by Karen Brooks
The weak sun beamed behind her slumped figure, but where he sat there was no heat, only the cold stone floors and walls; the eternal damp reached out to grip him in an icy vice. Repressing the shivers that began to rack his body took all his will, but God forbid he’d show weakness by wrapping his arms about his sides and rubbing them, even though he longed to do so. This was about Mrs Laing’s shortcomings. Mind you, he’d make her pay for his discomfort. As God was his witness.
She was proving to be more stubborn than he’d thought. He knew the other bailies felt the same. They’d been here since before the clock struck one and all they’d managed to get out of her was what she’d readily admitted the day before in the Morton house: that she’d left the bucket and coal by the smithy, but there’d been no admission of it being a charm. Not yet.
Despite the shut window, raised voices carried into the room. The words were muffled, but their intention wasn’t. He’d seen the crowd gathered outside the Tolbooth. Among them were Sorcha McIntyre and her friend Janet Horseburgh. What he hadn’t expected was to see Captain Aidan Ross standing beside them. The officer had even thumped on the main door and demanded to speak to the bailies.
Under orders from the reverend, the Tolbooth keeper refused to admit him; after all, he’d no rights here. Patrick was surprised the captain remained. Astonished any of the crowd did, for that matter. Their persistence simply lent strength to his cause. This woman, these women, he reminded himself as an image of Sorcha and Nettie rose in his mind, were nothing but troublemakers.
Dear God in heaven but he resented this farce. They all knew the old witch was guilty as sin — sin that even now spilled from her thin, wrinkled lips. It was his duty to protect his congregation, indeed all the Weem, from the dangers of such as her — and her accomplices. It was because of people like the Laing woman that he had answered God’s calling in the first place. He was a soldier in His army and he would fight to the end, God willing.
‘I… I… said,’ began Beatrix, her lips parting with difficulty. Her mouth was parched; her lips cracked. She was having trouble speaking. One of the constables stepped forward to offer water, but the reverend waved him back. Let the biddy thirst.
Flicking the reverend a look that made Bailie Cook shudder, Beatrix snarled. Patrick fell back in his chair, his hand flying to his heart. Why, he felt that! It was as if the wily crone had punched him.
Bailies Cook and Vernour tore their eyes from Beatrix and studied him with concern. Bailie Bell, his thick white hair ruffled because he repeatedly dragged his fingers through it, stared at the ceiling, his mouth moving. Bailie Cleiland, his ruddy cheeks withered and veined, looked up briefly from the notes he was making, uncertain what had just taken place.
‘Go on,’ said Patrick finally. The words cost him and he made sure everyone present knew it. He rubbed his chest, took a deep breath, and continued slowly. He was not above some theatrics if they served a purpose. And what better purpose than God’s? ‘Tell us again how you never intended the bucket and coal to be a charm, even though everyone in the Weem knows this is precisely what such instruments signify. A sea-charm used by witches to conjure up storms, cause havoc and drive men mad. Is this not what you intended, Mrs Laing, when you lay the charm by the smithy? To smite young Peter Morton and summon the devil to torment him?’
Beatrix gave a hollow chuckle. ‘You seem to have great knowledge of what I intended, reverend. If I didn’t know better, it would be easy to believe you set the charm yourself.’
This time the bailies gasped. Patrick, recovered now, jumped to his feet. With three strides, he loomed above her, his lank frame casting a shadow over her bent one. He raised his arm as if to strike her. Beatrix lifted her chin and locked eyes with him.
‘Go on, lad. I dare you,’ she whispered.
He lowered his arm, stepped back and gestured to one of the constables. ‘We’ve wasted enough time. The woman needs to learn to speak the truth.’
‘I am speaking the truth,’ shouted Beatrix. ‘It’s you that won’t listen.’
Patrick stood aside to make room for the constable. Moving behind Beatrix, the man elevated a stick above his head and brought it down across the back of her shoulders.
The old woman cried out and would have fallen off the chair if she had not been tied to it.
‘God demands the truth,’ Patrick shouted. ‘If we have to knock it out of you, we will.’
