Testament of a Witch

by Douglas Watt

  Scougall looked down at the smooth surface of the rock. There was a long crack which he followed until it deepened into a crevice about a couple of inches deep. He crouched down and began to poke into it with a stick.

  ‘Sir, Mr Cockburn, look.’ MacKenzie got down on his knees beside him and peered into the crack. A few decaying apple cores were visible. A black beetle scurried into the shadows. But there was something else, something which sparkled as it caught the light.

  Scougall carefully fished it out. He held up a small pearl necklace.

  ‘I believe this belonged to Lady Lammersheugh,’ said MacKenzie. ‘Janet told me it was missing. But how did it find its way in there?’

  Cockburn’s voice broke as he spoke. ‘A fine woman is dead.’ As he paused the trees released a few more leaves to the earth in a chilly gust of wind. ‘My son sat here eating an apple. He noticed something on the far side, in the shadows over there, beneath that tall tree.’ The laird pointed to a silver birch overhanging the western side of the pool. ‘He ran round to take a closer look and discovered the body. Then he saw a figure in the woods. He was terrified and ran home.’

  ‘Let us look at the other side,’ suggested MacKenzie.

  They retraced their steps down the eastern fringe of the pool. MacKenzie noticed footprints on the ground by the water. He kneeled down to examine them, letting the others continue, but was back on his feet in a few seconds.

  They followed the burn downstream below the channel where they could cross the rocks, and then came back up the other bank to the edge of the woods. The birches had shed most of their leaves. Beside the large tree there was a jump down of a couple of feet to a small area of sand. MacKenzie pointed to more footprints.

  ‘Who came back to retrieve the body?’

  ‘I believe the colonel’s men, John Dunbar, George Pringle and Patrick Abernethy,’ the laird responded. ‘I was told they left the cart where our horses are. They pulled her out of the water, placed her on a board, then carried her back.’

  MacKenzie kneeled down. ‘We have the footprints of three men and a boy.’ Turning to the laird, he observed him carefully. ‘Where did your son see the figure?’

  ‘He was standing here, looking into the woods. It was growing dark. Someone appeared in the trees about thirty yards away.’ He pointed into the birches.

  ‘Who was it?’ Scougall asked solemnly.

  ‘Who do you think, Mr Scougall?’ There was a hint of bitter humour in the laird’s voice.

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Perhaps it was the Devil.’ The laird hesitated, watching the reaction on Scougall’s face. The word shot into him like a bullet. ‘The black fellow, Mr Scougall. Geordie is adamant that he saw the Devil.’

  Scougall saw again the witch’s face staring at him on her journey up the High Street; the fevered night with Sinclair’s book; his mother’s words at the dinner table – ‘Satan walks in Scotland.’

  ‘Who do you think your son saw, Mr Cockburn?’ MacKenzie interjected.

  ‘He saw a man like you or me, Mr MacKenzie. At the root of evil are men. Perhaps the Devil was acting through a man.’

  ‘Which man might that have been?’

  ‘I do not know.’ The laird reflected for a while. ‘But I did see Murdoch and his wife out late on the road the night before the body was found. It was very cold, but I noticed he was wearing only a shirt.’

  ‘What were they doing?’

  ‘I do not know. It was after midnight. They seemed to be making their way back to Lammersheugh.’

  ‘What were you doing out so late yourself?’

  ‘I often walk round the gardens at night when I need to think.’

  ‘And what were you thinking about on that evening?’ MacKenzie asked in an affable manner.

  ‘My usual concerns, Mr MacKenzie. The wellbeing of my son and wife.’

  ‘Let us explore the wood,’ said MacKenzie. He climbed onto the bank and walked in the direction Cockburn had indicated. The laird followed and then Scougall, reluctantly, listening to the strange wailing sounds made by the wind in the birches.

