‘Aye, I’m sorry, Jock. I saw them throwing stones but there was nothing I could do – I was pulled into the crowd and I thought the sheriff…’
‘No matter. Fetch us a dram, will you. I could do with a stiff drink.’
The assistant nods and pauses before running off to a nearby tavern. ‘I’d give it an hour at least before you cut her down.’
‘Fear not – that graceless wife will hang till I’m satisfied.’
Beneath the gibbet, the fishwife’s friends and family flock together to wait for him to cut her body down – he can feel the weight of their stares. Before he takes his knife from his belt, he downs his drink in one and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Stand back, the lot of you,’ he hisses.
His hand trembles as he severs the rope, her body falls with a thud to the soft ground. He drops from the crossbeam, landing awkwardly on his feet and wincing in pain. The friends and family move
fast – fighting their way through the rabble to bring the cart and coffin, eager to protect the body.
‘How much longer?’ an ugly old woman complains.
John Dalgliesh pays no heed to the old crone and drops to his knees to press and ear to the corpse’s breast. The ugly woman gives him a vicious stare as though he’s violating her corpse and so he continues to ignore her and cuts the noose from her neck.
‘You incompetent fool,’ hiss the fishwives. ‘Just give us the body.’
He’s used to the insults, the cursing and jeers. And in his own way he understands their animosity and fear. The hangman backs away from the body, his hands gripped tight around his knife, not taking his eyes off them. He’s curious to see how long it will be before they have to fight. As it happens they don’t have to wait long – Munro’s surgeon apprentice men are on the prowl.
***
There isn’t time to mourn, and no amount of sobbing is going to bring her back. Widow Arrock tears her eyes from Maggie’s body and decides to take charge. She pushes her way through the Musselburgh fishwives, rolls up her sleeves and makes herself known.
‘The men are bringing the coffin over and the cooms must be nailed fast. Help me place the body in the coffin.’
The carter cries to them from the cart, cursing and swearing for them to make haste. As soon as the coffin hits the ground they lift the unroped body and place it in the wooden box.
‘That’s it, in she goes, now get her on the cart quick,’ nods the widow, nearly stumbling to the floor in the hurry.
Together they gather around the coffin, nervous fingers curling and clawing beneath the wooden base. The journey to the cart is further than they think and as the sun beats down the coffin bobs along like a boat on rough sea. The manoeuvre prompts an almighty commotion playing out in front of them like a horrendous dream. The body snatchers come from nowhere, taking them by surprise – armed with hammers, and every splitting blow pierces their hearts as they are swept away in a hurricane of shouting and brawling.
‘He’s smashing the lid through! Get him!’ shouts one of the fisherwomen with murderous fury, baring her teeth and nails. The other women follow suit, barking like bitches and driving the men away.
‘There’s no time to bang the lid down,’ the carter gestures to the fishwives. ‘Get it on the cart and let’s go now, before they return. We can nail the lid down later.’
***
With the coffin safely on the cart, the carter cracks his whip. At top speed, he proceeds away from the Grassmarket toward the safety of Inveresk Kirk. As the makeshift hearse rattles and bumps across the cobbled wynds, the carter feels mighty relieved to leave the body snatchers and apprentice surgeons far behind.
The cart-horse whinnies as the splendid spire of Duddingston Kirk comes into view, encircled by a fine blue sky. The mourners follow on foot behind him, complaining of sore feet and parched tongues. The weather is sultry and Duncan’s eyes light at the sight of a tavern in the distance. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Trust you. Anyway – where are we?’ the widow sighs.
The carter shouts out to all: ‘Peffermill, and that’s the Sheep’s Heid.’
The carter halts the cart and pats his horse. ‘The horse needs water. I’ll leave the cart and coffin out here while we all go inside. So if it’s drinks you’re wanting or a wee dram, go and have one now before we set off again.’
***
‘To Maggie,’ Johnny Notions raises a dram, his arm wrapped around Duncan.
‘To Maggie,’ Duncan tastes his drink before lifting his tankard in a toast.
‘She was quite a character,’ grins Johnny.
