It wasn’t only Nettie the men from the presbytery wanted to speak to, but all of them, one by one. Nettie wasn’t even the first. That honour was given to Janet Cornfoot from the cell below. But Sorcha only discovered this when it was her turn.

Escorted into the room on the top floor of the Tolbooth, she was sat on a chair in its centre that was covered in dried blood and other stains she couldn’t bear to think about. It was the same chair she’d been tied and pricked in. Sorcha eyed the grim-faced men seated in a semicircle around her. Strangers, their backs were to the window, which had been pushed wide open. She could see the grey, lumbering clouds, feel the breeze coming in. Inhaling the fresh air, she wished she was outside to enjoy the overcast day. Despite being closer to the window, many of the men turned away from her, wrinkling their noses, pushing kerchiefs into their faces. It took her a moment to realise it was because of her odour. Instead of being embarrassed, she relished that it caused them such obvious discomfort and silently wished they’d choke. Unable to prevent it, a smile formed. One of the men saw it and his eyes narrowed.

‘Find this amusing, do you… What’s her name?’ he asked. His voice was booming; accustomed to whispers and quiet, it hurt Sorcha’s ears.

‘Sorcha McIntyre, sir,’ said Reverend Cowper. She hadn’t noticed him. Installed at the end of the semicircle, behind a table, his black robes folded around him like broken wings. Suddenly she understood who these men were and her heart sank. They were known to Cowper through his role as a temporary moderator at St Andrew’s. They were friends, no doubt. ‘She’s the daughter of Charles McIntyre, and his Norwegian wife, Astrid Grimmsdatter.’ There was some muttering, as always, at the fact her father had taken an outsider to wife. ‘She’s also, since her older brother, Robert McIntyre, is a prisoner of war, believed dead, the owner of the Mistral and in possession of a fine cottage in Marygate.’

There were raised brows and nods.

‘She owns a boat?’ asked another, his incredulity barely contained.

‘Aye, that she does. A sturdy vessel,’ said the reverend. ‘Large enough to do longer voyages and currently in the North Sea.’

‘She won’t for much longer if these charges be proved,’ said Mr Booming Voice.

Sorcha raised her chin. At least she’d learned where her boat was. She prayed the men stayed away until this was over lest their cargo be seized and they miss out on their percentages.

Papers with what she assumed were her details and earlier confession were passed among the men. With one exception, they conversed in low voices.