The Baillie enters the tavern, aware of the guffaws behind his back. He is conspicuous because of a ridiculous and exceedingly large wig. To hell with their sniggering, he cares not what they think of him; he never ever leaves his house without his precious wig on. Once inside the tavern, he chooses a chair, sits down and crosses his legs. For a while he neither speaks nor looks around. Instead, he takes out a leather-bound book, and then a quill and stretches out his arms. His eyes sweep about the room; it takes him all of five seconds to determine who the Dickson girl is. With a little wave of his hand, he greets the women assembled.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. So where is the woman?’
‘Here she is, Baillie. Margaret Dickson,’ a woman says.
Of course, he was right. He is always right. He writes down the name in his leather book. ‘Ah – so this is the wench. So what are we waiting for? Oh yes, I remember, the doctor of medicine. We need to determine if she’s recently brought forth a child.’ The Baillie’s eyes become drawn to the wee lassie suspected of infanticide; in the soft candlelight her face is childlike. He crosses the room in order to take a better look at her, and then motions for the women to move away.
‘A private word, if I may. Do you know who I am?’
Maggie nods. ‘The Baillie.’
‘I understand that you are married but un-chaperoned, and a stranger to this village.’
‘Aye, sir,’ she says.
‘So you’ve been working as a tavern wench? In close contact with many different men each night, I expect.’
‘Aye, I suppose so.’
‘Have you been chaste?’ the Baillie whispers into her ear. As he does so his lips graze her hair. ‘I wager that you’ve been flat on your back since you got here.’
Maggie flinches. ‘I have not, sir.’
He sniggers and rises to stand. ‘Are you sure that you had no carnal relations with a man here?’
Maggie closes her eyes. ‘Nae.’
‘What a pity you could not confide in me. I could have been an influential friend, and believe me, you could benefit from one right now – because to be sure you will hang.’
***
Meanwhile, outside the tailor’s shop, William Bell is like a haunted man. Everywhere he turns she is there forever etched in his mind. He takes a respite, filling his lungs with air before stepping inside. Without meaning to he slams the door, and so he eyes his Master with apologetic eyes and marches inside. He assumes his preferred position, cross-legged on the floor, but it soon becomes apparent that his mind is not on his work. After a while he throws down his scissors and puts his head in his hands.
‘What’s got in to you, Master Bell?’
In a choked voice he answers: ‘I’ve just a few things on my mind.’ And off he goes into the rear of the shop to search amongst his things. With trembling hands he opens drawer after drawer, throwing things up into the air and onto the floor, until he finds what he’s looking for.
He cries out and slumps to the floor. The soft leather pouch has a worn cord drawstring; he unties it and releases the treasure inside. It falls into his hand, tickling his palm, a lock of shiny chestnut hair bound with scarlet material. He brings it to his lips and kisses the soft locks. ‘Maggie, Maggie – why did I forsake you?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
PUT TO THE GAD
On 9 December, in the year of our Lord 1723, the Baillie orders two kirk elders and one Anna Pringle – a midwife, to make a diligent search of Margaret Dickson. The midwife immediately takes charge. In a quiet corner, safe from the eyes of inquisitive men, she commands Maggie in a gruff voice to remove her clothes.
‘Make haste, woman. I need to see your breasts.’
Maggie’s stomach heaves. It’s useless to object; swiftly the woman removes Maggie’s plaid, stays and shift. And in short, she is neither gentle nor kind.
‘And the petticoats – take them off now.’ Once Maggie is quite naked, the midwife hands her the plaid to drape around her, and then crosses the room to hand the garments to the kirk elders to inspect. ‘Gentlemen, please examine the clothes for signs of blood.’
After that, to Maggie’s dismay, the midwife makes her lie back on a crude bed to perform an examination of sorts. She pokes and prods with sharp fingernails, all the while muttering pious citations. Maggie’s face is aflame, and as she grips the sides of her trembling skin, the deed is not done. Like a hideous nightmare, the woman persists, until finally, and to her utmost humiliation, the midwife draws a small amount of milk from sucking.
