Sorcha’s head spun. Not only was the reverend treading close to treason with these words, pretending a Jacobite sympathy he’d never possessed, but what did he know? He couldn’t have heard anything yet, not from Bavaria. He must be talking about France, about the losses they’d sustained in other wars, before even Robbie went. Nettie turned in her seat and caught her eye. She shook her head. Sorcha understood. It was enough to calm her. The reverend was merely blaming any ill-fortune, even deaths that were years old, on witchcraft — on the women. Couldn’t the parishioners see what he was about?

‘The officials in Edinburgh said the lasses weren’t responsible for what befell Peter Morton,’ cried out someone else. It was Moira Fraser, God bless her. Not all were being gulled.

The congregation quietened. The talk softened. There were some nods, timid smiles.

‘That be true, reverend. They were found not guilty of malfeasance.’ Much to Sorcha’s surprise, it was Nicolas’s husband who spoke. There were grunts of agreement. Someone leaned forward and squeezed Nettie’s shoulder. Dr McLeod took his foot out of the aisle, sliding back towards Sorcha. Mr Gregson relaxed.

‘Aye, that’s so,’ said the reverend amiably. ‘The women we locked in the Tolbooth, from whom we extracted confessions, were found not guilty of malfeasance towards Peter Morton and released.’ He gave a scoffing laugh. Some joined him. As quickly as his laugh began, it ended. ‘But I ask you all to dwell on this.’ He drew himself up. ‘While the officials said there was no firm proof they harmed the lad, at no point did they say the women were innocent. They never said they weren’t witches.’

He allowed that thought to take root.

‘And if we let but one witch go unpunished, then we are no better than the Sadducees. Like them, we condemn our Christian souls to hell. Beyond this,’ he continued without drawing breath, ‘remember, it is against the law and a capital offence to help — even unknowingly — or consult a witch. What constitutes help? Well, it comes in many forms, from providing comfort in times of woe to giving sustenance, even the kind that is purchased. Help can be a friendly smile, assistance carrying a heavy load, or even offering a sympathetic word. Think on that, think on that.’

By seeding doubt, the wily bawbag was warning people not to sell goods, even food, to those believed to be witches — or to buy it from them. To turn their backs on them in every regard, to deny them common courtesy or risk being condemned.

There was a deep silence broken only by the sound of the sea.

Casting around to see if anyone wanted to add anything, the reverend continued, asking for God’s forgiveness of the Weem, offering a prayer for the fishermen and the soldiers fighting for Queen and country before a last hymn and dismissing everyone to their Sunday.