‘And it’s what He has been given,’ yelled Beatrix. ‘You be naught but a slimy bit o’ fish guts, tangling my words and my meaning.’ Turning her head one way then the other, she tried to locate the constable who’d struck her, even as she twisted in her seat to try and dodge the next blow. ‘Hit a feeble auld woman, will you, Angus Stuart? Well, I’ve had worse and from better than you.’ She began to laugh. It was hollow. Dry. Broken.
Patrick knew where she found her voice, her courage to resist. ’Twas the devil.
He faced the bailies. Only Vernour looked at him directly, his thick lips pursed. William Bell had turned aside, refusing to watch proceedings. Of all the bailies, Patrick was least certain about him. There was a time he’d been a friend to the McIntyres, defending Astrid to the villagers, aiding Charlie in his endeavours, encouraging Sorcha to step out with Andy Watson. But with Charlie’s passing that bond had frayed, until the drowning of the Watson lad had given it cause to unravel. Surely, now, any sympathy he might feel for Sorcha, for her demon-touched friends, would be sundered for good.
If not, he would have to ensure that was the case.
‘Time, sirs,’ said Patrick, straightening his shoulders, ‘to use whatever means we have. It’s the only language the devil understands.’
Not waiting for their assent, he spun around and, making sure Beatrix saw him, nodded to Angus Stuart.
The stick landed again and again. Across Beatrix’s shoulders, stomach, legs. There was an exclamation of dismay swiftly stifled. Patrick could have sworn it came from Bell. He waited for an objection. There was none. Only the noise of the constable’s ponderous panting echoed about the room. Not even the Laing woman made a sound. Twice the constable slapped her face so hard her head snapped back. Blood spattered her cheek. A tooth ricocheted off the wall, rolling into a crevice beside the shelves that held the council records.
At first, Beatrix remained defiantly silent. But slowly, as the blows kept raining upon her, some softer than others, as if the man delivering them was weakening, she tried to speak even if only to hurl insults. When, at the reverend’s order, another constable took the first one’s place and commenced with renewed vigour, she began to whimper then wail.
Outside, voices cried out in protest as Beatrix’s fractured screams pierced the thick walls.
‘For godssakes, Patrick,’ said Bailie Bell, half-rising out of his chair as blood poured down Beatrix’s cheek from a laceration on her temple.
‘It’s for God’s sake and the sake of this town I do this,’ cried Patrick. Bailie Bell looked to the other men for support. When none was forthcoming, he slowly sat back down. The constable continued.
When the stick landed on the hand clutching the arm of the chair, breaking two fingers, Beatrix shrieked like the banshees in the tales the Irish sailors told.
Patrick signalled for the constable to cease.
With the exception of Robert Cleiland, the bailies squirmed in their seats, unable to look at the battered woman. Deep in his heart, Patrick despised them for their lack of fortitude. But then, he reminded himself, they didn’t understand what it was they faced. This was no ordinary woman but the devil’s own disciple. Pacing around Beatrix, he paused to pat the constables on the shoulder, whisper reassurances, remind them of the good work they were doing. The Lord’s work.
As he signalled it was time to start again, Patrick made sure Beatrix saw his gesture.
Only then did she beg for mercy. Quietly at first, so softly that Patrick had to lean over so his ear was close to her split lips, then in great ragged gasps.
/> Fists hammered the door below, their echoes resounding up the stairs.
Holding up his hand, the reverend made a show of preventing the constable from attacking again. Beatrix’s keening halted. Almost simultaneously, whoever was pounding the door also stopped. There was an unnatural quiet except for Beatrix’s laboured breathing.
She let out a cry of utter anguish that dissolved into thick, indistinguishable words.
‘You’ve something to say?’ asked Patrick, kneeling before her. ‘Speak clearly, woman. You have to make sure we can all hear, mind. Bailie Cleiland needs to record what you say.’
Cleiland made a strangled noise that could have been agreement.
The mottle-haired bitch was a muddle of stained rags; her defiant face a mass of swellings, blood and bruises. Her bent back had folded over. Her hands were twisted knots of flesh. Patrick tried not to smile. No woman of her age could withstand such a beating and live. This was all the proof he needed that this was no ordinary person they faced, but a witch. A witch with the devil inside her. The devil wouldn’t last long in such a worn-out shell. If Patrick didn’t destroy him now he would seek out other bodies, other willing collaborators. That must not be allowed to happen. He was already losing his hold over the town; the devil would wrest control from him altogether if he had his foul way.
