by Douglas Watt
The old woman had to support herself against the chair on which MacKenzie sat.
‘Ma Phamie tain like pair Grissell!’ she gasped. ‘When will it end, Mr MacKenzie? Folk accuse each ither of onything under the sun.’ She stood beside him trembling.
MacKenzie helped her into the chair. There were tears in her eyes. ‘I should hae done mair. I promised Grissell I wid look aifter them…’
‘I will do everything in my power to free her, Janet. This afternoon I wrote to my kinsman, Rosehaugh, who has much experience of such cases. I will appeal to Euphame’s kin to stand caution for her, although I know she has few relatives alive.’
‘Grissell’s parents are baith deid. She had nae brithers or sisters. Nae close kin foreby Lady Girnington. And she will be of nae help.’
‘I will appeal to her ladyship to intervene. Also to Tweeddale, although I understand he is in London.’
‘It will be nae guid, sir. The girls hae naebody – nae kin tae come tae their aid. The end o the hoose o Lammersheugh has lang been prophesised.’
‘I know that some put great store by prophecy and second sight Janet, including many in my own clan. I do not,’ MacKenzie said firmly. ‘We cannot know what is to come.’
The old woman said nothing.
‘I realise the news is a great shock,’ he continued, ‘but I must ask you some questions about what has been happening in Lammersheugh. It is very important that you tell me everything you know. The slightest detail may help to secure Euphame’s release.’
‘Ye are richt, sir. I hae muckle tae tell, muckle indeed. Some of it I hae ne’er spoken of tae anither, as I promised Grissell. Where shall I begin?’
‘Tell me first of the death of your mistress.’
‘She drowned, Mr MacKenzie. It was nae accident. She feared fir her life as ye ken frae the letter. She wis slain. I’m sure o it.’
‘Tell me all you know.’
‘Four days ago I attended her in the morning. Although I bide in ma cottage I spend maist days at the hoose. She ate naething for breakfast. She wisnae hersel. She asked Murdoch fir her horse tae be made ready and refused tae tell me whaur she wis bound. I was sure she had a meetin o some kind, a meetin of importance.’
‘When did she leave?’
‘Sometime in the early mornin, perhaps an hour aifter dawn. I settled tae ma knittin and spent the day leisurely, as they say. Little did I ken what wis happenin as I sat wi ma needles. In the late afternoon in comes John Murdoch sayin a body has been found at the Devil’s Pool up on Lammer Law. I kenned richt awa it wis Grissell’s. I saw her there, a bleak picture in ma mind. I blurted this out, but John says they didnae ken. Some men frae the toon had left tae fetch the body.
‘She was brocht hame in the darkness. It was Grissell sure enough, drowned in the Devil’s Pool, found by Woodlawheid’s boy, who had wandered up there in the afternoon. He swore that he had seen Satan in the wids. But I ken it was a man whae killed her.’
‘What man?’
‘I dinnae ken, sir. I cannae see everythin clearly, nae yet. But I will.’
‘What do you mean, Janet?’
The woman closed her eyes to concentrate. ‘I see them at the pool. I cannae say whae’s wi her. I cannae see his face. It is the curse o the gift. Sometimes it shows only hauf the truth. I see Grissell and a man.’
‘Who is Woodlawheid?’ enquired MacKenzie.
‘Adam Cockburn is the Laird o Woodlawheid. He wis a great friend of Lammersheugh. But he is married tae a puir creature whaes lost her mind. He was aye givin Grissell his counsel an I’m sure he would hae liked to gie her mair. His laddie, George, says that the Deil called tae him at the Pool aifter he found the body.’
‘How old is the boy?’
‘Aboot ten years auld, a guid laddie.’
‘Did you notice anything about Grissell’s body when it was brought back?’
‘She wis ice cauld frae the water. There wis one thing – a mark on her temple, a small bruise about here.’ The old woman indicated with her forefinger. ‘Also, her pearl necklace wis missin, the yin gied tae her by Alexander which she aye wore.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, sir. Only the saft body I had cared for since she was a bairn.’ The old woman’s voice began to break. ‘They dinnae believe she was killed, Mr MacKenzie.’