In a loud and powerful voice Anna Pringle declares: ‘Can I state for the record, the said woman, Margaret Dickson, has been found to have green milk, green meaning freshly delivered of child. And furthermore she has an empty feeling in her stomach and her body is tied around with a napkin, as is customary with women after childbirth. Get dressed,’ she says and hands Maggie back her clothes.
Maggie dresses in a hurry, aware of strange men straining their necks in the shadows. Before her stockings are both on, the Baillie is seated before her. In his hands is his leather-bound book and quill.
‘Where was the child born?’
‘In the attic bedroom.’
The Baillie writes the information down in his book. ‘I understand that you share a room with – a Margaret Bell, is that correct? The innkeeper’s daughter is called Margaret Bell. Is that right?’
‘Aye.’
‘How confusing – two Margarets. Margaret Dickson and Margaret Bell, tut tut. What a nuisance – how unfortunate! We must be sure we refer to you as Maggie to avoid confusion. Ah, if my memory serves me right she is the sister of William Bell; yes, we must speak to him later. Now then, let’s get to the heart of the matter. How on earth did you give birth alone without alerting Margaret?’
‘She was not there.’
‘Well where was she?’
‘I don’t know. Working or in the chicken coop.’
‘So you gave birth alone?’
‘Aye, but I think I must have fainted.’
‘Fainted before, after or during the birth?’
‘I can’t remember,’ Maggie draws a hand to her face.
‘Well, what did you do once the child was born?’
‘I tried to suckle it but it was too weak.’
‘Did you tie the cord?’
‘I – I cannot recall…’
‘Well, did you or didn’t you?’
‘I – I, no.’
The Baillie stops her here and throws up his hands. ‘What did you do with the soiled linen and the afterbirth?’
Maggie explains. ‘I burned the soiled linen and the afterbirth.’
‘And then?’
‘I pushed it beneath the box-bed and returned to the tavern. When I went back later it was blue and cold. I think it must have died not long after it was born, but you… see I had to get back to work or they would have discovered something was wrong.’
The Baillie pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Now listen to me, Maggie. This is very, very important. Did you tell anybody that you were with child?’
‘No one knew I was with child,’ she nods with conviction.
‘No one?’
Maggie shakes her head no.
‘Did you murder your child?’
‘I did not. To do so would be a mortal sin.’
‘But you left the child to die near a freezing river – did you not?’
Maggie’s eyes glitter as they meet her inquisitor, challenging him to doubt her. ‘Sir, I’m guilty of many, many things, and I have sinned. But I did not kill the child. It was sickly and weak and died of a natural cause. You must believe me. There is not a mark on the child.’
He closes his eyes and exhales noisily. ‘Who is the father?’
The Baillie is met with silence.
***
Late in the evening, Adam Bell guides the Baillie to the attic room. The Baillie considers it his duty to make a search of the box-bed and the attic room. The Baillie wheezes as he c
limbs the steep stairs to the top floor and every few steps or so he pauses to take a breath.
‘She slept in there,’ Adam points into a room sparse of furnishing, its only furniture a huge box-bed, a chair and an oaken chest. ‘Maggie shared with my daughter.’
The Baillie nods and proceeds to search the room. He immediately opens the box-bed’s hinged doors and turns the feather mattress. But he finds nothing. Not that it matters – the marks on her body are proof enough. But nevertheless, it is a puzzle how she’s given birth alone without leaving a single trace or clue.
‘I have spoken with a Helen Richardson – she was a maidservant here. Is that correct?’
Adam’s brow furrows and the muscles in his jaw twitch. ‘Aye, I had to let her go. She was a difficult woman.’
‘Well the young woman claims that Maggie offered her money? Do you know where this money might be and how she acquired it? The lassie thought it might be beneath the mattress in this room.’
Adam breaks into laughter. ‘Pah! Maggie has no money, the lass is talking nonsense. A tavern wench lives a hand-to-mouth existence. What utter drivel.’
