The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  When he was certain he had their attention, he turned towards Gerard Stuart. ‘Tell us again what happened after they —’ Cowper swallowed, ‘after they placed the door on her.’ Gerard might be injured, but he was the only one to adopt a semblance of calm amidst the turmoil.

  Gerard cleared his throat. ‘They hardly placed it, reverend — they slammed the fuc—’

  ‘I said,’ Patrick stared at him firmly, ‘after.’ The last thing they needed was a recount of the bloody goings on outside the Lawson house. He could only pray the soldiers and guards they’d mobilised managed to control the rampaging men.

  ‘As I said before,’ sighed Gerard, swiping a dirty fist across his forehead. ‘They carried the body of Mrs Cornf— I mean, the witch, about the streets. My guess, they were in search of any others they might —’ he hesitated.

  The reverend waved impatient hands at him. ‘Then what?’

  ‘They returned to Nicolas Lawson’s house.’ He glanced at his brother. ‘It’s our belief that they intended to either frighten or even capture Sorcha McIntyre and Nettie Horseburgh and inflict the same punishment upon them. They were… unhappy they tried to interfere earlier, you ken. Prevent them from finishing Mrs Cornf— the witch — when they had her by the shore.’

  The bailies murmured. William Bell was shaking his head. Robert Cook poured himself another dram and drained it.

  ‘But they weren’t there,’ said Patrick blankly.

  ‘Nae, reverend. There was no sign of them. All that remained were the family of Nicolas Lawson and some friends of Janet Cornfoot.’

  ‘Did the men try and find Mrs McIntyre?’

  ‘Mrs McIntyre?’ snapped Bailie Bell. ‘Why are you so concerned about her?’ He swung to Gerard. ‘It’s Janet Cornfoot we need to think about, not the blasted McIntyre woman or Nettie Horseburgh or any of the other accused. Where’s the body now?’

  Gerard Stuart shifted his feet uncomfortably. ‘Far as I know, it’s where the mob left it, sir. Back on the cobbles where she died. Me and Angus, we thought about moving her, but didn’t ken where we should take her.’ His eyes sidled to his brother’s. ‘She’s not in a good way.’

  ‘An’ she be a witch,’ added Angus.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Patrick quickly, clamping a hand on Gerard’s forearm to shut him up. He faced the bailies. ‘Would you they brought the body here?’

  There was a swift response. ‘Nae. Nae.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘The Tolbooth or the cave,’ answered William Bell. He lowered his head. ‘They shouldn’t have left her on the street. Not where anyone can see her — the bairns, the women. It’s not right.’

  ‘Not right?’ Patrick spoke through clenched teeth. ‘What’s not right is that a witch lives.’ Understanding he had to alter the mood and fast, Patrick stood with his back to the fire and waited until they all looked to him again. ‘We’ve done no wrong here, lads. Understand this. The townsfolk could no longer abide having a witch in their midst and sought to take justice into their own hands. The justice they were denied by Edinburgh.’

  Angus nodded vigorously. Patrick gave a cold smile.

  ‘That might be,’ said William Bell. ‘But Edinburgh are hardly going to be happy that two accused witches have now died in Pittenweem and under our watch. They’ll blame us.’

  ‘They cannot. We’d naught to do with what happened tonight. Naught.’ When the men turned away from him, Patrick adopted a different tone. ‘Think about it. The woman escaped from prison. We tasked men to find her. In the process of returning her to her cell, she escaped again and the townsfolk, terrified a witch was on the loose, acted. Where were we when they snatched the woman? Where were we when they decided to lynch her? Hmmm? We were in your house, Robert.’ He thrust his finger towards Bailie Cook. ‘Your house. Eating a meal, being served by your patient wife and lovely daughters. We had no idea what was happening.’

  ‘That’s not entirely true. Why you left and —’ began Robert Cook.

  ‘True?’ snapped the reverend. ‘What’s true is that we were deserted by the authorities in our hour of need. When we pleaded with them for our safety, demanded they protect us from malfeasance, what did they do? I’ll remind you: they released those who were tormenting us, threatening our way of life, our very souls, back into the community.’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you tie a rope around Janet Cornfoot and throw her into the sea?’ Patrick asked William Bell softly.

