The Hanging of Margaret Dickson

by Alison Butler

  The Hanging of Margaret Dickson

  THAMES RIVER PRESS

  An imprint of Wimbledon Publishing Company Limited (WPC)

  Another imprint of WPC is Anthem Press (www.anthempress.com)

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2013 by

  THAMES RIVER PRESS

  75–76 Blackfriars Road

  London SE1 8HA

  www.thamesriverpress.com

  © Alison J. Butler 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters and events described in this novel are imaginary

  and any similarity with real people or events is purely coincidental.

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-0-85728-347-4

  Cover design by Sylwia Palka

  This title is also available as an eBook

  In memory of May and Bob Caulfield

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The research for The Hanging of Margaret Dickson took me many, many years. Basically, Maggie’s story became an obsession of mine, and as the story is over 300 years old, I’ve had to fill in some gaps and use artistic licence. Extensive work went into researching and collecting birth and marriage certificates relating to Maggie’s background, and of course I had to study eighteenth-century Scottish history, social history and maritime history. In short, I’m pretty confident that all historical details are indeed accurate – but then nobody is perfect, and if there are mistakes, I can only apologise.

  I am most grateful to the staff at Haddington Library who provided me with vital information regarding Margaret Dickson, and also my gratitude to East Lothian Local History Centre. Many thanks go to the archivists at the National Archives of Scotland who located the original JC court records of Margaret Dickson’s trial.

  Adam Lyal of the Edinburgh Witchery Tours contacted me with vital information relating to Jock Dalgliesh, the hangman, and the botched hanging. David Stillie of the Old Musselburgh Club kindly took the time to answer some of my questions, my thanks to him also.

  I am indebted to Caelin Charge, and all the staff at Thames River Press. In particular, a very special thank you to Kamaljit S. Sood, who discovered my manuscript and helped me to realise my dream of publishing Maggie’s story.

  As ever, I am grateful to my husband, Dave, my four children and all my friends and family for their support.

  Finally, I’ve never been able to locate Margaret Dickson’s grave. My research suggests she ended her days in Berwick. If anyone knows of Maggie’s final resting place please contact me so that I can pay my respects.

  You can find out more about me and Maggie at alisonjanebutler.wordpress.com and about.me/alison_butler, and on Twitter @halfhangitmaggy.

  Alison J. Butler

  CHAPTERS

  Prologue: The Scottish Borders 1723

  Chapter One: Temple 1697

  Chapter Two: The Honest Toun

  Chapter Three: Skulls, Murlins and Creels

  Chapter Four: St Michaels, Inveresk – 3 June 1715

  Chapter Five: The Fish Market

  Chapter Six: The Taibsear

  Chapter Seven: Lead Us Not Into Temptation

  Chapter Eight: The Sins of Eve

  Chapter Nine: Press-Ganged

  Chapter Ten: For Whom She is Waiting Comes at Last

  Chapter Eleven: The Rake’s Progress

  Chapter Twelve: Sins of the Flesh

  Chapter Thirteen: Maggie Conceals Her Shame

  Chapter Fourteen: On the Banks of the Tweed

  Chapter Fifteen: Put to the Gad

  Chapter Sixteen: Punishing the Poor

  Chapter Seventeen: The Hanging – 2 September 1724

  Chapter Eighteen: The Luckenbooth

  1690 ACT ANENT CHILD MURDER

  [T]hat if any woman shall conceale her being with child dureing the whole space and shall not call for and make use of help and assistance in the birth, the child being found dead or amissing the mother shall be holden and reputed the murderer of her own childe, and ordaines all criminall Judges to sustain such processes, and the lybell being remitted to the knowledge of an inqueist, it should be sufficient ground for them to return their verdict finding the lybell proven and the woman guiltee of murder tho there is no appearance of wound or bruise upon the body of the childe…

  PROLOGUE

  THE SCOTTISH BORDERS 1723

  The maidservant drops to her knees in the attic room. There is little time and so she must begin. A tallow candle illuminates her pale face as she crawls beneath the box-bed; she inclines her head to the side and places her candle upon the floor. With a grunt of pain she inches forward. Her hands dart and flutter like trapped birds in a cage, not an inch is left unexplored. Soon a finger brushes against something soft and a small cry escapes her lips. The item sought is just within reach, and so she stretches and scoops it into a bundle to hide beneath her plaid.

  A moment later, she descends the stairs. Fear burns her throat and threatens to choke her. She treads quietly, one hand against the wall to lighten her weight. Her breathing is laboured, as though a great weight is pressed hard upon her chest. For a moment she pauses to catch her breath. At the bottom of the stairs, the maidservant tiptoes through a cobwebbed corridor, into a sea of liquor-glazed eyes. All around her, the last of the tavern’s stragglers scream and cavort, and so she takes care to avoid them and their one-handed assaults. In haste, she weaves and side-steps through them, holding her breath against their fetid odour until she reaches the scullery.

