The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Mrs McIntyre,’ began a man with large, protruding eyes and fleshy cheeks. His accent marked him as from the city. ‘We’ll have you know that on this day, the fourteenth of June, in the year seventeen hundred and four, your accomplice, Mrs White, whom you ken as Nettie Horseburgh, admitted to having the devil say her name. She confessed to wishing ill upon Peter Morton and implicated you in this. You and the other women imprisoned here in the Tolbooth.’

  Sorcha knew that, despite giving today’s date, they were referring to Nettie’s earlier confession of the twenty-ninth of May and that they were waiting for her to say the names of her so-called accomplices. She remained silent, waiting, watching.

  ‘You also ken that the lad, Peter Morton, identified you and the others as his tormentors?’ It was quiet except for the sound of a chair creaking under the girth of one of the men. ‘Well, lass? I’m waiting. Do you ken?’

  Sorcha took her time. ‘At the start of April, Peter Morton did identify me and the others, aye. But I also know that he was mistaken.’

  There were some grumblings, a cough, followed by an exchange of pointed looks. A couple of the men appeared annoyed, and turned briefly towards Cowper.

  ‘Is that so? Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ said the portly man. ‘What do you have to say about casting a charm against Peter Morton?’

  ‘I say I did not.’

  ‘What do you say about Nettie Horseburgh casting a spell?’

  ‘I say she did not.’

  The man sighed and shook his head, his jowls quivering. ‘What do you ken about Nettie Horseburgh saying you helped her cast the charm?’

  ‘I know nothing of this, because I could not help her do something she did not do. Nor do I believe she bears me any malice that she would suggest I did such a thing.’

  The man swung to look at the reverend, who flapped a hand for him to keep going.

  The man used his kerchief to pat his slick brow. The room was warm, much warmer than the cell below. Lines of perspiration tracked the sides of their faces, dotted their upper lips and stained their shirt-fronts. ‘What then do you say to the fact that Nicolas Lawson also named you?’

  Sorcha took a deep breath, trying not to flinch as her ribcage ached. ‘Again, I say that she could not. I neither cast a spell nor am I a witch.’

  ‘I see.’ The man gave the appearance of thinking, but Sorcha could tell the question was already prepared. ‘Do you happen to ken a Mrs Jean Durkie?’

  Sorcha nodded. ‘Aye.’ Of course she did. She was a fishwife and a good friend of Nicolas’s. Her husband was a fisherman who, like others tired of the meagre drave, had become a soldier and been shipped to Flanders before Sorcha left the Weem. He still hadn’t returned.

  ‘She’s close to Mrs Lawson?’ asked the portly man.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And you, too, Mrs McIntyre, you are close to Mrs Lawson?’

  Where was this line of questioning going? ‘Aye. All the fishwives are close,’ she replied. There were exceptions, those who were surly or kept to themselves, but the men didn’t need to know that.

  Reverend Cowper cast a long, shrewd look at one of the other men who nodded and nudged the gentleman next to him.

  ‘So, it’s not too far a stretch then to assume that like Mrs Durkie, you too were receiving lessons in witchcraft from Mrs Lawson?’

  Sorcha felt a frisson of panic. ‘Lessons? From Mrs Lawson? Nae. I do not understand how Mrs Lawson could teach something about which she has no knowledge.’

  ‘Nae? I find that strange since Mrs Durkie knew well that Mrs Lawson was a witch and admits she asked the woman to teach her to cast spells.’

  This required a careful answer lest she incriminate both Nicolas and Jean. Sorcha’s head hurt. ‘I would assume that if Mrs Durkie indeed made such a claim, asked such a thing, then it was done in jest. She oft said she wished her husband was back, so perhaps she said something akin to that — she wanted her wish to come true and who would not in her position? I say again, sirs, Mrs Lawson is not a witch. She could not teach Mrs Durkie anything nor bring her husband home — Jean would have known this.’

