by Douglas Watt
The boy shook his head.
‘Then I will translate for you, “Truth is better than gold.” You should learn some one day. A few words of Gaelic might prove useful. Mr Scougall will copy down what you say in his notebook so that we can remember it. Just close your eyes. Go back to that day – the twenty-second of October. I might ask a question or two when you are finished.’
The boy nodded again. Scougall showed him his notebook, revealing a page of tiny script: ‘As you can see, I do not waste paper – I use every inch.’
‘What is that writing, sir?’
‘It is shorthand, Geordie.’ Scougall smiled. ‘I have been learning it. I can now write as quickly as a man can talk. You see the symbol there.’ He placed his forefinger on the page. ‘That means “road” and that one beside it represents “pool”…’
‘Thank you, Davie,’ MacKenzie interrupted. ‘We can return to a lesson later.’
Geordie realised from MacKenzie’s tone that he was to begin. He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. ‘I woke in my chamber. The day was fine. I ate breakfast with my father. He was not happy. He said little to me. He was dressed in his riding gear, so I enquired where he was bound. He told me he was to go to Haddington on business. I called to my mother, who does not leave her chambers. She bid me good day at school. I left the house at eight o’clock and walked down the Haddington road to the village through the woods, past Lammersheugh House.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I remember little else of the morning. I was tawsed by Mr Richardson. I could not remember my Latin. After school I went to the pool. I often went there before it happened. I walked down the High Street to Lammersheugh House.’ He stopped, recalling another detail. ‘I saw Euphame in the garden. I waved to her and she waved back. I continued up the road, over the brig and onto the path. As I was entering a field I saw a rider approaching. I stood on the dyke to let him pass. It was the Laird of Clachdean. He looked ill-pleased to see me and said nothing as he rode by. I do not like him. He does not speak to children.’
‘You are doing very well, Geordie,’ said MacKenzie. ‘Please keep going.’
‘I walked up to the pool and climbed onto the big rock. When I was eating my apple I saw something and I took a stone and threw it across the water. It hit first time, with a thud. So I climbed down and ran round. When I jumped onto the sand I saw a body in the water.’
‘Describe exactly what you saw.’
‘She was face down. She had long dark hair and a black cloak. I did not look for long.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I heard a noise in the woods. I turned round.’ A look of fear came over the boy’s face as he recalled the experience. ‘I saw a black man. I knew it was Him. It was Satan. He called me to come to him.’
‘How did you know it was Satan?’ asked Scougall.
‘He called me by my name, as Satan does. He said, “Geordie! Geordie! Come to me boy.” I heard him calling my own name. I ran. I did not look back. I knew if I did he would have me for his own.’
MacKenzie gave some thought to what the boy had said. ‘Apart from the death of Lady Lammersheugh and this witchcraft business, is there anything else that you can think of which might be of importance, anything that has happened in the parish recently that might interest an old lawyer.’ He looked intently at the boy.
‘There is something, sir. A few weeks ago, I was out on the hill. I sometimes go up there after dark. I heard a noise on the road and hid behind a dyke. I saw three carts pass. I wondered if I should follow them. I thought they were smugglers, so I waited until the last cart was out of sight and came out from my hiding place in a gorse bush. They went down the Clachdean road. I followed for a bit. But I grew tired and returned home.’
‘Did you recognise the carters?’
‘I could not see them.’
‘Did you see what load they carried?’
‘I think I saw barrels.’
‘Thank you, Geordie. You were not the only person to see the carts on the road that night. Janet Cornfoot saw them. You have a very good memory. You would make a fine lawyer.’
‘I want to be a soldier, sir.’ The boy straightened his back after saying this.
‘A fine soldier you will make. I have only one last question. What is wrong with your mother?’
‘She is ill, sir. She cannot leave her chambers. The light hurts her skin.’
‘How long has she had such a condition?’
‘A few years, I think. She will not have me enter her rooms any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘I do not know, sir.’
‘She never leaves the house?’
‘She does not leave her chamber.’
‘I see. Thank you, Geordie. Now off you go. When this is all over you must visit us in Edinburgh. Mr Scougall will teach you shorthand and we will play golf.’
The boy smiled, lowered himself from the dyke and ran off up the road in the direction of Woodlawheid.
MacKenzie turned to Scougall. ‘What do you make of that, Davie?’
‘The presence of Clachdean may point towards his involvement.’
‘But he may just have been riding to Haddington. What about Geordie’s mother?’
‘She must be very ill.’
‘Not from a malady which kills quickly. Adam Cockburn has said little about his wife. We need to pay a visit to Woodlawheid.’
CHAPTER 50 - The Confession of Euphame Hay
SHE WAS IN the Blinkbonny Woods in the green of summer. At the end of a long avenue of trees, he appeared, a distant apparition, walking slowly towards her. They greeted each other. He lowered his head to kiss her softly on the cheek. The memory was blissful.
She was inside Janet’s cottage, carrying flowers she had picked in the woods, yellow primroses. Janet was busy preparing something at the table. Suddenly it was dark. There was a knock on the door. She answered it. She was overjoyed to see her mother. They embraced and shed many tears. She looked so well in her green velvet dress, full of life, as she had before her troubles.