  MacKenzie proceeded for about fifty yards. As the trees were not tightly packed, it was easy to move through them into the centre of the wood. ‘Please stand perfectly still, gentlemen,’ he said, then he began to speak in Gaelic. The words possessed a haunting quality: Seileach allt, calltainn chreag, feàrna bhog, beithe lag, uinnseann an deiseir. I must apologise, Mr Cockburn. Gaelic is my native tongue. Let me translate for you – Willow of the brook, hazel of the rock, alder of the bog, birch of the hollow, ash of the sunny slope.’ MacKenzie smiled. ‘The proverbs of my people come to me in Gaelic before I think about them. They have much to teach us, representing the collective wisdom of the Gael. They often direct my thoughts down new pathways. They are a useful tool.’ He observed the laird carefully before smiling.

  ‘Sadly I do not speak your language, sir. I have never been to the Highlands,’ he replied.

  Scougall recalled his own visit to Glenshieldaig Castle in the West Highlands the previous year; the cateran’s dagger on his neck, the attempt on their lives by Glenbeg. His sense of unease grew.

  ‘It is too beautiful a spot for the Devil,’ said MacKenzie, sensing Scougall’s fear.

  Scougall mustered a half-hearted grin.

  ‘We must search the wood in case the Devil left anything behind.’ A peremptory tone entered MacKenzie’s voice which Scougall recognised as an indication of purpose, but it surprised the laird, whose expression suggested he was not used to being told what to do. ‘The wood is not large,’ MacKenzie continued, ‘head in that direction, Davie. Mr Cockburn, please go that way. I will search this way. Shout if you see anything. But take your time – Buinnigear buaidh le foighidinn – Patience wins victory. We may be lucky and come upon the Devil’s footprints!’

  Despite the grim series of events, he was feeling well. The blackness was vanquished. Lightness engrossed his spinning mind. This was a dark puzzle, but a puzzle nonetheless. And he would solve it.

  Scougall set his eyes on the floor of the wood and he plodded like a sullen child, examining each clump of grass and heather. Every so often he stopped to look up into the thin branches. They reminded him of skeletal fingers. He saw no beauty in this spot as suggested by MacKenzie. After about twenty yards, he turned to watch the figures of the other two receding into the distance. The presence of evil was palpable. He wished keenly for human companionship. Another look over his shoulder added to his gloom. Cockburn and MacKenzie were far off on the other side of the wood, almost unrecognisable as human, black streaks against the silver bark of the trees.

  He was nearing the end of the wood. Before him was the pool, the Devil’s Pool, black water, a dark mirror of the sky. He was wondering how deep it was in the middle when he caught sight of an object lying in the heather near the edge of the trees. Kneeling down, he saw that it was a finely carved pistol, the length of his hand with an exquisite ivory handle.

  ‘Sir… sir… Mr Cockburn… over here… I have found something,’ he shouted.

  He looked down at the small gun. It was strange to see such a valuable weapon lying there. But the discovery cheered him. After all, why would the Devil need a pistol?

  CHAPTER 21 - The Dreams of Euphame Hay

  SHE WATCHED HIM walk away, the sound of his boots on the wooden floorboards echoing within her head. She prayed that the pain was over. She heard him talk to the others. She did not understand what they were saying. A look of agitation was on the face of Cant. She had watched him from her pew in church each Sabbath. In the kirk his eloquence shone. It was different here. He looked exhausted. The pricking was something he had not witnessed before. Muschet also looked drawn. However, Rankine’s expression was as self-satisfied as ever.

  Euphame’s body ached everywhere. They had removed the sackcloth. They were the first men to see her naked. It should have been her husband.

  As the two men held her down, Kincaid had applied the p
in to every inch of her body. She had tried to resist, but she was too weak. Sometimes the metal seemed to slip into her almost without pain, like a knife dropped into butter. In other places, it was agonising.

  For a while she felt light, as if she was looking down on her torture from above. She was glad that her father was dead; that he did not live to see his daughter suffer like this. The thought gave her some strength. She would accept the pain in remembrance of him. She would meet him again when she died. The thought of death did not scare her.

  She began to drift into unconsciousness. Her thoughts became confused. She was a girl back in Janet Cornfoot’s cottage watching her prepare a meal. Her mother arrived in a beautiful green gown. Euphame was startled by her youthful beauty. It was as she must have looked when she was first married.