  Beside the hearth is a wooden pail. A fire snaps and hisses, she moves towards its hot flames, basking in the warm glow. Smoky peat burns her eyes; she rubs them and looks left then right, all clear, not a soul in sight. In one swift motion, the maidservant throws the bundle into the pail and lifts it from the ground. For a while she stands there weakening at the knees, as if her bones have turned to mush. The moment passes, a door swings open and a shadow falls upon her cheek. Quick as a flash, the maidservant hides the pail behind her back and turns around. Her eyes follow Cook as she squeezes her fat rear through the scullery door, red-faced, arms full of filthy pots, a mangy dog close to her heels.

  ‘What ails you?’ Cook begins to scrape slop from the pots into a huge bowl.

  The maidservant feels a hot flush shoot up her whole body. She tries to open her mouth to speak, but the words won’t come out. After a while she tries again. ‘Whatever do you mean? Nothing ails me. We’re low on water; I’ll fetch some shall I?’

  ‘In this weather? Have you lost your senses?’

  ‘No matter. Won’t be long.’

  Cook shakes her head and returns to her dirty pots.

  With the pail safe in her hand, she exits the tavern and marches past kirk, downhill towards the river. Before long, the sparkling water is visible, its long snaking trail sheltered by twisted trees and naked branches stretched out like bony limbs. Beyond the foliage, the icy river seems to call to her, and so she obliges and follows its winding track to the promise of solitude.

  The air is crisp and bitterly cold. The woman sucks in her breath through clenched teeth as her nostrils sting. Thousands of ice crystals descend from above, falling upon her lashes and nose, causing her to tilt her head backwards to the leaden sky. With arms open wide, she rotates in the flurry, mouth open so that snowflakes melt on her hot tongue, and every drop of colour evaporates from her face. The bleak landscape blurs, her ears b
egin to ring. She looks for something to lean against but there is nothing. She is weak, a sickly sweat covers her forehead, and as her hearing fails, her legs buckle as white turns to black.

  The maidservant opens one eye, the one not frozen shut with ice and tears. She lies on her back upon the powdery snow, fingers and face blue. For just a moment she fancies she’s in heaven, and that an angel has come to collect her.

  The maidservant gasps: ‘The pail.’ She doesn’t know if she has the energy to sit up, her throat is swollen and her heart pounds in her breast. As she pushes herself off the ground, she sways unsteadily on her feet towards a glimmer in a hedge. In the centre of a frosty bush, a handle protrudes from dead leaves. With her hand outstretched, she plunges it into the frozen hedge, curling her fingers around the pail, but it is stuck. She pulls harder, in the process disturbing a nesting bird, sending it spiralling aloft in an explosion of white feathers.

  Shadows lengthen on the riverbank. The maidservant shivers and exhales misty clouds into the air. One small hand wavers over the pail, deciding whether or not to pull out the bundle. Tentative fingers curl under the fabric to unravel the precious bundle; she can hardly bear to look. A fully formed child lies within her arms, its tiny head covered with fine golden hair. His eyes an odd shade of purple-blue, like a wild flower.

  The maidservant is numb now. The water catches the fading twilight and she walks towards it as though in a trance. At the riverside, she lifts the tiny body and holds it over the ice-cold water. Arms outstretched and muscles taut, she maintains this position till her arms twitch and burn, no longer able to bear the weight. Hot tears roll down her frozen face as she sinks to her knees and places the baby boy farther beneath the reeds, her eyes taking on a faraway look, as though looking beyond the objects around her.

  CHAPTER ONE

  TEMPLE 1697

  Folk travel from all around to sup at the Ten Bells Tavern, and not just for the frothy ale or riveting conversation. Most come to gawp at the innkeeper’s wife and get a glorious view of the biggest jugs in Temple. Many a woman turns up at the tavern come sundown to drag her husband home, but not before casting a scathing glance at the main attraction.

  Duncan Dickson sits at the rear of the inn, slumped behind a barrel, mouth wide open, snoring like a pig. The doors to the drinking house open and close like a barn door in a gale. At some point two link-boys scamper inside, dressed in ragged clothes, both of them covered in filth and dust. The younger boy limps, dragging his stick-thin leg behind him, a pitiful sight as the famine has left its mark on him. Their eyes search the room and widen at the sight of Duncan, the easy prey. The tallest boy conjures a plan while twitching his head in the sleeping man’s direction.

  ‘You empty his pockets while I keep watch.’

  ‘Nae, I’m not doing it. You do it. He reeks. Probably peed himself,’ the smallest boy wrinkles his nose.

  The taller boy ignores his brother’s protests and pushes him towards the drunkard.

  ‘What if he wakes up?’

  ‘Just do it and be quick,’ the eldest boy raises a hand to slap his sibling with all his might.

  The younger boy yelps, the blow snapping his head backwards. Tears of humiliation roll down the lame boy’s face. He wipes them away with the reverse of his hand and grimaces back the tremor on his lips before searching the man.

  ‘Nothing,’ the boy shrugs at his older brother. ‘He’s got nothing.’

  ‘We’ll take his shoes then. If we’re going to eat tonight we need a torch to light a gentleman’s way and that costs money. We can pawn them.’ He points at the shoes. ‘And stop crying. Do you want to end up in a molly house?’