The Baillie nods but examines beneath the mattress one more time – just to be sure. ‘All right. I am satisfied.’
***
A smile of satisfaction crosses Margaret Bell’s face as her father follows the fat Baillie downstairs. Pringle is a crafty old sod, but Margaret’s one step ahead of him. It doesn’t matter how much money the quality have, they always wanted more. So, earlier that morning, and tipped off by Maggie, Margaret crept into her attic room and searched beneath the box-bed to locate the heap of money. Later on, when no one’s around, she returns the money to Maggie – who quickly stuffs it into her stockings.
‘Margaret. I must sew this into my petticoats. Can you fetch me a sewing needle?’
Margaret can’t bring herself to look into her eyes. ‘It’s done,’ she answers in a sad tone.
***
That evening a cart arrives to take Maggie away, and she is not permitted to say goodbye. With a crack of a whip the cart moves away from the bleak landscape, leaving behind the peasant houses, inns, taverns and kirk that Maggie came to know so well. And as night falls, Maggie’s eyes are drawn to the tumbling waters of the Tweed, and beyond to the twisted trees that follow the river path, their thirsty roots clawing into the river bed.
At the gaol in Jedburgh, it soon becomes apparent that the foremost priority is to secure the prisoner. Thus, the turnkey puts her to the gad, securing her ankles with shackles connected to a chain of four feet, joined to a large iron bar, six inches off the ground.
‘What is this place?’
The turnkey sniggers. ‘Welcome to Jedburgh Tolbooth.’
Upon the damp floor she prays for her mortal soul, pressing her hands together and dodging the rats that scurry near her feet. To the right of her, an old woman rocks back and forth and pulls out her hair. To the left, an emaciated man smashes his head against a dank wall. A clanking noise slices through the air each time he lunges forward and causes blood to seep from the shackles.
‘What am I praying for?’ she mumbles through gritted teeth. ‘God will never hear me in this awful place.’ In the dim light Maggie’s eyes strain to make out shapes in the dark, a mass of bodies cover the far wall, some of them moving, some of them not.
The old man all of a sudden comes to life and says in a raspy voice: ‘Sometimes folk pass foodstuff and drink through the bars. Good Christian folk – hoping to secure a place in heaven. Aye, the same folk peep through the bars to gawp at us, as though we’re animals or worse.’
Maggie lowers her head and wonders at the shame of it.
‘Have you any money, wench? You’ll need it or you’ll be begging like us through the bars. Money can make your time in prison more comfortable like – especially bonny lasses like you. Those prison guards get mighty lonely on a cold night, do you get my meaning?’
Maggie shivers and shakes her head, thinking the old man a fool. Besides she can look after herself, at least she thinks she can.
The old man laughs. ‘Not a talker then? Well, I’ll tell you a few things – if you have money, hide it well because you’ll need it. First you must pay a fee to the prison guard, and then you can buy food, drink, bedding, warmth by a fire. Or you might simply want to be left alone…’ The old man’s brows lift, surprised at her cool reaction. ‘Ah, it’ll be a letter to friends or family that you’ll be wanting. Well that can be bought too, because everything has a price in gaol.’
Armed with this piece of information, on her third day Maggie seeks out a Mr Kerr in order to arrange for a letter to be sent to Musselburgh to get word to her folk. A strange expression crosses the guard’s face as Maggie dictates her letter to him. And as she leans over his shoulder to admire his beautiful handwriting, she wonders how on earth such ugly fat fingers can produce fine and beautiful script.
‘Who taught you to write, Mr Kerr?’
Maggie watches him shrink like a hermit crab retracting into his shell; he is such a nervous little man, the kind unable to meet your eyes or make conversation. And then there’s his stature. He reminds her of a dog that’s just been beaten, cowering in the corner with its tail between its legs.
‘I was taught in a dame school and then a parish school. We had to learn the catechisms by rote and were tested all the time. Later we had to learn to write them down.’