  ‘Euphame, Euphame, wake up! Wake up!’

  She had no idea how long she had slept, one minute, two – an hour. She did not know if it was day or night. She did not know what day it was.

  The minister’s voice. ‘You may not sleep yet, Euphame…’

  The colonel’s men were behind her, pulling her up so that she was forced to sit against the wall. Her three accusers, Cant, Muschet and Rankine, stood once more before her, black intent in their eyes as they looked down on her.

  ‘The Devil’s Mark has been found on you, witch!’ Theophilus Rankine was the first to speak. ‘Kincaid has found marks on your thigh and the small of your back. The pin was inserted a full inch. There was no blood. You felt no pain. Witch!’

  She wanted to spit in his face. But she was powerless. She knew what they sought. They wanted to break her, to wear her down by waking her again and again until she told them that she was a witch and her mother and Janet and others were witches. Then they would let her sleep. She looked at their faces, but said nothing. Her eyelids drooped. Her head fell forward. All of a sudden she felt a jolt on her face. It was not a hand. It was water, ice-cold. She came back to consciousness. They had miscalculated. She was awake again. She knew that if she was alert she would never give in. But in that place between sleep and wakefulness, in that halfway house she had less control. In that place she was not sure if she was in life or in a dream.

  ‘Euphame.’ The minister was not full of condemnation like the session clerk, but he was insistent. ‘Euphame, the pricker has found the Devil’s Mark upon you. We know you are in covenant with Satan. We know you have met him in the Blinkbonny Woods and at the Weird Heugh. We know that you have conspired with your mother and other witches to harm Lady Girnington. You must seek God’s forgiveness. You must repent. If you confess, you may rest tonight.’

  She summoned up the energy to speak, but her voice was weak and hoarse. ‘I am no witch, Mr Cant. I am Euphame Hay, daughter of Alexander Hay of Lammersheugh, grand-daughter of John Hay of Lammersheugh, great-grand-daughter of Robert Hay of Lammersheugh.’ But her words were unintelligible.

  She was lost somewhere. It was the feeling you got as a child when you ran too far into the woods and, for a few minutes, you could not find your mother or father. Then with a jolt she was back in the steeple. She was not sure if she had slept. Now there were only two of them in the room. The minister had retired to bed.

  Rankine kneeled down beside her so that she looked straight into his reptilian face.

  ‘Confess you are a witch! Whore of Satan! Fornicator with the Devil! Polluter of the parish – witch!’

  ‘I am no witch.’

  Rankine understood what she said. There was pain again on her face. This time it was a hand, a slap, a burning feeling on her cheek. Again she was roused. Again she claimed victory. God must be watching. These men would surely burn in Hell for what they did.

  ‘No, Mr Rankine! We are not to touch her. We do not have the authority. We must follow procedure.’ Muschet’s anxiety was evident.

  She let her head rest against the wall. Visions of happy times before her father died came to her. Just as she was falling asleep the cottage of Janet Cornfoot appeared again, full of the old woman’s laughter, a place where she felt at home. On the spit in the hearth she watched meat roasting, a creature of some kind. She could not tell at first what it was, but there was a sweet smell. She gazed on long glistening muscles and white sizzling tendons.

  But when she realised what it was, she screamed as she had never screamed before. She was watching her own body roasting before her.

  CHAPTER 22 - A Reception at Girnington House

  ‘ONE FINAL QUESTION, Mr Cockburn,’ MacKenzie said as he dismounted at the gates. ‘Where were you the afternoon Lady Lammersheugh died?’

  ‘Do you assume the role of sheriff-deputy, Mr MacKenzie?’ Cockburn was clearly nettled.

  ‘It is only my inquisitive nature getting the better of me. As the family’s lawyer, I need to find out what has happened to Lady Lammersheugh. It may help Euphame.’

  Cockburn’s tone softened. ‘I am sorry. Clachdean shows little application in his position. I had a meeting with Purse in Haddington.’ He took off his hat and bowed. ‘Until we meet again, gentlemen.’ Rousing his horse, he set off at a trot in the direction of Lammersheugh.