‘Aye,’ croaked Beatrix, her chest rising and falling with the effort. ‘You’re right. You’ve been right all along. I made a charm.’ She paused, taking long, arduous breaths. ‘I was angry at the lad for not making me some nails and sought to be avenged upon him for his defiance.’ Tears flowed down her sunken cheeks. A great trail of snot ran from her nose, over her swollen, bleeding lips and down her chin. It was all Patrick could do not to recoil.
Instead, he used his most persuasive Sunday voice, the one his wife used to say was like clotted cream. ‘Go on.’
Closing her eyes, Beatrix raised her chin. The sun struck the flesh, making it appear like parchment — delicate, fragile, torn. ‘I asked the devil to teach the lad a lesson for his ill manners to me.’
‘I see.’ Patrick glanced over his shoulder. The looks of reproach and doubt that had begun to set on the features of the bailies were transformed into curiosity and more than a little fear — even Bell’s. They teetered in their chairs, leaned on their forearms to catch her every word. Bailie Vernour gave a nod that was as good as a concession. What did the methods being deployed matter if they extracted the information they needed? If it protected the town?
Patrick hid a smirk and turned back to the woman, stroking her uninjured hand. She tried to move it, but because of the ropes binding her wrists to the arms of the chair, could not. He continued to caress it, despite her flinching.
‘And how did you know the devil to summon him with such ease?’ he asked.
There was not a sound in the room. Outside, the hushed notes of birdsong bid the last of the day adieu. The voices below the window had dropped to murmurs, a melody to the birds’ faint chorus. The light had dimmed, the sky was a pale mauve and strawberry pink, much like the markings on Beatrix’s battered face.
‘Because… because…’ Her head fell forwards making her next words indistinguishable.
‘What was that?’ asked Patrick, tipping his head until his ear was close to her face. ‘Did I hear you say you renounced your baptism?’ he coaxed. ‘That you made a pact with the devil?’
Bailie Cleiland’s quill scritched and scratched.
Beatrix nodded. The bailies began to mutter, hurriedly, words laced with disbelief and alarm.
Patrick used Beatrix’s chair to lever himself upright. He faced the shocked bailies, triumph on his face and in his heart. ‘How many years ago was this? Five? Seven? Ten?’ He waited between each number.
Beatrix shook her head to each one.
‘Twelve?’
‘Aye,’ she whispered. ‘Twelve years ago, I entered his service.’
‘And what did he bid you do, your devil master, Beatrix? Tell me, confess your sins to God; free your soul from this darkness.’
‘He did bid me to make an image of Peter Morton out of wax so he might torment the lad on my behalf.’
‘How did you let the devil know where to hurt Peter?’
‘I stuck pins in the image so the devil knew where to make the lad feel pain.’
Patrick nodded sagely. ‘And were you alone in its making?’ He moved to the side of her chair, one hand pressing against the shoulder that had borne the brunt of the beatings.
‘Aye.’ Beatrix tried to wriggle away, but when she couldn’t, began to cry. ‘Nae, nae,’ she said and he eased the pressure.
Patrick’s eyes shone. ‘I see. Well, Beatrix, God will forgive you if you share the names of your accomplices with us here and now. Share them, and all this — the pain, your suffering, will come to an end.’
She shook her head. ‘There are none. There are no accomplices. It was just me.’ He pressed her shoulder harder, causing her to cry out once more. Bailie Bell swung his body around so he wouldn’t have to watch.
‘Was it Sorcha McIntyre?’ asked Patrick.
Beatrix hesitated and then shook her head.
Patrick blanched. He leaned on Beatrix heavily, so she bore his entire weight. ‘Was it Nicolas Lawson?’
‘Aye, aye.’ Panting, she was whimpering freely now.
‘And what did Nicolas do, Beatrix? Did she make the image with you?’
Unable to speak, Beatrix nodded.
‘And stuck it with pins?’ He forced his weight upon her again.
‘We both did,’ howled Beatrix. Then she fainted.
Patrick no longer cared. He had what he needed to begin to unite folk and cleanse the village of the terrible evil that had been brought in on a tide of darkness. A tide, he couldn’t help but think, that flowed with the return of Sorcha McIntyre.