  ‘Nae,’ said William swiftly, shaking his head.

  ‘And what about you, Robert Cleiland? Did you beat her and kick her and drag her about the streets?’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘And you, Robert Cook. Did you call for a door to be thrown upon her and for your neighbours to leap upon it?’

  ‘You ken well I didn’t, reverend.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Patrick, his voice rising. ‘There you have it. When Edinburgh questions us, we’ll tell them the truth. That we had naught to do with tonight’s events. We were ignorant of what was happening until such time as the guards alerted us. When they did, we sent for soldiers to break up the swarm and see to the witch’s safety. Is that not so?’

  It was some time before the men answered. ‘Agreed,’ they said, one by one, unable to meet each other’s eyes.

  ‘Good. Now,’ said Patrick, slapping his thigh and indicating Gerard and Angus. ‘I want you to take me to see the witch’s body. Are the horde still about?’

  ‘Nae, reverend,’ said Gerard. ‘They grew tired and, being unable to find any other witches, drifted back to their homes.’

  Patrick frowned. ‘I see. Well, Robert, if you could kindly ask for my coat to be fetched, I’ll take it upon myself to confirm the death of Mrs Cornfoot and decide what to do with the body. Does that meet with your approval, gentlemen?’ Knowing they’d be keen to wipe their hands of the situation, Patrick wasn’t surprised when they assented.

  Without another word, he took his coat from the shy maid, who bobbed a curtsey then fled from the room as if it were a devil’s sabbath and not a meeting of the finest men in town.

  With a nod and thanks to Bailie Cook for a delicious meal, Patrick put on his coat and, for the third time that night, left the house, Gerard and Angus behind him.

  Patrick braced himself upright with one hand against the wall, bent over and stared at the oleaginous muddle on the ground. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d vomited so violently. At first he thought the lads were playing a joke bringing him to see that… that… It wasn’t until he recognised the Lawson cottage and the other houses around it, that he realised what he was seeing. Watching Janet Cornfoot’s death unfold from a distance earlier, he’d been able to persuade himself her demise was no more than she deserved. But now… Unable to shut out the sight of the shattered cheekbones, the twisted limbs, the crushed ribs; all the blood, bones and other matter spilled over the cobbles congealing in shining lumps in the grey dawn light, he heaved again.

  With some distaste he looked at the toes of his boots, the hem of his long coat. They were splattered with his repulsion.

  Wiping his mouth, he kept his back turned to the street. He waited for his stomach to stop spasming, his throat to still, and breathed deeply, screwing up his nose at the stench of his own horror — a horror mixed with the smell of blood and the stink of shit and other bodily fluids.

  ‘How many have seen her?’ he asked Gerard hoarsely.

  Uncertain whether to offer sympathy or pretend he hadn’t just witnessed the reverend throw his guts and more upon the street and walls, Gerard didn’t appear to hear, he stood so far away.

  Only when Patrick repeated the question did the lad shuffle closer.

  ‘I’m not sure, reverend. All those who witnessed her death plus anyone in the houses about here, I imagine.’

  Not trusting himself to speak further, Patrick nodded, thrusting his fist against his lips as a sour belch budded in his mouth.

  Angus glanced at his brother and rai
sed a brow.

  ‘What do you wish us to do about her?’ asked Gerard after a while. ‘I mean, the sun be rising and folk will be setting out for kirk soon.’

  Dear God, thought Patrick. He would have to address the townsfolk — those responsible for the obscenity behind him. Had God really willed such a punishment? Patrick finally stood upright. ‘Aye… we have to do something.’ He raised his head to the sky. What would You do, my Lord, in this situation? The witch recanted her baptism and so couldn’t in all fairness be given a Christian burial. ’Twould make a mockery of all we’ve stood for, make a mockery of me. Of You too, God.

  ‘Reverend?’ Gerard’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  It was getting lighter. Birds had taken wing, their cries welcoming the day. He could hear noises coming from inside the cottages. Smoke began to cough from chimneys. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed. They must do something, remove Janet’s remains before anyone else saw her, before those who were there last night saw what they’d done in the broad light of day and held him to account.

