If only he were able to remove the captain for a time, or better still, for good. That would make things a great deal easier. The reverend stared at his whisky, swirling it in the glass, watching the way the light turned the fluid into a whirlpool of umbers and gold. Aidan Ross wasn’t the only one with connections. He had them too — in St Andrew’s, no less. Why, that was almost as good as Edinburgh.

He began to think about the latest news of the war. The Duke of Marlborough had enjoyed a mighty victory earlier in the year at the battle of Blenheim on the Danube. There were reports he was rallying troops to march into France and needed extra men. Surely a captain of Aidan Ross’s standing would be of more use over there rather than babysitting soldiers here.

Patrick sat up. He may not have networks in the military, but he knew someone who did. Not insubstantial ones either. A word here, a hint there, a mention of the fine work Captain Ross was doing in Pittenweem and how he was wasted in a small coastal town when a war was being waged on the continent. One never knew what might happen as a consequence.

He smiled at Peter who, astonished, returned it as the reverend half-rose over his desk and gave the lad’s glass a generous splash of whisky.

‘You did well in the city. It’s not an easy thing to face men like those as you did today. You should be proud. If nothing else, it will prepare you for what you have to do next.’

A flash of concern crossed Peter’s face. ‘What’s that, sir?’

Patrick smiled. ‘Just be ready to help me trap some witches, lad. Together, we’ll save the village.’

‘Does it still need saving?’

‘Aye,’ grinned the reverend. ‘It just doesn’t know it yet.’

The boy nodded and sipped his whisky. Patrick appreciated that. Gave him time to think. More than ever, he knew how important it was he didn’t let folk forget about the threat that witchcraft and its practitioners posed to their very souls.

He picked up his quill, dipped it in the inkhorn and began to scratch some notes for his next sermon.

As he wrote, his mind drifted. After the lad left, he’d write to his friend in St Andrew’s, someone who was also a proud Covenanter. A colleague and like-minded gentleman who also happened to be the brother of General Overkirk, the man responsible for mustering troops in Holland. Surely the general could use the services of a fine officer? And if not the general, then perhaps the duke himself?

The reverend didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He’d make sure to praise the captain highly, point out all the attributes that he’d previously resented but now saw would work to his advantage.