A tall man entered the cottage behind her. She did not realise who it was at first for his face was hidden by the brim of his hat. Then she saw her father’s face, smiling down at her. He took her in his arms, lifting her up as he did when she was a child. She felt overjoyed to be in his arms, protected. Happiness rushed through her.
She was awake. She could not remember where she was. Memories of the Tolbooth and her torture returned. She let out a sigh. She knew that she was going to die. She could not hold out much longer.
She felt refreshed. She must have been asleep. But for how long? She wondered if they had forgotten to wake her. She had no way of knowing in the windowless dungeon. It could have been hours. She felt a little stronger. She inhaled the reek of abused humanity. It had a sharper smell than she remembered. She had recovered some strength. A slight taste of hope returned. Perhaps the appeal of her kin had been successful.
But realisation fell like a stone on her chest, terror replacing hope, as she remembered why she had been left to rest. She saw in her mind’s eye the journey she would make: the long walk to the stake where she would meet the hands of death. She saw a vision of her body in flames, the exaltation of her accusers, the pitiful end to her life. She was innocent, but God was to punish her like this. The declaration that she had made came back to her.
I confess that I am a witch. I have sold myself body and soul unto Satan. My mother took me to the Blinkbonny Woods where we met other witches. I put a hand on the crown of my head and the other on the sole of my foot. I gave everything between unto him. I was told to kiss his manhood like a stallion’s. I took his seed within my mouth. He told me I was beholden unto him. He lay with me in the position of a beast. He was cold within me like running water. With my mother I planned the murder of my aunt, Lady Girnington. We prepared a wax painting which we roasted with brandy over a fire. At meetings in the Blinkbonny Woods were also present Janet Cornfoot, Elizabeth Murdo
ch, John Murdoch and my sister Rosina Hay.
CHAPTER 51 - A Conversation at Woodlawheid
THEY CREPT INTO the house like thieves, Scougall terrified that they might be caught. Holding up his candle, he followed MacKenzie from room to room. They entered a large chamber where the windows were covered with thick curtains. Their candle was the only point of light, hinting at an opulently furnished apartment. There appeared to be no one inside.
Two doors led off the far wall. They walked towards them. The one on the right was slightly ajar. MacKenzie opened it and poked his head round. It was a dressing room full of richly coloured gowns. He pushed gently on the handle of the other door. It opened easily to reveal a chamber where a fire was burning. Someone was asleep on a four-poster bed. They inched across the room, trying not to make a sound. But as MacKenzie raised his candle by the bed, there was a shrill scream.
The figure on the bed lurched forward. Scougall gasped in horror as a huge deformed head loomed at him. He recoiled in terror. But when he looked again there was only a small woman in a white nightgown whimpering on the bed.
‘We mean you no harm. Are you Helen Cockburn?’ asked MacKenzie.
She was cowering with her knees up under her chin. When she raised her head, Scougall realised that he was mistaken about its size. It must have been an illusion caused by the candlelight. But her face was grotesquely deformed on one side. Her right arm lay motionless.
‘What is wrong with her, sir?’ Scougall addressed his question to MacKenzie.
‘She is a leper, Mr Scougall!’ Adam Cockburn’s voice thundered from the shadows where he stood, sword in hand.
‘I am sorry. I needed to know if your wife was alive,’ responded MacKenzie.
‘You should not have entered my house in this way. You should have sought my permission,’ Cockburn spoke angrily, but he returned his sword to its scabbard.
‘It is all right, Adam. I am recovered.’ Helen Cockburn spoke in a timid voice. ‘I have heard much about you, gentlemen,’ she continued. ‘But you scared me, appearing unannounced in my chamber. I no longer receive visitors.’
‘We have broken the laws of hospitality, Mrs Cockburn. As a Highlander, I regret this very much. But we are running out of time. Euphame faces an agonising death. I am too eager, sometimes. I neglect to think about the feelings of others. Please accept my apology.’
‘My wife does not speak to anyone,’ Cockburn said.
‘How long have you been ill?’ asked MacKenzie, ignoring the laird.
‘The deformity appeared on my face about two years ago.’ She moved her left hand to her cheek. ‘At the same time my arm began to wither. I could not suffer seeing anyone like this. I could not bear being called leper, so I remain here with my books and embroidery. I am well looked after. It is the way I choose to live.’
‘You will not see your own son?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘I speak with him every day. I will not have him look upon his mother like this. I will not have him contract the disease.’
Scougall could not contain himself any longer. He felt ashamed by the way he had behaved towards her. ‘I am deeply sorry, madam. My rudeness is inexcusable.’
‘It is all right, Mr Scougall.’ There was a smile on one side of her face.
Cockburn walked round the room, lighting candles on the walls, revealing the fine paintings, rich embroderies and ornate furniture. With her husband’s help, she got out of bed and, aided by him, walked over to a chair by the fire. ‘Come gentleman,’ she said softly, ‘Sit a while with me. Tell me how your search progresses.’
MacKenzie and Scougall sat opposite her. Cockburn stood, taciturn, at her side. Once she had settled herself, MacKenzie asked her what she thought had happened to Grissell.