  The reverend almost sickened again.

  ‘Gather her up.’

  ‘Us?’

  He saw the shocked look on Angus and Gerard’s faces.

  ‘Who else?’ he hissed. ‘Get some auld sails from outside the fishermen’s cottages, some linen, I care not. Wrap her up and throw her on the braes. It’s what we did with Thomas Brown. It’s the best we can do for this witch.’

  The men studied him in dismay. For just a brief moment, he saw himself as others must: a man of God who disappointed. Who coolly pushed aside love and clemency in favour of power and punishment. Well, they were the Lord’s weapons as well.

  ‘Come away with you,’ he demanded, shooing the lads with his long fingers. ‘Get it done now. I’ve a sermon to deliver and can’t be dealing with this.’ He began to walk down the wynd, towards the sea he could hear but needed to feel and see as well. He passed by a cottage without a door, the hinges hanging, the door frame splintered and torn. A dark unblinking eye, it accused him, condemned him. Let it. God knew he was guiltless in this; that right from the beginning, his only concern had been for the good Christian souls of the townsfolk. ‘On second thoughts,’ he said, taking only a couple of extra steps before stopping and talking over his shoulder. ‘Dig a shallow grave. After all, once Edinburgh reads her confession and recognises her for the witch she was, they’ll pardon her death and demand a burning. We don’t want to waste time and money digging her up again, do we?’

  The men simply stared.

  ‘Come to the manse when you’re finished. I want to ken how you went. Then we’ll go to kirk and pray. Together. After all, it’s Sunday. The Lord’s day.’

  ‘Reverend,’ said the Stuart brothers in chorus. Half-expecting them to fall into step beside him as they too had to venture to the harbourfront for material to wrap the corpse in, the reverend was strangely disconcerted when they didn’t.

  It was as if he, the saviour of the Weem, the man who brought stability back to the town, was now a pariah.

  PART FOUR

  February to May 1705

  It is much easier to believe that the crowd, satisfied in their own minds of the reality of Cornfoot’s compact with Satan, dreading the fearful consequences of her malice, and indignant at the Privy Council for refusing to prosecute… took the law into their own hands.

  — Privy Council Minute, Murder of a Pittenweem Witch, 15th February, 1705, Annals of Pittenweem, Being Notes and Extracts from the Ancient Records of that Burgh,1526–1793

  … it’s very well known, that either of them (the magistrates [bailies] or minister of Pittenweem) could have quashed the rabble, and prevented that murder, if they had appeared zealous against it. I am sorry I have no better news to tell you, God deliver us from those principles that tend to such practices.

  — A Letter From a Gentleman in Fife to his Friend in Edinburgh, 1705

  FIFTY-THREE

  ’Tis certain that Mr Cowper, preaching the Lord’s day immediately after in Pittenweem, took no notice of the murder, which at least makes him guilty of sinful silence.

  — A Letter From a Gentleman of Fife to his Friend in Edinburgh, 1705

  Looking at the pious faces of the congregation, the warm, shared smiles, the exchanged nods of peace and understanding, Sorcha wanted to scream. She wanted to rage at them, ask how they could sit there as if there wasn’t blood on their hands, in their hearts. How could they act as if nothing had happened? Was it really just a fortnight ago that many of these same people had taken part in the most brutal and bloody of murders?

  She didn’t have to close her eyes to see Janet’s body. To recall the great weeping gashes, her broken limbs, shattered jaw, and her blood. So much blood. To remember the cart being driven back and forth over the door, crushing her even further. At least she’d been dead by then and couldn’t feel anything.

  But Sorcha did. A mixture of impotent wrath and futile sorrow that bruised her very soul.

  Ever since Janet died, sleep had evaded her as she tossed and turned, reliving that night, wondering what she could have done to prevent what happened. What any of them could have done. The rational part of her knew there was nothing. The townsfolk had behaved as if possessed, driven by an unnatural hunger. Like ravening beasts, they’d stalked their prey, wounding her over and over until she could defend herself no more. And yet, when that Sunday dawned, they’d shaken off their weariness, washed their clothes and hands and presented themselves at kirk as if naught had occurred. According to those who’d attended, the reverend made no mention of what had transpired, but delivered his sermon for all the world as if it was just another Sunday, not one that would be marked forever in their consciousness.

