The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  Finishing his drink, he wandered back to his desk and put his glass down. Well, Mrs McIntyre was going to be disappointed when her plan failed.

  Och, what he wouldn’t give to see that disappointment writ all over her beautiful face.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Like snaw off a dyke.

  (Disappearing suddenly.)

  The touch was so light, it wouldn’t have woken Sorcha had she been deeply asleep. Rather, she was drifting in a nether world where dreams merged with reality. She was racing down a lane in pursuit of those dragging Janet. She could hear the woman’s screams, her moans as she struck a sharp stone or someone ran forward to kick her. No matter how fast Sorcha moved, she couldn’t gain on them. It was as if she was running on the spot. Twisting around to see what was holding her back, she saw Patrick Cowper clasping her skirt, laughing silently at her antics as she sought to free herself from him…

  ‘Sorcha, wake up, hen.’

  Sitting up suddenly with a cry, Sorcha threw out her hands, narrowly avoiding hitting Nettie.

  Nettie patted Sorcha’s cheek. ‘That was some dream you were having. Get up and come sit by the fire. I’ve something to tell you.’

  Shaking off the effects of sleep and with it her dream, Sorcha scrambled from the bed, searching for a shawl to put about her shoulders. She could hear Nettie fiddling with the fire in the outer room. What was going on? Why had Nettie woken her in the middle of the night? Wasn’t she supposed to be in Anster with her daughter?

  Sorcha pulled up a chair and sat down while Nettie threw more peat on the smouldering embers, found two quaichs and a bottle of whisky, poured a generous splash for each of them and settled herself opposite her friend.

  ‘Sorry I almost hit you,’ said Sorcha as they knocked their cups together, drained the spirit and then dispensed another. ‘I thought you weren’t due back until the morrow.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ said Nettie, staring into the fire’s glow. ‘But my Rebecca had some mending she asked me to bring over for Isobel, help her out now folk aren’t so keen to have her fixing their clothes. Thought I may as well do it right away.’

  Sorcha’s heart swelled. Nettie’s daughter was a good sort. There were plenty could do such work in Anster, never mind Rebecca herself; that she would seek out Isobel’s services was beyond kind. If only there were others who would do the same…

  ‘Anyhow,’ continued Nettie after taking a drink and smacking her lips. ‘I was coming up Cove Wynd when I heard the tramp of boots. I ducked into the graveyard and waited to see who it was from behind the wall.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘’Twas the Stuart brothers, along with four soldiers. They were escorting some men. One was that big bearded Englishman who roused the mob the night Janet died. I only ken that because, as they drew closer, I heard his cussing. He was livid. There were two other men I recognised as well. They added their insults to the Sassenach’s. They were incomers. But then I also saw the Dalzell lad and young Grayson Fleet.’ She paused. ‘I wondered what was happening until I saw them being taken into the Tolbooth. Looks like they’ve been arrested.’

  Sorcha frowned. ‘The Englishman was one of the ringleaders the night Janet… Janet was killed. The others were involved. But they were by no means the only ones.’ She rubbed her chin.

  ‘Do you think it’s possible the council are finally seeking justice for our Janet?’ asked Nettie.

  Sorcha shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Either that, or they’re being forced to. But if they’re arresting even some of the culprits, it means something’s afoot.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Nettie, sipping her whisky, staring at the fire. ‘But what?’

  Sorcha didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to spoil the mood by sharing her suspicions that the men had only been arrested because Edinburgh had got involved. Her letter must have borne fruit and now the bailies were doing whatever they could to cover their cowardly backs.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Sorcha. ‘What does matter is that the reverend and the bailies have no reason to ever lock any of us up again.’

  Nettie raised her glass. ‘Amen to that.’

  Aware something was amiss, it wasn’t until Beatrix appeared at the harbour wall around midday the following day and called the fishwives over that Sorcha and Nettie learned what had happened.

  ‘Five lairds rode into town at first light and went straight to Bailie Cook’s house,’ said Beatrix breathlessly. ‘My William saw them with his own eyes.’ She was clearly bursting with news. ‘After that, they went to the Tolbooth.’

  The arrests of the previous night had been on everyone’s tongues when Sorcha and Nettie walked down to the shore that morning. Some soldiers had been happy to share what they’d heard, as were the fishermen and their wives. Not much escaped those who lived in the Weem, especially with tensions still running high and folk minding what everyone was doing and saying. But the arrival of the lairds was fresh news.

  ‘Were they there long?’ asked Nettie.

  Beatrix shook her head. ‘Not long at all, according to Mr Brown. A few hours and then they left.’ She waited until some of the other fishermen and folk from the nearby cottages drifted closer. Beatrix always did love an audience.

  ‘What did they have to say for themselves?’ asked Mr Porter, the cordwainer.

  Beatrix’s eyes narrowed and she drew herself up. The lines on her face were so deep, they were like the skerries jutting into the Forth. ‘What Mr Brown heard is that they came to say they’re initiating legal proceedings against the burgh magistrates — against the bailies — and, you’re not going to believe this — against the reverend as well.’

  There was a collective gasp. Sorcha felt Nettie’s hand seek her own.

