Lammersheugh.
‘Where is it, Mr Lorimer?’ Rankine held a hand over his mouth. The man stopped raking and pointed to a bundle lying on the ground. MacKenzie knelt down and pulled back the blue blanket.
A woman’s decapitated head and a long piece of bloody flesh lay side by side. Scougall thought that he was going to vomit. The other object was an arm. Something small rested in the palm of the upturned hand. MacKenzie kneeled down to have a closer look. ‘It is a tiny child, Davie!’
Scougall observed the perfect little body. The foetus was about the size of an apple. ‘Dear God!’ he gasped.
MacKenzie shook his head. ‘Who is she?’
‘It is the head of Helen Rammage,’ said Rankine. ‘The sister of the witch. The child has been ripped from her by the Devil!’
There were gasps from the onlookers.
‘Who discovered her?’ MacKenzie directed his question to the innkeeper, Porteous, who was standing beside them.
‘An Egyptian girl found the head this morning on the top of the midden. The child was beside it. Mr Lorimer is searching for the rest of her.’
‘It is the Devil’s work,’ said an onlooker.
‘Satan walks in Lammersheugh. We have sinned gravely,’ said another fearful voice.
‘She must have disobeyed her master.’
MacKenzie examined the head. He judged it belonged to a woman in her twenties. He tilted it sideways to look at the cleaved neck, then spoke to Rankine. ‘The sheriff-deputy must be informed. She has been beheaded and quartered.’
‘I’ve heard it said that she was a witch,’ said a woman.
‘A whore,’ barked another. ‘Three bastards tae different men.’
‘What are we to do, Mr Rankine?’
The session clerk replied calmly. ‘I will inform the minister. We must intensify our search. The parish must be cleansed.’
CHAPTER 42 - The Sleep of Euphame Hay
SHE WAS NOT sure if she was asleep or awake. She was aware of someone beside her, a man. She could tell from his voice – a refined one. It was not that of the pricker or the others. She did not know who it was. She watched a thin face encased in a long wig. Was he a lawyer or judge? He was talking to her quietly, but she could not understand what he was saying. A thought suddenly filled her with terror. Was this her executioner, the hangman who was to strangle her before she was burned to dust? But he did not speak with the voice of such a man. He was surely wealthy, perhaps a rich kinsman come to rescue her.
The presence faded. A young girl was at her side, dabbing her forehead with a wet cloth and stroking her hair. She felt momentary relief from the soft cool fabric. There was still tenderness in the world. But the girl was soon gone. The men were back. They woke her with violent prods, telling her to confess.
She was in the woods holding the hand of a young man. He was looking down at the ground. She could not see his face. She knew he was the one she was to marry. She would enter his family, establish a house and have his children.
She was in bed waiting, a deep longing within her for him. It was her wedding night. He sat with his back to her. She admired his white shirt across broad shoulders. He threw his wig on the floor and pulled off his long boots. She called on him with sweet words, saying that he was her love and that she wanted to give herself to him.
But when he turned his head, she fell. She fell into the pit. She fell into the pit of despair. It was not the face of her love. It was the countenance of Kincaid. He had stripped her and admired her nakedness, the lecher who had used a pin on every part of her body. He was her husband.
CHAPTER 43 - A Picture of Grissell Hay
THE PORTRAIT SAT on the small table against a pile of books. In front of it lay the shrivelled bladder found in the mouth of Janet Cornfoot. From their chairs, MacKenzie and Scougall stared at both items. MacKenzie was thinking of a portrait of his wife Elizabeth in his lodgings in Edinburgh. He saw her sitting for the picture at The Hawthorns. Although it was a fine piece of work, it did not capture the essence of her. Art could never do that. In his mind’s eye he saw himself standing behind the painter, watching him work, admiring his wife’s beauty. How lucky he had been. By the time the portrait was finished she was pregnant with their daughter. She had wanted it hung in Libberton’s Wynd so that he might see her as he worked. A few months later she was dead. He had killed her. The thought opened up like a chasm within him.
‘Do you think there is something important about it, sir?’ Scougall’s question dragged him back to the matter at hand.
‘I am not sure, Davie. It seems like any other picture of a laird’s wife in her prime. She is dressed in a fine gown, she wears a pearl necklace. On the table beside her is a book which we cannot identify.’ He stood up and turned to Scougall. ‘But it has been given to us for a reason – everything has been planned by Grissell.’