‘Did you write down all she said?’ He snatched up the document before Bailie Cleiland could reply.
Holding the paper aloft triumphantly, he turned to the constables. The one who’d administered most of the beating, Angus Stuart, was flexing his fingers, the other, his brother, Gerard, nursed a bloodied stick in his hand. Patrick blazed with triumph.
He carefully put down the record of Beatrix’s words, found a blank sheet among those on the table, snatched the quill out of Bailie Cleiland’s fingers and scrawled a few words. Signing with a flourish, he then passed the document and the quill to the other councillors, waiting as one by one they read his words and added their names to his. Once they’d all signed, he pressed the council’s seal upon the page. When it had dried, he passed the document over to Angus. No one had said a word the entire time.
‘You’re to apprehend Nicolas Lawson immediately, lads. Bring her here.’
‘Wait,’ said Bailie Bell, rising from his seat so fast it almost toppled over. A frown knitted his brow. ‘You can’t do that. Not until we have proof of what she says.’ He nodded towards Beatrix’s unconscious form.
‘Proof?’ snapped Patrick. ‘What more do you need than the name from a witch’s mouth? Did this… this woman not say she renounced her baptism? Did she not say she made an image of the boy and pricked and prodded it to torment him under guidance from the devil?’ He glared at Bailie Bell, who in turn stared at first Bailie Vernour then Bailie Cook, willing them to speak. Their heads remained lowered. Bailie Cook coughed into a fist, his fleshy cheeks wobbling.
Patrick persisted, ‘Did she not admit Nicolas Lawson was her co-conspirator?’
‘Aye, she did,’ agreed Bailie Bell. ‘But look at her.’ He gestured to Beatrix, but failed to follow his own command. ‘The woman was under duress. She was… suffering —’
‘Does not Peter Morton?’ replied Patrick. ‘Does he not lie there day after day, racked with pain and filled with torment?’
‘Aye, but —’
‘But? But?’ Patrick spat, his face puce, his eyes bulging. His hands were balled by his side. ‘But what? Do you not want to put a
stop to this before we lose control? Before the devil and his witches run amok?’
‘But you heard the protests outside. The calls for a greater authority than us to wield judgement.’
‘I heard no such thing,’ said Patrick, trying to regain his composure. Och, he’d heard them all right and he knew the voices — Sorcha McIntyre, Janet Horseburgh and that damned Captain Ross among others. If only Beatrix had named those women… He could not think on that, not yet. He mustn’t move too fast. He needed the support of these men, either that, or their fear. What he didn’t need was their doubt, their enmity.
‘I did,’ said Bailie Cook quietly. Bailie Bell clamped a hand on his shoulder.
‘As did I,’ said Bailie Bell firmly, raising his head to meet the reverend’s cool gaze. ‘Just as I heard what Captain Ross said to the Tolbooth keeper. He has a point. As Bailie Whyte keeps reminding us,’ he glanced meaningfully at the man’s vacant chair, its occupant conveniently called away on business that morning, ‘the courts in Edinburgh don’t look too kindly on local authorities administering justice, especially in cases of this nature.’
‘Let’s call it what it is,’ said Bailie Cook, moving slightly so Bell was forced to remove his hand, ‘a case of suspected witchcraft.’ He frowned as he looked at the unconscious woman, a look of pity dawning on his face.
It wouldn’t do. Patrick huffed and folded his arms, moving to stand between the bailies and the broken Beatrix Laing. ‘What do you suggest then?’
Bailie Bell took a deep breath. ‘I suggest that before we proceed any further, we search Mrs Laing’s house for this image. Hers and Mrs Lawson’s. In the meantime, we send to Edinburgh. If there is witchcraft at work here as Mrs Laing claims, then at the very least we need advice on how to proceed. How to work within the law.’
Seeing the man would not be moved and that Bailie Cook, if not Vernour as well, was inclined to support him, Patrick relented. ‘Very well. The constables can search for this waxen figure. But if they find it, then we proceed as agreed. We’ll send for the pricker and find out how much more Beatrix Laing is hiding. For I’ve no doubt she’s withholding information. There are more involved in this evil business than just her and Nicolas Lawson. One has only to see Peter’s suffering to know this to be true.’ He turned towards Beatrix, the other men following his gaze.