  ‘What of the wax image it’s claimed you helped form?’ snapped one of the other men. Sorcha turned her head to regard him. He was a sprauchle of a man, puny, and wore a pair of tiny wire spectacles that made him appear owlish. ‘An image that was used to inflict great suffering and torment upon the lad. How did you ken to make that? Did not Mrs Lawson teach you? Or was it the Horseburgh woman?’

  ‘Again,’ said Sorcha patiently. It was becoming hard to stay upright in the chair. The room, at first so refreshing with its breeze, was now stuffy. Even above her own odour, she could smell the men. Their whisky-breath, their sweat, their horse-soaked clothes. ‘I say I know nothing of a wax image. I know nothing of witchcraft, never have and have no desire to, sir. I would argue the same for the women whom you have named.’

  The man stared at her for a long moment, gave a loud harrumph, then rose from his chair and walked over to one of his peers, removed his glasses and began a frantic, whispered conversation. When it finished, he gave a nod before replacing his spectacles and looking at Sorcha carefully. She returned his gaze steadily, even while her heart thundered. The other men talked quietly among themselves.

  There was the clatter of cartwheels on the street, the persistent whine of a dog, the shouts of children. A normal day in the Weem, though this was anything but normal.

  Resuming his seat, the man eventually spoke again. ‘Do you have anything to say for yourself, lass?’ His tone was not unkind.

  Sorcha dared to fancy. ‘I desire, good sirs, along with the other women you have seen and who are confined in a parlous state in this Tolbooth, to recant my earlier confession that —’ The men erupted. There were cries, shouts. Fists thumped the table, chairs were rocked, papers swept to the floor. Her questioner tried to calm them.

  ‘What?’ shouted one man. ‘How is it they’re all recanting?’

  ‘Cowper, what have you to say? How can you explain this?’ raged another.

  Before the reverend could respond, the portly man interrupted. ‘Sit down, Mr Smith, Mr Walker. All will be addressed in good time.’ He waited for them to resume their seats. ‘We came here with the express intention of hearing from the witches themselves to see if there was a case to be trialled. This includes hearing the unexpected, which must, in due course, be addressed.’ He turned to Sorcha. ‘Please, continue, Mrs McIntyre.’

  Relief began to flood her body. Was Nettie right and this was to be a fair hearing? A just one? As yet, apart from Janet, they didn’t know how those below them had fared, or poor Beatrix who was still in St Fillan’s Cave.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I wish to recant my previous confession because it was extracted from me, as confessions were from the others, under duress. We were pricked, beaten, starved and made to endure night after night of sleeplessness. We all confessed not only to make our punishment cease, as was promised, but to please the reverend and the bailies.’

  With each description of what she had gone through, the discomfort of the men grew. Some exclaimed. Others shook their heads. All cast looks of reproach at Reverend Cowper who simply sat, hands clasped in his lap, watching Sorcha. What he was thinking, she couldn’t tell.

  ‘I see,’ said the portly man finally, waiting for the outrage to die down. ‘These are terrible things, unjust and harsh indeed, and not what should be inflicted upon any Christian soul.’

  It was all Sorcha could do to resist turning to the reverend and poking out her tongue.

  ‘A witch, however,’ continued the portly man, ‘is a different matter. For a start, she’s not in possession of a Christian soul.’

  Any confidence Sorcha was starting to feel dissolved. It fled from her body faster than a dogfish from a net. The reverend sneered.

  ‘As God is my witness, good sirs, I am a Christian, and I deny I am a witch or have ever known one with every last breath in my body.’

>   ‘Aye, well, if it’s proven you are one, Mrs McIntyre, then you may yet have to,’ said the portly man and, with a snap of his fingers, indicated she was to be taken from the room.

  But not before she heard the order given that Janet Cornfoot, as punishment for retracting her statement in the first place and thus encouraging the other lasses to do the same, be placed in solitary confinement while the matter was thoroughly investigated.

  ‘It’s clear,’ said the portly man, addressing the others, ‘these arrogant, disrespectful women are as guilty as sin itself. What must need happen is —’

  The door closed.