  Sorcha hadn’t gone to the kirk that day nor the following Sunday. Neither had Nettie. But they’d been told to show their faces today lest rumours start. God forbid that should happen, thought Sorcha.

  Sitting beside her, Nettie bunched her hands in her lap, her eyes staring straight ahead while people prayed, listened and responded with beatific smiles on their faces.

  Sorcha was irrevocably changed. She’d gone to bed one person and woken up another. All her friends felt likewise. The billeted soldiers, who had not only borne witness to events but been physically hurt by them, described similar feelings. One of Sergeant Thatcher’s men had to have his shattered leg set by the Anster doctor; the following day he was carried to Edinburgh in a cart, along with a couple of other men who also had serious injuries, one a terrible knife wound. The sergeant said he doubted he’d see them again.

  ‘One can’t fight with a broken body or a broken spirit.’

  Sorcha knew he was also thinking of Janet.

  The sergeant’s words made her determined not to let that bloody night and the days that followed break her. Someone had to ensure justice was served; that Patrick Cowper and the bailies answered for what they’d done. As she discussed with Nettie, Beatrix, Nicolas, Sergeant Thatcher and Janet’s grieving relatives and friends in the aftermath, they’d done the worst thing they could have: nothing. Just as they’d done naught to staunch the growing rage towards Janet and passively endorsed whatever action the townsfolk chose to take.

  Forgoing all promises only to write to Aidan about general goings-on and not alarm him, with Nettie’s help she set down everything that happened while it was still fresh in her mind. Not satisfied with that — after all, what could Aidan do from Bavaria? — she wrote to his former commanding officer as well, a Colonel Johns in Edinburgh. Knowing the disturbing contents might be dismissed if she signed it as a woman, she signed this one exactly as Aidan had those he’d written about events in Pittenweem: ‘A Gentleman of Fife’.

  She entrusted the missive to the injured soldiers, knowing it would be delivered. In the meantime, she thought constantly about that dreadful night, equally appalled and saddened that the people of Pittenweem continued with their lives as if nothing had happened. With few exceptions, Jane
t’s name wasn’t mentioned. It was as if she never existed.

  That Sunday after Janet was murdered, she and Nettie had waited until people had flocked to the kirk as usual and then walked down to the harbour, passing the Lawson house and the exact spot where the murder had taken place. The body was gone, the cobbles scrubbed. It was only when they arrived at the waterfront and saw the other fishwives, who’d also declined to go to kirk, that they learned from Jean Durkie that Janet’s corpse had been placed in a shallow grave on the western braes.

  ‘Just like Thomas’s,’ said Jean.

  ‘Not quite,’ corrected Sorcha. ‘Thomas was never buried.’

  The next day, Monday, shops opened as usual. People bought goods, ordered milk and eggs from the farms, purchased fish from her and Nettie when they tramped through the lanes, blethered and gossiped. As the days went by, they fell sick, gave birth, laughed and wept. No one raised the matter of Janet Cornfoot: not with Sorcha, Nettie, Beatrix, Nicolas, Isobel, the Cornfoot family, nor with any of the fishwives. Sorcha didn’t know whether to be grateful or furious.

  As it was, she just felt hollow. The town was a place she no longer knew.

  A few days after Janet’s death, Nettie, Beatrix, Nicolas and Isobel gathered around the fireplace in Sorcha’s cottage, untouched quaichs of whisky in their hands. While it wasn’t the fishwives’ way to revisit tragedy, Nettie had determined this was different. Only Sorcha had borne witness to Janet’s final moments. In order to survive whatever lay ahead, whatever monster Janet’s death had unleashed, they needed to know the details. For Sorcha’s sake, for all their sakes, they had to speak of this.

  ‘Tell us, hen,’ said Nettie, reaching across and laying a reassuring hand on her leg. ‘Tell them what you saw.’

  Sorcha had been prepared to share everything with her friends, longing for the release of speaking the truth and the comfort of their understanding. Looking at the four anxious faces she loved, she knew she could not. It would not be fair. She was strong. She could bear this. What choice did she have?