With the exception of Robert Cleiland, the bailies squirmed in their seats, unable to look at the battered woman. Deep in his heart, Patrick despised them for their lack of fortitude. But then, he reminded himself, they didn’t understand what it was they faced. This was no ordinary woman but the devil’s own disciple. Pacing around Beatrix, he paused to pat the constables on the shoulder, whisper reassurances, remind them of the good work they were doing. The Lord’s work.

As he signalled it was time to start again, Patrick made sure Beatrix saw his gesture.

Only then did she beg for mercy. Quietly at first, so softly that Patrick had to lean over so his ear was close to her split lips, then in great ragged gasps.

Fists hammered the door below, their echoes resounding up the stairs.

Holding up his hand, the reverend made a show of preventing the constable from attacking again. Beatrix’s keening halted. Almost simultaneously, whoever was pounding the door also stopped. There was an unnatural quiet except for Beatrix’s laboured breathing.

She let out a cry of utter anguish that dissolved into thick, indistinguishable words.

‘You’ve something to say?’ asked Patrick, kneeling before her. ‘Speak clearly, woman. You have to make sure we can all hear, mind. Bailie Cleiland needs to record what you say.’

Cleiland made a strangled noise that could have been agreement.

The mottle-haired bitch was a muddle of stained rags; her defiant face a mass of swellings, blood and bruises. Her bent back had folded over. Her hands were twisted knots of flesh. Patrick tried not to smile. No woman of her age could withstand such a beating and live. This was all the proof he needed that this was no ordinary person they faced, but a witch. A witch with the devil inside her. The devil wouldn’t last long in such a worn-out shell. If Patrick didn’t destroy him now he would seek out other bodies, other willing collaborators. That must not be allowed to happen. He was already losing his hold over the town; the devil would wrest control from him altogether if he had his foul way.

‘Aye,’ croaked Beatrix, her chest rising and falling with the effort. ‘You’re right. You’ve been right all along. I made a charm.’ She paused, taking long, arduous breaths. ‘I was angry at the lad for not making me some nails and sought to be avenged upon him for his defiance.’ Tears flowed down her sunken cheeks. A great trail of snot ran from her nose, over her swollen, bleeding lips and down her chin. It was all Patrick could do not to recoil.

Instead, he used his most persuasive Sunday voice, the one his wife used to say was like clotted cream. ‘Go on.’