‘Haven’t you done enough to poor auld Beatrix?’ shouted someone from a window. It was Emma Gilligan, her babe in arms, glaring at the men. ‘Looking for more women to have sport with, are you? You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

The mutters grew and a crowd fell in behind them. The sky above darkened and the promised rain began to fall, a drop or two at first, before it became heavier. Surrounded by the constables, the fishwives continued, heads bowed, their skirts getting wet, their neepyins drenched. What was a bit of water to them?

Sorcha searched the faces lining the street, some withdrawing indoors to avoid the weather, but she saw no sign of the one person she longed to see. Where was Captain Ross? There was no chance his notes to Edinburgh would have been answered yet, it was too soon. She prayed with all her heart he would hear of this and, if he couldn’t prevent what was about to happen, he would at least record it so those in authority would know what was going on.

After all, if they didn’t know, how could they stop it? But perhaps that was what the council wanted — to keep everyone in the dark until it was too late.

Twenty-One

TWENTY-ONE

…when any of the women whom he [Peter Morton] accused touched him, and sometimes on their coming into the room, he fell into grievous fits of trouble, and cried out…

— A Just Reproof to the False Reports and Unjust Calumnies in the Foregoing Letter, 1705

When Beatrix Laing was brought into his bedroom, Peter Morton thought he was having a terrible vision. Who was this haggard crone with bruises upon her cheeks, a cut lip, terrible gouges along her arms and a bent, shuffling gait? And what was she doing beside his bed? She smelled worse than his chamber pot. Once the initial wave of panic subsided and he saw the bailies and their wives crammed against one wall of his bedroom together with the doctors from the city, the angry army captain and his good friend the reverend as well, he relaxed.

The reverend had warned him that Beatrix Laing and some other women were being brought before him and he must listen carefully to what was said and be sure to remember what to do. They’d gone over it last night, many times.

Aware of the reverend’s eyes upon him, Peter gave the briefest of nods and turned his bleary gaze upon the woman.

Immediately, he felt his limbs tense, his neck became stiff. His stomach distended and his breathing became laboured. He began to wail — short sharp bursts at first, transforming into caterwauls. Some of the women in the room put their hands over their ears, whimpering at his evident distress.

‘’Tis she who cursed me, ’tis she!’ cried Peter, pointing feebly at the beldam.