‘To what exactly have the women confessed?’ asked Aidan, crossing his legs in an effort to appear more relaxed than he felt. It would also make it harder to draw his sword. He was afraid that if he could, he would run the man through, God help him.

The reverend brushed his hand against the papers before lifting one from the pile.

‘Let’s see then, shall we? Take Janet White, commonly known as Nettie Horseburgh.’ He made a point of reading what was in front of him. ‘After much… questioning, she admitted to joining with Beatrix Laing, Sorcha McIntyre and Nicolas Lawson, among others, with the sole purpose of committing malfeasance against one Peter Morton. Mrs White, Horseburgh, whatever she calls herself, and the others also confessed to renouncing their baptism and being in league with Satan.’

Aidan felt a cold so heavy descend upon him, he couldn’t move. ‘They all said as much?’

‘Every last one. Condemned by their own mouths and signatures.’ Putting the piece of paper down, the reverend’s finger stabbed the place where a name, shaky but discernible, was scrawled.

‘I see,’ said Aidan calmly, though his mind raced. God knows what the poor souls had endured to force them to admit to such rubbish. What Sorcha had suffered. He clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘And what are your intentions now you’ve… extracted these from the women?’

‘As it happens, your timing is impeccable, captain.’ The reverend rose and began to pace about the room, pausing before the fire. Above the fireplace was a painting of Jesus sitting in a field surrounded by children and cavorting lambs. The clouds were pale salmon and lavender, the grass a melange of soft yellows and green, the lambs like thistledown that might scatter to the winds should they be touched. Aidan marvelled that Cowper could stand before such a peaceful, loving image while discussing the torture of the women and Mr Brown. Surely such measures should offend a godly man, a Christian one. Not Cowper. It was then Aidan noticed the subject of another, larger picture on the opposite wall: the crucifixion. At its centre, on a huge, solid cross, was the frail, emaciated body of Christ, His bloody wounds weeping, sorrowful eyes raised heavenwards, pleading for His Father’s forgiveness. Or were they pleading for His tormentors to release Him? Cruelty and suffering leapt from the image. Aye, that would be more to Cowper’s taste.

As he waited for the reverend to continue, Aidan noted the row of books resting above the mantel, their leather spines cracked. There was a Bible and some other religious tomes; nothing to appeal to the imagination, the creative soul. The light fluctuated briefly. Folk passing by the window, their voices rising and falling, unaware a group of men sat inside this room, holding the power of life and death over the helpless.

Still Aidan said nothing.