‘I fear she killed herself to escape her fate. She desired to be reunited with Alexander. I have thought about the release of death many times.’
‘But you have not done so?’
‘I am too weak. I could not leave my…,’ she hesitated as if unsure what she should say, ‘… son.’
‘What family do you belong to Mrs Cockburn?’
‘My father was the Laird of Broadwood. I am a Hamilton. Our estates are to the north of Haddington.’
‘What is your father’s name?’
‘It was Andrew Hamilton.’
‘Ah, I remember him…’
‘He was taken by plague in 1670 – as was my mother.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago. The grief diminishes.’
MacKenzie thought about his wife. He was still haunted by her death, although it was twenty years now. His grief came and went like the rain.
‘What is your view of Lady Girnington?’ he continued.
‘When I was a girl I was often a guest at Girnington House when the old laird was alive. He was a strange little man. Lillias always appeared unhappy. I think she felt she had been treated harshly. A glittering future destroyed before it had begun. Marriage to an old man can be difficult for a young woman to thole, especially a beautiful one like Lillias.’
‘Do you know what happened to her child?’
‘I am not sure, Mr MacKenzie. It may be nothing. When I was a girl I remember a child at Girnington, sometimes.’
‘A child belonging to Lady Girnington?’
‘No. A cousin of the family, a strange, malevolent boy. I was scared of him and kept away. I only remember seeing him a few times.’
‘Can you remember anything about him?’
‘I did not see him after I was about ten. There was one unusual thing. He did not have any hair.’
Scougall was baffled by the smile which appeared on MacKenzie’s face.
CHAPTER 52 - The Devil’s Machine
MACKENZIE AND SCOUGALL stood outside the inn in the darkness of the early evening, listening intently. Scougall was sure that he had heard something – a far off screech or a wailing somewhere in the town. A few minutes lapsed but it was not repeated.
‘Are you sure, Davie?’ asked MacKenzie in a whisper.
But Scougall knew he had heard something. He raised his forefinger to his lips to indicate MacKenzie was to remain quiet. There is was again – a scraping sound, rising to a screech. It was difficult to tell where it was coming from.
‘Did you hear that, sir?’
‘I did, Davie.’ MacKenzie was smiling. ‘Now I can test my theory about the stained hands.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Come. Let me show you.’
MacKenzie walked down the High Street, stopping outside Muschet’s shop. ‘Wait here, Davie.’ They both stood in silence. After a couple of minutes there was another similar sound, slightly louder. Scougall shuddered.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘I believe that Mr Muschet is a follower of the art of Chapman and Millar.’
Scougall was perplexed. ‘Let us find out,’ said MacKenzie. He tried to open the door but it was locked. He knocked three times.
There was a long silence. Finally, a woman’s voice spoke from the other side of the door. ‘Who is it at this late hour?’
‘It is me, Mr Cant.’ MacKenzie imitated the cloying tone of the minister’s voice. Scougall was impressed by his skills of impersonation.
The door opened. But Scougall was not prepared for what followed. MacKenzie forced his way past Muschet’s sister. ‘What is this intrusion!’ she screamed. Scougall followed him inside.
MacKenzie rushed through the shop into the back storeroom. He stood at the bottom of a spiral staircase, listening.
‘Such indeceny, Mr MacKenzie, Mr Scougall. My brother is not at home. Please remove yourselves!’
MacKenzie paid no attention. He had heard another, louder screech. It was not coming from upstairs. He dropped to his knees, putting his ear to the floor and waited. There was another. ‘Look for a trapdoor, Davie!’ he shouted.
Scougall searched the shop while MacKenzie pulled back a rug in the storeroom. There was nothing. �
�Here, sir.’ Scougall had found something behind the counter.
‘This is an infringement of our rights!’ Muschet’s sister continued to protest. She stood on the trapdoor, seemingly prepared for a fight.
‘I must ask you to move, madam,’ said MacKenzie.
‘I will not, sir.’
‘Then Mr Scougall will remove you. Davie!’
Scougall was being asked to manhandle the merchant’s sister out of the way. He felt ill-prepared for such an act of violence. Laying hands on a woman was an effrontery.
‘Davie!’ MacKenzie bellowed again. ‘Make use of your strong arms, man!’
As Scougall moved forward, greatly to his relief, she turned and sped out of the shop. He pulled up the trapdoor and they descended into the gloom. They went down for about ten steps.
Scougall had expected to find Muschet, but another figure stood beside a strange wooden contraption which seemed to fill the small room. George Sinclair was working at a printing press; a rasping noise coming from it as he turned the screw echoed round the small room.
‘Here is your ghost, Davie,’ laughed MacKenzie.
‘It is a pleasure to meet you again, Mr Scougall.’ Sinclair appeared unperturbed by the intrusion.
MacKenzie looked disdainfully at Sinclair. ‘A secret press in the heart of Lammersheugh. Is this not a surprising place to find such a device?’
‘The censors have driven us underground, Mr MacKenzie.’ There was a smile on Sinclair’s face.
‘And what do you print? A history of the parish?’