Aidan’s mind galloped. Why was the reverend following due process now, when he’d been flouting it so recklessly before? Had an order come from the city? Had Aidan’s superiors managed to pull the man into line? Somehow he doubted it. Thus far any appeals Aidan had made to them had been dismissed. Few wanted to interfere with provincial justice. Least of all his commanding officer, when there was a war raging. They’d more important issues to occupy them. Yet, if Aidan took the document to Edinburgh, he could ensure that the men who could make a difference knew exactly what was going on, not simply what his superiors or, for that matter, the council, chose to share. He’d tell them exactly what types of punishment Cowper had endorsed, what the pricker had done to extract these so-called confessions. But why was the reverend asking him? Surely he knew Aidan would take this opportunity to present an alternate view of the Weem council’s ‘facts’? He tried to study the reverend surreptitiously. What exactly was the man up to?

‘Aye,’ he said, careful not to show too much enthusiasm. ‘I’ll deliver it.’

‘Excellent,’ said the reverend, clapping his hands together. ‘Then there’s no need for you to tarry any longer. If you’re to make haste to the city on the morrow, then you’d best get some rest. I’ll make sure the finished letter is delivered to your lodgings as soon as possible.’

The reverend strode to the door and held it open. Rising, Aidan bowed to the bailies. When he reached the door, he made a show of putting on his hat.

The reverend waited for Aidan to acknowledge him. One of the reverend’s eyes was almost opaque, as if it had a veil drawn across it. A faint scar ran from the corner of the eye to the top of his cheekbone.

‘Let me tell you now, captain,’ the reverend spoke so softly, Aidan was hard-pressed to hear, ‘if you’re thinking about telling the authorities in Edinburgh how we extracted the confessions, then it won’t be me, the bailies or Mr Bollard who’ll be held to account.’

Trying not to show annoyance that the reverend so accurately guessed his intentions, Aidan casually cocked a brow, crossed the threshold and paused in the hallway, spinning slowly on his heel. ‘Nae? And who might be then?’

The reverend wrapped long fingers around his arm, forcing him to bend over so he could speak in his ear.

‘Who else but the witches, lad? Who else but the witches?’ His breath was hot, fumes of whisky wafted on it. He released Aidan. ‘You say anything, the witches will be held to account. By me.’ His face transformed from one of victory to one etched in contrition. ‘And, God knows, haven’t the poor wretched souls been through enough?’

Before Aidan could think of a response, the reverend shut the door.