‘Aye, she was that,’ Duncan wipes away a tear. ‘A remarkable woman was my Maggie. I can’t believe she is gone.’ He gestures to the other women inside the inn. ‘Look at them all – the widow, Jean Ramsay and the fisher lassies, aye, they’re a rowdy lot. But she…’ His voice cracks with emotion. ‘She was a free spirit and she did as she damn well pleased.’
‘She paid for it too, Duncan.’
‘Aye, she did.’
***
The joiners trudge along with heavy limbs to the tavern up yonder, covered head to toe in saw-dust, their throats dry and parched from the fine powder lodged in their throats. A jug of frothy ale is just what they need to wash it away. They walk side by side, an old man and a young apprentice, neither of them a care in the world as they approach the inn.
A cart and coffin stands opposite the Sheep Heid, unattended in a sheltered corner, one half in the shade, the other half drenched by a scorching sun. Shadows fall on the wooden box in the shapes of twisted branches and shimmering leaves. A horse whinnies at the front, drinking from a pail of water.
‘Wonder why that’s there? Has someone drunk themselves to death?’ the old joiner laughs at his own joke.
‘How should I know? Shall we take a look?’
‘Aye,’ they nod to each other and walk towards the cart, their faces bright and curious.
The older man leaps onto the cart, screwing up his eyebrows and tracing one hand along the wooden chest. ‘Looks a bit battered, as if someone’s been throwing it around.’ He inserts a finger into a centre of the of the coffin lid.
‘Jack. Don’t do that!’
‘Why? Whoever’s in it is dead, laddie.’
‘Aye, I know, but you’re giving me the creeps.’ The lad shudders and presses his palms together as though in silent prayer.
Meanwhile old Jack examines the cart, looking for free tools. And then, he turns, sharp-like on his heel and points to his friend. ‘What are you doing?
‘What do you mean?’ says the lad.
‘The scraping noise, it’s not funny. Give over.’
‘I’m not making a scraping noise, Jack.’ The laddie’s face turns pale as he hears it, like rats scratching their way out of a wooden trap.
‘Are you sure, laddie? You’ll feel the back of my hand if I find out you’re jesting.’
‘It’s not me, Jack – honest. It’s coming from the coffin.’
‘Oh my Lord.’ Jack shakes his head and leaps from the cart, his heart racing as he runs into the tavern.
***
Everyone is merry in the Sheep Heid, just as a good wake should be. A singsong is in process, snuff’s being passed round and there’s even a round of free drinks. Then the joiners storm in looking like a couple of demons banished to purgatory. A tension crackles in the air as the funeral entourage crowd around the two trembling men. As usual, the widow takes charge, pushing the officious carter and Johnny Notions aside.
‘Get them a drink and a stool,’ she shouts gruffly, before passing them a wee dram of firewater to calm their nerves. She turns her attention to the older man as she can get no sense from the laddie. ‘What did you say your name is?’
‘Jack Bytheway. I’m a joiner from the sawmill. You know the one behind the tavern.’
The widow nods. ‘Now then, tell me what you think you heard – and slow down.’
Jack Bythewa
y stares at the widow with wide-open eyes. The pulse in his neck twitches beneath his leine. When his words finally come they are awkward and clumsy and so he has to slow his speech down. ‘A noise came from the coffin, a scraping and knocking noise, and honest to God, I’m not jesting, it scared me to death.’
Duncan turns pale and puts his drink down.
Johnny turns to Duncan and laughs. ‘This is a prank.’
‘Hush. The man is trying to speak.’ The widow prompts the joiner to continue.
‘It is not a prank. I speak the truth – there was a scratching sound coming from inside the coffin. I heard it, and he heard it too. Honest to God!’
Duncan bolts for the door, Johnny Notions close at his heels as the others follow slowly behind. The widow at the rear shakes her head and says, ‘It’s probably a rat in the cart or a mouse – nothing to fear.’