  As the guards took her back down the stairs, Sorcha’s head reeled. While she’d never really believed in the myth of the first-footer, she started to think that maybe Nettie had been right.

  Isobel Adam, the first to cross her threshold that year, a young woman possessed of fair hair, had brought deadly trouble on them all.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Corpus deliciti.

  (Body of evidence.)

  Patrick Cowper stared at Captain Ross, absorbing the man’s words. He resisted the urge to whoop with triumph. He was vindicated. Edinburgh had at last seen sense. They agreed there was enough evidence to bring the witches to trial. Patrick put down the glass he’d every intention of topping up once the captain left his study and, without appearing too eager, reached across the desk and took the offered missive to read it for himself.

  ‘The details are in there,’ said Captain Ross and, without waiting for an invitation, sat.

  Patrick delayed breaking the seal and pretended to examine the outside of the letter while surreptitiously scrutinising the officer. The captain looked weary, and not only from travelling back and forth to the city on an almost weekly basis or writing countless fruitless letters on the witches’ behalf. It was the kind of weariness that came from understanding all your efforts were for naught. Was it unchristian of the reverend to feel a frisson of pleasure at that?

  In this instance, he knew God would forgive his lack of charity.

  Unable to remain still, Patrick stood and took the letter over to the window, as if to make use of the light, but really so he could allow the inner joy he felt to burst through in a wide smile. Resting a shoulder against the window frame, he pulled the curtain aside slightly. The sun had begun to set, tossing threads of translucent clouds about the sky, while its amber warmth remained long enough that people lingered in the street. Swill-bellies gathered outside the tavern, soldiers among them, he noted, choosing not to allow their bad influence on his parishioners to dampen his pleasure on this occasion. Women with children on their hips stopped beside the costermonger and outside the apothecary’s; a couple of fishwives wandered past, their creels hooked over their foreheads and shoulders, selling what remained of the day’s catch. Fewer than before and not only because of those interned, but because others had chosen to leave the Weem and chase the summer drave and the work it provided. Still, the fishwives he could see gadding about didn’t look half as intimidated as they should. After all, it was the one occupation that produced the greatest number of practitioners of malfeasance. They should be worried, not flaunting their independence, the coin thrust into their palms, throwing their heads back with mirth, winking at all and sundry and calling out greetings. Look at the newly minted widow, Jen Hazell, whose husband fell overboard only three weeks ago. Instead of locking herself away to grieve, there she was, pausing to exchange gossip with the jocks on their stoops while she cleaned some whitefish for a customer. Didn’t matter she had a living to earn, a child to feed, it wasn’t right. It wasn’t godly. Those fishwives had too much to say for themselves, too much to say to others. Surely they understood their time had come? Anyone associating with them should tremble in fear lest they too be tainted by witchery, not encourage them. This was something he would raise in his next sermon — warn good folk away, remind the fishwives and those sympathetic to their libertine ways of what could happen.

  His eyes danced over the street and he noted with no small measure of delight that woven among the locals were still plenty of incomers, and many were stopping outside the Tolbooth in the hope of catching a glimpse of the now infamous witches.

  Patrick couldn’t but be pleased with himself. He’d helped put Pittenweem — and, indeed, the Kingdom of Fife — on the map again; put money back into the town’s coffers. If he could ensure there was still plenty of drama to keep the strangers fascinated and entertained, they might even make enough money to repair the ruined pier completely. And when the women were found guilty, there would be even more profit for the council and the kirk. Not only would hundreds flock to see them burn, but there was the disposal of the women’s property to consider. Not that the lasses were worth much. The only exceptions were Janet White — Nettie — and Sorcha McIntyre, though Beatrix Laing had a penny or two. Dear God, White’s husband’s health was failing and in no small measure due to what had happened to Nettie. He was unlikely to be around to make any claims on her wealth. She owned that lovely house in Anster Easter that she regularly leased. Sorcha was even better pickings with the cottage in Marygate and the Mistral. Imagine what he could do — what the village could do — with the monies earned from that boat, especially once the pier was fixed and ships could unload on Weem docks again. What if they found a wealthy merchant in the city, someone who traded with the north, to buy the vessel? And the new owner used their port to load and unload goods? The fees they’d accrue, the taxes. If that didn’t work, maybe they could find someone in London to sell it to. A lump sum would go a long way.