  MacKenzie and Scougall entered a drive leading to Girnington House. MacKenzie observed the impressive structure as they approached, noting the Dutch gables tied across the front by a balustrade and fine portico. ‘What do you make of this afternoon’s discoveries, Davie?’

  ‘I am relieved to be away from the pool, sir,’ began Scougall. ‘I felt the presence of evil there. I have never experienced it so powerfully before.’

  ‘But what do you think about the necklace and the gun?’

  ‘Lady Lammersheugh may have taken her own life. I have heard of accused witches who have done so,’ he proposed.

  ‘Yes. She may have been overwhelmed by the accusations against her.’ MacKenzie stopped walking and turned to Scougall. ‘However, she would have expected protection from her kin if the case went to trial. She may have ended her life to escape the pain of grief. On the other hand, we have evidence that she was a devoted mother. The letter suggests that she believed that her life was in danger. Let us assume for now that she did not take her life. Clachdean, the colonel as he appears to be known in the parish, thinks it was an accident; a woman who could not swim fell into a deep pool. This is also possible, of course, but unlikely. He does not know about the letter. In addition, he may want little attention drawn to her death to minimise his workload. The presence of the necklace may indicate that Lady Lammersheugh was on the rock before she died, or that someone found it and placed it there for safe keeping, George Cockburn, for example. However, it was very careless to lose such a fine weapon in the woods. I must confess I am confused, Davie.’ They continued walking towards the house.

  ‘The presence of the gun may be unrelated, sir.’

  ‘Entirely possible. What do you make of the initials?’ MacKenzie withdrew the pistol from his cloak and handed it to Scougall. ‘AH has been carved at the bottom of the handle.’

  Scougall examined the weapon, turning it round to observe the base. ‘Do you know anyone with these initials, sir?’

  ‘None of those I have met thus far – Lillias Hay, Adam Cockburn, Robert Dewar, Archibald Muschet, Theophilus Rankine, John Murdoch.’

  ‘It could have been purchased from someone else,’ suggested Scougall.

  MacKenzie walked on for a few paces, deep in thought. ‘There were other footprints at the pool, Davie. I noticed some on the eastern side as we walked north. You may have seen me kneeling to tie my laces. And we have a shoe size!’

  MacKenzie removed a piece of string from his pocket, holding it up to show Scougall. Bending over, he placed it beside his foot and then his companion’s. The string was longer than Scougall’s by an inch, and half an inch longer than his own. ‘It does not seem to belong to a woman unless Lady Lammersheugh had very large feet! Nor was it one of those who retrieved the body for I compared the length with them. We know that a man with large feet visited the
pool alone over the last few days. But we cannot tell if this was before or after she drowned. We are fortunate that the weather has been clement over the last week, and rain did not wash them away.’

  ‘I had not noticed them, sir.’ Scougall was impressed by MacKenzie’s forethought to measure the prints.

  ‘Fear can heighten the senses, but it can also blunt them. Do not waste time thinking about Sinclair’s tales. Grissell’s death has nothing to do with the Devil, Davie. The answer is to be found among the inhabitants of Lammersheugh. As you know I am a student of human nature. Combining the pieces of evidence we find with a close scrutiny of the characters in the parish will help explain her death and, hopefully, save Euphame.’

  Scougall was relieved by MacKenzie’s assurance that human agency was at the root of events. ‘It is possible that someone pushed Lady Lammersheugh into the water, found out that she could not swim and then threw the weapon away,’ he suggested.

  ‘Janet Cornfoot found a slight bruising on her temple which could have been caused by a fall into water,’ replied MacKenzie. ‘Drowning is the most likely cause of death. But much depends on the boy’s testimony.’

  They had reached the front door of the house. MacKenzie indicated with a nod that Scougall was to knock. After a long wait a smartly dressed servant answered, gave them a cold stare and enquired as to their business.

  ‘I am John MacKenzie, an advocate in Edinburgh. This is my assistant, Davie Scougall,’ MacKenzie said politely. ‘We seek an audience with her ladyship on legal matters relating to the estate of Lammersheugh. Announce our arrival and arrange for our horses to be cared for.’