  Like soldiers they drop to the floor to tug at the drunkard’s feet, the stench that comes off him causes the youngest to turn a shade of pale green. They manage to take one shoe when a fierce highlander lunges at them from nowhere.

  ‘Run, Angus. Run!’ the eldest boy squeals like a piglet and grabs his little brother’s hand. They flee carrying just one shoe before the highlander boxes their ears.

  ***

  ‘Duncan!’ the highlander screams into the inebriated man’s ear. He repeats his friend’s name twice before pouring the contents of his tankard over his head.

  Duncan comes to, wiping the ale from his sopping head. ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘You’ve been robbed, you idiot. Two beggar boys. If we go now we’ll catch up with them. Give them a good hiding.’

  ‘Nae,’ Duncan slurs. ‘It’s not their fault. Leave them be, Johnny. They’re a creation of society; the damned gentry making criminals of the poor. God knows, it’s a wonder they’re alive after the dearth.’ Duncan wobbles on his stool, one eye closed as he rummages through his pockets. ‘I’ve got no money.’

  ‘You’ve spent it no doubt.’

  ‘Aye,’ Duncan looks over towards the bar. ‘Seen the view?’

  Johnny nods and twitches his head at the innkeeper. ‘She’s good for business mind, but I don’t envy him. All those men drooling over my wife’s charms would vex me something rotten. What’s up with your eye?’

  Duncan tries to focus. ‘Nothing, there must be something in it.’

  Johnny looks him up and down and sniffs the air. ‘Lord above, Duncan, you stink like a day old chanty. Have you been sleeping in a privy? You’re a disgrace man. Isn’t it time you took heed of some wise words, “wine is a mocker and beer a brawler; whoever is lead astray by them is not wise”? You should pay attention in kirk and be a good Christian man.’

  ‘Spare me the zealous nonsense and buy me a drink.’

  Johnny shakes his head. ‘I will not. When did you last see Ann?’

  ‘Ann?’

  ‘Yes. Ann. You know – your wife?’

  ‘We had another quarrel a few days ago and I’ve not been back since. She’s a shrew. You don’t know the half of it. Anyway, I’m parched. Have you got a few coins for me? I need a drink.’

  ‘Nae.’

  ‘One for the road?’

  ‘Get your hat.’

  ***

  Two rowan trees flank Duncan’s cottage, their warped branches stretch across the turf roof, as though to protect the inhabitants within. Johnny glances at Duncan ahead, walking his crisscross walk, made even more peculiar by the fact that he only wears one shoe. The sky is overcast and Johnny’s keen to be inside, but not here – not near Ann.

  Outside the cottage, Duncan cowers under the shadow of the rowan tree. Suddenly the orgy of drinking finally catches up with him, and he opens his mouth and unleashes a bellyful of vomit onto the floor. Johnny groans and points him in the direction of the door. But the prospect of entering his cottage and facing his wife is too much for Duncan, and so lacking in courage he clings to Johnny till they are safely inside.

  The room is dark. Johnny half walks, half carries Duncan across the room, dropping the drunkard into a chair. Only then does Johnny dare to look at Ann’s face. His eyes widen, her face has never looked like this in his mind; she has aged since he saw her last. He sighs and remembers how they met. The famine brought them together. The recent great dearth has caused many a highlander to venture miles from home; in droves across the Stirling Bridge to trade food. Most exchange excess dairy produce for Lowlanders’ meal and Johnny’s no exception. And so, this is how he became acquainted with Ann, long before she fell for the fine-looking Duncan.

  The highlander glances at her from the corner of his wet eye, every so often her eyes flash with melancholy, tangible proof of her miserable existence. Johnny wipes his face, life is cruel he thinks. Why is it that Ann withers while Duncan matures like a fine wine? If only things could be different. Johnny inches forward, moving to the back of her as she toils, he leans over her, but not so far as to allow her to see his face, which is sickened with regret and something else – perhaps sorrow. She bends around to meet his gaze but he won’t permit it, and therefore he twists his body around to face a dying fire, and thus the moment passes.

  Ann cla
ps her hands together and rubs them for warmth. ‘So he’s drunk again?’

  Johnny nods. ‘I found him at the Ten Bells. I can’t stay long, lassie – I’ve work to do.’

  Ann nods her head. ‘The fire’s low. I’ll fetch more peat,’ she ignores Duncan and directs her speech to Johnny.

  ‘Duncan?’ Johnny elbows his friend in the ribs.

  ‘Ouch. What did you do that for?’ says Duncan.

  ‘Ann shouldn’t be carrying a bucket of peat in her condition!’

  Duncan turns in his wife’s direction, his watery eyes settle on her swollen stomach. ‘Just fetch half a bucket, Ann.’

  Johnny chokes and his eyes widen. ‘You’re jesting?’

  ‘Nae. Why?’ Duncan asks.

  ***

  The child came a week later. Ann gave birth alone. Her husband could not be found and so there was no one to send for the midwife. Nevertheless, somewhere within the desert of Ann’s black heart, a bright shining star gave her hope, for her child was as bonny as a mid-summer sunset, a baby girl with chestnut hair, thick lashes and the tiniest nose. Ann named her Margaret, but in time she would come to be known as Maggie.