‘Who do you mean?’
‘The sheriff-deputy says it was an accident. She slipped on a rock and fell intae the water – she couldnae swim.’
‘Who is the sheriff-deputy?’
‘Colonel Robert Dewar of Clachdean. A vile beast.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’s a cruel, hertless sodyer back frae the wars, a bottle licker wi little interest and nae siller, weel kent fir whoring whaurever and whaunever.’
‘I am sorry, Janet, very sorry that I must keep asking questions at such a time. Do you know anyone who might want to harm her?’
‘You have heard the accusations made by Margaret Rammage, that Grissell was at a meetin wi the Deil. Margaret was an ignorant dolt.’
‘I am aware of the delation. How were relations between Grissell and Lady Girnington?’
‘She ne’er approved o Grissell. She thocht her an ill match fir her brither, who wisnae interested in the family’s standing. She couldnae unnerstaun Grissell’s nature. She wis happy wi her bairns. Naething else mattered tae her. Whit did she care fir the interest o the Hoose of Lammersheugh? Lady Girnington wis aye tellin her how the weans should be brocht up. After the laird’s death it wis whae she should marry; then matches fir Euphame an Rosina. Grissell hated few things in the warld, but she hated her. But tae use witchcraft? Never the day, sir.’
‘Who was Lady Girnington suggesting that she marry?’
‘The colonel hissel. Lady Girnington and Clachdean are thick thegither. I dinnae ken why. She was aye pushin the match. I ken that Grissell shuddered at the very thocht o him touchin her.’
‘Who is the woman who made the accusations?’
‘Margaret Rammage wis a servant at Aikenshiels. She is now burned tae dust.’
‘Is she from Lammersheugh?’
‘She lived in Headshaw, beyond Clachdean. Margaret deponed before the session that she’d seen Grissell in a green silk gown at a meeting wi other witches in the wids during the summer. She telt aboot dancin wi the Deil and how a paintin wis made o Lady Girnington, roastit wi brandy and pins stuck in it.’
The wind gusted down the chimney. The dog’s ears pricked.
‘How could I hae forgotten!’ Janet suddenly straightened herself in the chair. ‘The news of Euphame has distracted me. I promised Grissell I wid tell ye things I should hae telt ye at the beginnin when ye came in. All yer questions trauchled ma auld mind.’
‘Please tell me now, Janet. Take your time.’
The old woman closed her eyes, conjuring from memory the words she had been told. As she spoke she imitated the cadences of her mistress’s speech, so it was as if Grissell herself was speaking in the dark cottage.
‘“I could not write these words for fear my letter would fall into the wrong hands. Listen to Janet Cornfoot my old servant.”’ She opened her eyes and spoke in her own voice briefly: ‘that wis what she said, Mr MacKenzie,’ before continuing to imitate Grissell. ‘“Listen well to what I say in my latterwill and testament. Listen well. It will direct you to my commonplace book where everything is explained. It must not pass into the wrong hands. Janet will give you the key to the closet in which it rests.”’
The old woman opened her hand to reveal a metal key about an inch long. She handed it to MacKenzie before continuing: ‘“Read my words carefully. See where my eyes come to rest. ”’ She hesitated for a moment then repeated: ‘“Read my words carefully. See where my eyes come to rest.”’ Janet raised her head, indicating the end of Grissell’s message. ‘Now I hae said ma piece.’
MacKenzie put the key in his pocket. ‘I am baffled, Janet. Do you know where the book is?’
‘I do not, sir. I didnae ken she kept one.’
There was a noise outside. The dog barked. A scraping sound could be heard at the door. Janet looked fearfully at MacKenzie. ‘There was somebody here yestreen, tryin tae scare me.’
He withdrew a small dirk from his jacket. Turning from the old woman, he walked slowly towards the door. He could hear something behind it – a muffled knocking. The dog, held back by its mistress, continued to growl as he crossed the room.
When he reached the door, he stopped. A gentle tapping could be heard. Raising his knife, he pulled the handle. Someone was attaching a dark shape to the lintel. It looked like a carcass about the size of a dog. A masked figure sped into the night.
