Closing her eyes, Beatrix raised her chin. The sun struck the flesh, making it appear like parchment — delicate, fragile, torn. ‘I asked the devil to teach the lad a lesson for his ill manners to me.’

‘I see.’ Patrick glanced over his shoulder. The looks of reproach and doubt that had begun to set on the features of the bailies were transformed into curiosity and more than a little fear — even Bell’s. They teetered in their chairs, leaned on their forearms to catch her every word. Bailie Vernour gave a nod that was as good as a concession. What did the methods being deployed matter if they extracted the information they needed? If it protected the town?

Patrick hid a smirk and turned back to the woman, stroking her uninjured hand. She tried to move it, but because of the ropes binding her wrists to the arms of the chair, could not. He continued to caress it, despite her flinching.

‘And how did you know the devil to summon him with such ease?’ he asked.

There was not a sound in the room. Outside, the hushed notes of birdsong bid the last of the day adieu. The voices below the window had dropped to murmurs, a melody to the birds’ faint chorus. The light had dimmed, the sky was a pale mauve and strawberry pink, much like the markings on Beatrix’s battered face.

‘Because… because…’ Her head fell forwards making her next words indistinguishable.

‘What was that?’ asked Patrick, tipping his head until his ear was close to her face. ‘Did I hear you say you renounced your baptism?’ he coaxed. ‘That you made a pact with the devil?’

Bailie Cleiland’s quill scritched and scratched.

Beatrix nodded. The bailies began to mutter, hurriedly, words laced with disbelief and alarm.

Patrick used Beatrix’s chair to lever himself upright. He faced the shocked bailies, triumph on his face and in his heart. ‘How many years ago was this? Five? Seven? Ten?’ He waited between each number.

Beatrix shook her head to each one.

‘Twelve?’

‘Aye,’ she whispered. ‘Twelve years ago, I entered his service.’

‘And what did he bid you do, your devil master, Beatrix? Tell me, confess your sins to God; free your soul from this darkness.’

‘He did bid me to make an image of Peter Morton out of wax so he might torment the lad on my behalf.’

‘How did you let the devil know where to hurt Peter?’

‘I stuck pins in the image so the devil knew where to make the lad feel pain.’

Patrick nodded sagely. ‘And were you alone in its making?’ He moved to the side of her chair, one hand pressing against the shoulder that had borne the brunt of the beatings.

‘Aye.’ Beatrix tried to wriggle away, but when she couldn’t, began to cry. ‘Nae, nae,’ she said and he eased the pressure.