  Thomas Brown’s daughter may have refused to sell the shares in the boat she inherited upon her father’s death, but that was small stakes compared to what Sorcha and the Horseburgh-White woman could potentially offer. After all, it was easier to dispose of a woman’s lot and while Mr White might kick up a fuss, he was a very sick man with a confessed witch for a wife. And as for Sorcha, she was alone in every sense of the word. Well, except for this stubborn captain from the west who seemed to have taken a shine to her. He wouldn’t be the first, Patrick thought, remembering Andy Watson — his own son as well — but he might be the last. The idea filled him with such righteous goodness, he had to grip the windowsill lest he keel over.

  God would be smiling upon His Pittenweem son this day.

  Aware he still hadn’t read the document from Edinburgh, the reverend took a moment to compose himself and stem his glee. The captain didn’t seem to notice. He was sitting still, his eyes focussed on the painting of the crucifixion. That was Patrick’s favourite. A reminder of the suffering good Christians must endure to earn a place beside their Holy Father. If nothing else, by the time Patrick had finished with the witches, they would not only have repented, but be cleansed of their sins and able to join God in heaven once more. And if not, well, they’d burn in hell.

  The thought made him feel very warm; very satisfied.

  Breaking the seal, catching the bits of wax and placing them on the sill, he unfolded the pages, noted the date — the twenty-first of July — and began to read. As he did, any joy he’d taken from the captain’s brief summary of the contents was staunched.

  This couldn’t be right. Aye, the witches were to be tried, but not in Pittenweem as requested. Instead, the letter was most clear about it: Sir James Godtrees, the Lord Advocate, who was based in the city, was to initiate the process against the said witches. This could take some weeks. In turn, when notice was given that all was in readiness, Sir James had ordered the Earl of Rothes, the Sheriff of Fife, to organise for the women to be transported to Edinburgh. There was an offer to pay for transporting them there. But no more. That was it.

  Weeks! Why, not only were the village and the local burgh officials, which included him, the bailies and other councilmen, to be denied justice, denied the right to try the witches themselves and pass sentence here in Pittenweem, but they must pay the cost of keeping the women in the Tolbooth for an indefinite period un
til Edinburgh was ready, never mind while they awaited trial in the city itself. It was more than the town coffers could bear.

  Damn. Patrick thought he was to be rid of the women once and for all. He believed this letter would give him the permission needed to conduct his own trial, ensure God’s justice, and have everyone in Pittenweem see it served. Everyone in Pittenweem and all the visitors…

  He returned to the letter. There was mention of what happened to Thomas Brown — his death while in custody and how it didn’t reflect well on the local burgh. Ha! What would those city gents know, locked away in their fine offices, mutton and oysters for breakfast and dinner, whisky and ale by the barrel? They didn’t understand what it was like living here, thinking about little but where your next meal was coming from. Eating fish, mussels, neeps, slurping kale soup and munching brittle bannocks day after day. Didn’t reflect well? They didn’t see Peter Morton, what had been done to the lad.

  Curse the captain. He knew the contents of the letter and had deliberately misled him, made him believe Edinburgh had capitulated to his demands. Ignoring his warnings, he’d clearly told them about Thomas Brown. Either that, or he’d written another damn letter. He’d heard how the captain, styling himself as a ‘Gentleman of Fife’ had penned numerous letters to the Privy Council. Clearly, some had borne fruit.

  Fury swept him. Fury and a desire to crush the man. He’d warned him what would happen, who would pay should he interfere… again.

  Once more Patrick was forced to compose himself before he returned to the desk, only this time the emotion he stifled was quite different.

  He sat down, topped up his drink and drained it in two gulps. Through slightly bleary eyes, he regarded the officer.

  ‘You managed to convince them to hold the trial in Edinburgh.’