MacKenzie pushed through the body of the animal, sharp bristles prickling against the side of his face, and followed into the blackness of the woods. After stumbling on for about fifty yards, he tripped on a root and fell to the ground. Fortunately he dropped the dirk a safe distance away. Bewildered, he lay in the pitch black, trying to determine the direction in which the person had fled. But he could not tell. After catching his breath, he decided to return to the cottage. He pulled himself to his feet, picked up his dirk, and headed back through the trees.
After a short distance the light from the window came back into view. He slowly retraced his steps, his senses pricked by fear.
As he entered the garden he remembered the animal hanging from the lintel. When he reached the door he saw that the creature was a badger, fresh blood still dripping from a neck wound. He put his finger to the deep gash, then cut the cord and tossed the body into the earth beside the door.
‘I did not catch him, Janet!’ he shouted as he entered.
There was no answer. The old woman was slumped in her chair.
He knew at once that she was not asleep. Walking towards her, his eyes darted round the dark interior. He lifted her head back carefully, but when he released his grip it sagged forward. He felt for a pulse on her neck. There was none. He had been out of the cottage for only a few minutes. There seemed to be no indication of strangulation. Removing her bonnet, he pulled up her long grey hair, checking the back of her neck. There was no wound, no suggestion of a struggle. He wondered if the shock of finding the badger had been too much for her. The cottage was just as he had left it. Except that Janet was dead and there was no sign of the dog.
Then he noticed something lying on the stone floor beside the chair. It had not been there when he had sat by the fire. He picked up a striking blue feather about nine inches long.
CHAPTER 16 - Sackcloth
EUPHAME STOOD IN the centre of the small, candle-lit room inside the steeple of Lammersheugh Kirk. Above her head was the parish bell which had summoned her to worship throughout her life. Two men, whom she recognised as servants of the colonel, sat on stools by the door.
She heard footsteps. Someone was slowly ascending the spiral staircase which led from the body of the church into the steeple. The door opened and a woman dressed in black entered, a gaunt figure with a sour expression on her face, bearing a bundle of ochre sackcloth in her hands. She walked across the room and dropped it by Euphame’s feet.
‘Put this on,’ she said coldly.
‘May I keep on my gown, Miss Rankine?’ Euphame asked timidly. The thought of sackcloth against her skin was appalling. As she reflected on her mother’s fate, despair rose within her, a feeling of utter hopelessness. She believed she had never knowingly sinned. Three years ago her parents were alive and she was happy. Now they were dead and she was accused of the vilest of crimes.
There was hatred in the eyes of Marion Rankine, hatred and exaltation. She had been looked down on by Euphame and her sister, and by her whore of a mother. But the whore was dead. She was burning in Hell. Euphame was reduced to this. She, Marion Rankine, although a sinner, was promised everlasting salvation by Christ Jesus. ‘You must put it on, Euphame. An accused witch must wear sackcloth.’
‘I am no witch, Miss Rankine. You must believe me!’
‘I know your mother was a witch. You too have been delated by Margaret Rammage. Put it on or I will have the men strip you.’ She pointed at the sackcloth.
Euphame was shaking so much she was unable to bend down. Marion Rankine picked up the sackcloth, placed it in her trembling hands and shoved Euphame towards the far wall. ‘You must!’ she ordered.
Euphame began to undress. She felt the gaze of the men upon her. Rankine stared at her velvet gown and petticoats.
‘And the undergarments!’
Pulling the coarse sackcloth over her head, Euphame placed her arms through the holes. It dropped down and she felt the coarse fabric against her skin. Her thin body exposed in such a way. She wondered what her father would have done to this woman, to these men who regarded her lecherously, if he were alive. But he was dead. He could do nothing for his eldest daughter.
‘That is better, Euphame. You suit its drab colour. Now you are ready for him.’ Marion Rankine smiled venomously before departing.