‘What happened if you failed the test?’
He fetches a sigh. ‘We were thrashed with a birch or a wooden rod. Weren’t you taught the same way?’
‘Nae, my brother and I never learned the catechisms. And I certainly did not take a thrashing from the rod. Maybe if I had if I would not be here.’
‘I take no pleasure in punishment. Reform and education – that is the answer.’
Maggie changes the subject. ‘But how did you learn the words not in the catechisms?’
‘Self-taught – I spell out the words as I hear them.’
***
She’s not had a drink for more than a day. Some folk lap at foul puddles on the filthy floor or even lick the damp walls but Maggie can’t stomach that. So she pays a gaoler for a cup of small ale and hopes that someone will come soon, perhaps with a jug and a hunk of fresh bread. A faint noise resonates in the distance; Maggie tilts her head to the left. She has become accustomed to the sounds of a tolbooth, the clanking of the chains, the groans of the ill and the soul-destroying finality of a door being locked. The slightest noise incites Maggie, most of all the sound of a great door being opened and the prospect of a visitor.
A mass of expectant eyes focus on the door as the lock turns, while those with no hope turn away, their anguished faces, demoralised and forlorn. Maggie trembles with elation as a man walks the length of the room, all those days and nights lying alone, frightened and desperate on her filthy straw bed suddenly taking its toll.
‘It’s me,’ the voice whispers.
Maggie peers through the murky light, gradually the silhouette in front of her becomes brighter and she can make out the form of her brother, James, glancing all around him with horrified eyes.
‘James.’ But all she can do is cry, for the sight of his face reminds her of all that she has lost, and the family she’s left behind.
‘Maggie, don’t cry. You must be brave.’ He wipes away a tear that has rolled a clean streak down her dirty face.
‘How on earth did you get yourself in this mess?’ James hands her a clean rag to wipe her face.
‘Where do I begin? Has Patrick returned?’
‘No one’s seen or heard of him. Nothing.’ He clasps her hand to him. ‘Anna and Patrick have grown, they long to see you.’
‘How will I see them?’
‘You’ll see them as soon as you are released, of course. This whole thing is just one huge misunderstanding; we must fight this, Maggie. Come on, don’t give up – be strong.’
‘It’s hardly encouraging in a hole like this, James,’
she says.
The sound of a quarrel interrupts them as a decrepit old man fights a woman for a piece of bread covered in mould. A large man stands between them breaking them up.
‘Who’s that man staring at us?’
‘That’s Black Bill, he’s an Egyptian.’
‘Well I don’t like gipsy men. Stay away from him.’
Maggie nods to Black Bill. He’s a large man with a jagged scar stretching the length of his forehead. He has luminous skin, the colour of rich coffee.
‘Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him,’ James fidgets.
‘Don’t vex. We are just friends watching out for one another. Gaol is not a safe environment. He watches my back and I watch his.’
‘As long as that’s all he watches.’ James shrugs and allows his gaze to return to the gipsy. ‘Aye, I can see that he spends a great deal of time watching you.’
For a while they sit side by side, holding hands. James turns to Maggie and opens his mouth to speak – but is hushed before he opens his mouth.
‘Shush, for goodness sake, James. I will be careful. Please leave me be.’
‘All right. I was just going to ask you, Maggie, what are you going to do? Have you an advocate?’
‘Aye, but I cannot understand him and his fancy words. He says he is to plead for my defence. Does that mean he’s on my side?’
James tilts his hat and scratches his head, then presses his hat down carefully over his ears. ‘Aye – I imagine so. It means he works for you and that he’ll try to make the jury believe that you’re innocent. You are innocent, aren’t you, Maggie?’
Maggie swallows hard, not meeting her brother’s eyes. ‘Aye, but they won’t accept the truth. They say I’m accused of child murder and that if I’m found guilty, I’ll hang.’
‘Hang?’ James turns away from Maggie clutching his stomach as though it hurts. ‘Please tell me you have pleaded your innocence.’
The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Page 24