But despite the widow’s words, the funeral entourage keep a wary distance from the battered coffin, their faces turned towards the cart and coffin, waiting for a noise. A moment passes in silence, the widow folds her arms over her bony chest and approaches the two joiners – her bony finger pointed to their faces. ‘You feckless idiots. You should never make jokes concerning the dead, I’ve a mind to…’ and then, all of a sudden, the scraping noise returns.
‘I told you,’ Jack Bytheway nods and holds out his arms.
Johnny holds his breath; a cold sweat covers his pale face as he turns to Duncan. ‘Aye, must be a rat,’ he adds with nervous eyes. ‘Let’s take a look.’
***
They stand either side of the cart. Johnny holds one hand over his eyes in a gesture of pain, making a little crack between two fingers and peeking through. Through the gap in his fingers he can see a dark wood coffin, partly smashed in at the centre of the lid. A scratching noise reverberates from inside it, causing the two men to shiver and shake.
‘Open the lid,’ Duncan suddenly comes to life and panics. ‘Come on, Johnny.’ With one leap he is on the cart, his hands on the coffin.
Johnny’s feet stay firmly on the ground. ‘Calm down, Duncan. Now let’s not get excited. There must be a reasonable explanation.’
‘Open the damned lid, that’s my daughter in there. Get in this cart now.’
Johnny jumps on to the cart and gestures to the carter. ‘Where are your tools, man?’
The carter shakes his head and takes a few awkward steps backwards. ‘I’ve a hammer and a spade under that hessian sack.’
‘Pass us the spade,’ says Duncan, stretching out a hand. ‘Are you ready for this, Johnny?’
Johnny’s terrified; his stomach is in knots. ‘Aye – as ready as I’ll ever be. You get the spade beneath the lid and I’ll help to lift it.’
As the tip of the spade slips beneath a gap in the lid, Johnny is suddenly frozen with fear – and it takes all his resolve to gather his wits and strength as the sound of metal scraping wood cuts through the air.
‘Curl your fingers under the wood and lift,’ Duncan commands.
Johnny’s lips are trembling. He swallows back bile and yanks up the lid with Duncan, lifting it away with one last heave.
Out the corner of his eye, Johnny watches Duncan fall to his knees, his mind filling with thoughts of fallen angels and ethereal creatures, the likes he’s never seen before. And then his eyes are drawn to a searing light, streaming downwards onto the coffin and casting a heaven-like glow upon her white face.
A few brave souls strain their necks to see within the coffin. And then, something truly remarkable happens. A miracle of the Lord, thinks Johnny, as an unearthly groan echoes into the air. The corpse draws up her limbs and arises from within the coffin causing terrified onlookers to take flight along the dusty road as fast as their legs will carry them – with one exception.
***
Peter Purdie opens his bag and stares into the man’s eyes. ‘Did you bathe? Bathing increases the movement of blood.’
The man nods.
‘Have you a calm mind?’
‘Aye.’ The man holds out his arm.
Purdie places a tourniquet on the man’s arm and a gives him a stick to grasp. He urges the man to squeeze, and soon the man’s veins swell.
He makes an incision and lets the blood flow into a bowl. After that, he bandages the man’s arm and is on his way, thinking he might have a wee dram before returning home.
A few drams later, Purdie puts on his hat and makes his way to the road. But as he proceeds to the door of the Sheep Heid, a great deal of people block the exit outside. He pushes his way through them, and comes to a cart and horse. A minister greets him with an ashen face and stammers: ‘She sat up and they all took to their heels.’
Purdie frowns. ‘Who sat up?’
‘Maggie – oh, dear Lord, the dead woman in the cart.’ The holy man is making no sense so Purdie jumps onto the cart. He cannot believe his eyes – a young woman sits upright in a coffin. A man kneels before her, hands held up in prayer.
‘Maggie. You’re alive,’ the man in prayer cries. ‘But how can this be? I saw him pull down on your legs with my own eyes.’
But as the man continues to pray, the woman’s eyes roll back into her head and she falls backwards into the coffin. ‘Who is she?’ he asks the man on his knees.
‘My daughter. Please help her. Please.’
‘She’s out cold. May I examine her?’
The father nods, his lips stretch out horizontally into a grimace.