  Raising her voice so that it carried across the harbourfront, Beatrix continued, ‘They said the reason the bailies were being charged was for “Suffering such tumults and rabbles and other such outrages to be committed within their burgh”.’ Beatrix folded her arms beneath her breasts, a smug look upon her weathered face.

  ‘They used the word “outrages”?’ asked Sorcha in disbelief. Around her everyone broke into discussion.

  ‘Aye, lass, they did. Better than that, they’ve ordered the five men who’re currently in the Tolbooth be sent to Edinburgh for trial as soon as possible. Them, and any others who had a hand in Janet’s murder.’ Beatrix scanned the crowd. No one looked away. There was not one among them who’d participated.

  Sorcha’s knees felt weak. She sat down fast on an upturned creel, pulling Nettie beside her. ‘Can this be true?’ she whispered. This was better than she hoped. Not only were the men who murdered Janet going to face justice, but the entire Pittenweem council, including the reverend, would be forced to account for their role in her death.

  Nettie pinched her hard on the arm. Sorcha squealed. ‘Aye, hen, you’re not dreaming this time. It be true,’ said Nettie then hugged her tightly. ‘At last,’ she murmured. ‘At last.’

  Nicolas and Therese swooped on Sorcha, engulfing her in a warm embrace.

  ‘But, you ken why this has happened, don’t you?’ Beatrix hadn’t quite finished. The crowd around her grew quiet. Nicolas and Therese released Sorcha and turned to Beatrix. ‘I have it on good authority,’ she smiled at her words, drawing a few chuckles, ‘that it was because of a letter sent to a military man in Edinburgh, which he then forwarded to the Privy Council, that justice for Thomas Brown and Janet Cornfoot and all of us who have been wrongly accused will finally be rendered.’

  The men and women looked at each other in astonishment. They didn’t know about a letter. There were only a few among them who could put pen to paper. Nettie nudged Sorcha, who prayed Beatrix wouldn’t reveal the author. She didn’t write it so she might be praised, but so it would serve the purpose it had. That was all that mattered.

  ‘The Laird of Anstruther said it was an excellent if somewhat disturbing missive that warranted all their attention be turned to the events here in the Weem and that
the writer was to be commended for his bravery in seeking to shed light on such terrible doings.’

  Attracted by the raised voices and evident excitement, the crowd around Beatrix grew.

  ‘I wonder who wrote it?’ asked someone. The question was repeated.

  ‘Happens I ken who did.’

  ‘Tell us, Beatrix,’ demanded a voice. The cry was taken up.

  Sorcha wished the sand would part and swallow her. Consternation began in her toes, rising like a tide to drown her, and enveloped her entire body. White spots appeared before her eyes. The call of the gulls became screams, the weak sunshine blazing heat. The raised voices cries for her head.

  Before she could stoop below the harbour wall and disappear into the shelter of one of the boats, Beatrix pointed at her. All eyes fixed on Sorcha. Nettie stood, leaving her friend alone upon the creel.

  ‘They say the dispatch was signed “A Gentleman of Fife”. And I happen to ken who that gentleman is. ’Tis a lass. ’Tis our very own Sorcha McIntyre.’

  There were more gasps. Whispers. Some dark murmurs that were smothered by loud cheers.

  ‘And I, and all those who believe in justice and Almighty God, thank her from the bottom of my heart.’

  Two of the fishermen stepped forward and, before Sorcha could object, lifted up the creel she was perched on, turning it into a throne. Hoisting it onto their shoulders, they paraded about the sands to the claps and whoops of those present.

  Children emerged cautiously out of houses, mothers with bairns on their hips or suckling at their breasts appeared in doorways, drawn by the laughter and merry-making, something they hadn’t heard for so long.

  Throwing caution to the wind, pushing aside her feelings of foreboding, Sorcha became caught up in the impromptu celebration, catching a wreath of seaweed one of the fishwives hastily assembled, wearing it like a crown.

  ‘Sorcha! Sorcha!’ chanted the crowd. ‘Long live justice! Long live the Weem!’

  The men twirled her about, forcing her to grab the creel so she didn’t slide off. She began to laugh too. It was once the men stopped spinning her about and the sea, sky and land became still again that she spied him.

  The laughter died in her throat as she saw Reverend Cowper standing at the far end of the harbour wall, his hands hanging by his sides, his face stern but unreadable. Behind him a large crowd had gathered, looking equally foreboding as they crossed their arms and regarded what was happening upon the shore with silent disapproval.

  Sorcha leapt off the creel, landing on her knees in the sand. As she was helped to her feet, calls rang out to head to the tavern once work was finished, but she couldn’t help but feel that somehow what had just happened was an omen.

  The triumph her friends felt, the quiet sense that proper legal processes had been set in motion, was temporary, a mirage that would dissolve faster than frost beneath the sun. Sorcha and her deed may have risen, but the heights were short-lived as she was flung onto her knees.

  Onto her knees before a man who, she knew in her heart, wouldn’t forgive her.

  It wasn’t that she’d brought the lairds to the Weem or that they’d ordered a trial for the murder of Janet Cornfoot and forced the council to answer for their part in it that would earn his wrath. It was because in doing that, she’d not only undermined his authority, but worse, made a right galoot of him and all he stood for.

  FIFTY-SIX

  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.