CHAPTER 17 - A Stranger on the Road
27 October 1687
SCOUGALL HAD BROACHED the subject of marriage with his mother over breakfast that morning. As he expected, she was delighted to hear about his intentions and she began to describe a series of candidates without hesitation, listing the advantages and disadvantages of each. Janet Bain was a bonnie lass with a reasonable tocher, but her parents were grim folk. Alice MacLean would be a good catch. She was young. Some might call her fat, but she would deliver fine bairns. There was also the minister’s daughter, Ann Grave, who was well educated. She was pious and refined for Musselburgh. Such a match would bring great honour on the Scougall family. And there was Elizabeth Carmichael, the merchant’s daughter. At the mention of the name his mind filled with an image of MacKenzie’s daughter. She beamed like a sun above the small planets of the Musselburgh lasses. But that Elizabeth was out of his reach. He knew it in his heart. He must think rationally. His mother’s recommendations would all make fine bedfellows. He would come to love them, as they him, through the passage of time.
As his horse plodded down the road to Haddington, he tried to raise his spirits. The letter from MacKenzie had pleased him much. He could not resist being praised. MacKenzie requested his company in Lammersheugh. He was to do everything he could to reach the office of Gideon Purse, a lawyer in Haddington, by two o’clock that afternoon when Grissell Hay’s testament and latterwill was to be read. His skills with the pen were required urgently and his knowledge of shorthand might prove of great use. MacKenzie was sorry to interrupt his visit home, but events in Lammersheugh had taken a turn and he required help.
Scougall banished the subject of marriage from his thoughts. Something very serious was occurring, possibly connected with the accusations of witchcraft made against Lady Lammersheugh. He had not told his mother where he was bound, but contrived to give the impression that he was returning to Edinburgh. MacKenzie had asked him not to draw attention to his destination. It felt like lying, and that went against the grain of his being.
The image of the burning body on the Castle Hill came back to him and he wondered if Lady Lammersheugh was a witch. A mixture of fear and excitement made him rouse his horse. Applying his spurs to the beast, he attempted to increase its speed. The lethargic creature trotted for a few yards before slowing again to a walk. The ways of horses were a complete mystery to him.
Scougall had not noticed a man standing at the side of the road beside a horse. As he came up to him, the fellow lifted his hat.
‘Your horse has seen better days, sir!’ he said.
Scougall tugged the reins, stopping beside him. ‘I am not an accomplished horseman, sir. The beast does not respond well to me.’
‘Where are you bound?’ the stranger asked casually.
‘Haddington,’ Scougall said without thinking.
‘Then let me join you on the road. I am making for an estate nearby.’
The man mounted his horse and they co
ntinued together down the rough track.
‘It is indeed a fine day!’ the man smiled. ‘If you do not mind me asking, what kind of business do you have in Haddington?’
Scougall was about to say that he was bound for the office of Mr Purse to hear the testament of Lady Lammersheugh, when he remembered MacKenzie’s admonition to keep the business secret. His face coloured, but his companion was looking ahead. ‘A little legal business, sir. I am a notary public.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Davie Scougall. And yours?’
‘I am John Kincaid.’
‘And what is your profession, Mr Kincaid?’
The man looked Scougall full in the face. ‘I am a pricker, Mr Scougall. A pricker of witches.’
Scougall had imagined that he was a merchant of some kind, or a well-to-do artisan, or even a writer like himself, having noticed the bags attached to the back of his saddle. The revelation that he was a pricker was a shock. The uneasiness returned; memories of the burning in Edinburgh flashed through his mind. Kincaid appeared an ordinary fellow. But here was a man who sought out the Devil’s Mark, a man who had dealings with witches!
‘You look alarmed, Mr Scougall. Please do not be. It’s a profession like any other. My father was a pricker; I follow his trade. I was born to do this job. I have spent my life travelling the parishes of Scotland, of service wherever I am required. I provide evidence for the courts. You might say that I am an expert witness. I saw my first witch pricked when I was twelve. I make a living as all men must. I serve my Maker in the way I can.’
Kincaid spoke in an automatic tone, as if he had described his job in the same words many times before. Scougall felt his pulse racing. He wondered if the appearance of Kincaid was connected with the accusations against Lady Lammersheugh. It occurred to him that he should stop playing the foolish clerk. MacKenzie would not let such an opportunity slip.
Gathering his composure, he worked up the courage to ask a question. ‘Where are you bound, sir?’