Purdie puts down his bag to examine the girl; his fingers immediately trace the deep red ligature marks around her neck. Surely not? he thinks, shaking his head. ‘What happened to her neck?’
‘She’s just been hanged in the Grassmarket.’
‘You’re jesting. And she’s come round. How incredible!’ Purdie grabs his bag and gestures to the other man in the cart. ‘Who are you?’
‘Johhny Notions, a family friend, and this is the woman’s father, Duncan. Can you help her?’
‘Aye.’ He turns to the father again. ‘I’m a blood letter – will you let me open a vein?’
‘Yes – yes – anything. You must do anything you can to revive her.’
Purdie opens his bag and gets to work. ‘Now I’m going to breathe a vein in her arm.’ He takes the woman’s pale arm in his hands and makes a small cut. Almost immediately, her blood flows into the bowl. Suddenly Maggie stirs again and murmurs, ‘Oh dear.’
Purdie lifts her then to a brae at the roadside, and in a short while the blood returns to her lips and cheeks. He glances around, the escapees having conquered their fears have returned. At once he cries out to them: ‘Is there anybody here who will help me get blankets and hold her in the cart? She’s had a terrible shock.’
An ugly old woman answers, ‘Aye – I will hold her.’
They lower the poor woman onto a pile of blankets in a corn cart and Purdie makes sure the old woman holds her by the arms and shoulders.
‘Thank you,’ the father says. ‘My Maggie is alive because of you.’
‘No – no – it’s divine intervention. The works of God are works of wonder.’
***
The weaver’s cottage is in darkness. A young man weeps on his knees, praying to God Almighty for sparing his sister. It is a miracle of that he is sure. James is dumbstruck. The news has hit him like a thunderbolt and causes him to weep like a small child. His head aches and his throat is swollen and dry.
‘Can it be true?’ James asks the master weaver again, a bewildered expression on his young face.
‘It must be, James. Your sister is alive. They’ve sent for a magistrate to guard her and they’re on their way.’
James hears them before he sees them; they seem to come slowly down the hill with a soft buzzing sound, occasionally interrupted by shrieks and screams. James closes his eyes and swallows, when he opens them his eyebrows raise and pull together and his stomach churns. In one swift motion he opens the door and takes a deep breath.
A cart lies abandoned near a
patch of thistles; and within it is a wooden coffin, upturned and on its side. But where is Maggie? His eyes gaze upon the many men and women, but he cannot see her. Eventually James moves from the door and takes small tentative steps towards the cart. A thin woman probably overcome from all the commotion is supported in Johnny Notions arms, as they come closer a feeling of dread sends shivers up his bones.
‘No – no – no. Maggie? That cannot be Maggie. What has happened to you?’
‘She’s not come round yet.’ Johnny strides past James and kicks open the door. Minister Bonaloy follows close behind with his good book in his hands.
They place her on a clean straw bed and all James can do is gape and stare. Around her neck are angry red marks and her face is deathly pale.
‘Don’t vex yourself, son. She will come through – God knows she is strong.’ His father places an arm around him.
‘But look at her, Father. She is all skin and bone.’
‘Aye – she is. But she is alive and that’s all that matters.’
They feed her broth and whisky and Minister Bonaloy prays over her until the magistrate arrives. Before long folk arrive from every corner of Scotland, as the news of her failed hanging spreads like wildfire. The cottage buzzes with activity – friends and neighbours, some with tears in their eyes come to visit her, others to take a wee look at her neck. But for the most part, they stand gathered around her bed, gazing upon her face in a meditative silence – and better still they leave gifts or money.
***
Throughout the next day, Maggie raises no hopes that she is recovering her strength. She remains in a deep sleep, occasionally broken by bouts of delirium. James does his very best to console her as she thrashes about on her bed. Before long he is exhausted, and therefore Minister Bonaloy takes a seat beside her to watch her and pray. And he’s mighty happy to be beside this extraordinary woman fresh off the scaffold, reading out from his much-loved Bible in a soothing tone – that is until she screams out: ‘Let me be gone, for I am to be executed on Wednesday.’
The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Page 28