Scougall turned his attention back to the picture. He was scared to look into the eyes for too long. He had heard so much about this woman. He wondered what she had been like in the flesh. It was quite possible she was a witch, but he kept this thought to himself.
‘I have sent word to Edinburgh about your discovery this afternoon. Dragoons should be in the parish tomorrow.’
‘What if your message does not get through to Edinburgh?’
‘We must hope that it does. If it does not, I will have to send you.’
Scougall hoped that they were not in danger. ‘Do you believe that a rebellion is planned soon, sir?’
‘It is possible, Davie.’ MacKenzie began to pace around the room, looking as grim as Scougall had ever seen him. At last he continued: ‘Helen Rammage has paid the ultimate price, as has her unborn child, the colonel’s bastard, if we are to believe her mother. The size of the boot at Clachdean Castle suggests that the colonel may have been at the Devil’s Pool on the day of Grissell’s death. It is also possible that Cockburn was there. Rankine, Muschet and Cant were in Lammersheugh attending the session. Purse was in Haddington. Lady Girnington could not get to the pool herself. We also have the pistol.’
‘What about the bladder?’ added Scougall.
‘What does it tell us?’ MacKenzie picked it up and tossed it to Scougall who caught it with a shudder. He could not think how they might link it to anyone.
‘Why was Helen Rammage killed?’ he asked, placing it beside the portrait.
‘I believe she was paid to be quiet, Davie.’
‘Margaret Rammage was paid to alter her delation.’
‘Yes. It would provide something for her children. She was perhaps resigned to her fate.’
‘It is also possible that Rosina is involved. She is close to Cant. Or is some other man, like Kincaid?’ Scougall looked puzzled.
‘Let us sleep on it, Davie. Tomorrow we must meet the elusive George Cockburn.’
CHAPTER 44 - An Uncomfortable Night
SCOUGALL RETIRED FOR the night disturbed by what had been found in the midden. The vision of Helen Rammage’s head was foremost in his mind; the soul of the child another cause of concern. He was full of doubt. He had believed that Lady Lammersheugh was a witch. However, he conceded that it was possible she was an innocent woman, the victim of the evil of others. His meetings with Lady Girnington and the colonel had not predisposed him to think kindly of them. She was rude and arrogant, he a devotee of debauchery. It was possible that they had conspired to entrap Grissell. But why might they have killed her? To gain the lands of Lammersheugh by escheat? Or was the spurned Muschet involved? He certainly had aspirations above his station in asking Lady Lammersheugh to marry him. Or were Rankine and his sister the murderers, motivated by a burning hatred to rid the parish of sin?
He opened the window which looked down on the main street of Lammersheugh. Everything was calm; stars
sparkled in a cloudless sky. The same cold apprehension remained. He felt the presence of the Devil. Satan might be meeting with his disciples somewhere in the parish at that very moment.
Fearing he would not be able to sleep, he sought his notebook, flicking through the pages, reminding himself of words and phrases he had recorded over the last few days. He found the notes from Lady Lammersheugh’s will: I leave to my sister-in-law Lillias Hay, Lady Girnington, the Dutch clock that sits on my mantelpiece in my chamber. His eyes moved through the shorthand symbols. To my husband’s legal agent in Edinburgh, Mr John MacKenzie, advocate, Clerk of the Court of Session, I leave the small picture which hangs in the library at Lammersheugh and to his daughter Elizabeth MacKenzie an exquisite emerald to be found in the box in my chamber at Lammersheugh House. Elizabeth’s appearance in this affair troubled him. There must be something of significance in the words. He yawned. Perhaps he would sleep after all!
Scougall put on his white nightgown. As he climbed into bed, he caught sight of Sinclair’s book on the table. It was asking to be read. He remembered the words of warning from the author.
Rather than looking at the book he pulled the blanket over him. There was a strange unclean odour coming from it. He pushed it away. The book caught his eye again, sitting in the candle-light. But he feared that if he read one of the tales he would not sleep.
Lying down, he tried to find a comfortable position. He closed his eyes and attempted to think about something other than the events in Lammersheugh, letting his mind drift to the golf course at Musselburgh where he had played as a boy. He imagined that he was a bird following the path of the ball from above. He swooped round the first six holes. But still he could not find sleep. He could not get his head round why God might allow the game of golf, but also sanction the existence of witches.
