‘Nae, reverend,’ said Gerard. ‘They grew tired and, being unable to find any other witches, drifted back to their homes.’

Patrick frowned. ‘I see. Well, Robert, if you could kindly ask for my coat to be fetched, I’ll take it upon myself to confirm the death of Mrs Cornfoot and decide what to do with the body. Does that meet with your approval, gentlemen?’ Knowing they’d be keen to wipe their hands of the situation, Patrick wasn’t surprised when they assented.

Without another word, he took his coat from the shy maid, who bobbed a curtsey then fled from the room as if it were a devil’s sabbath and not a meeting of the finest men in town.

With a nod and thanks to Bailie Cook for a delicious meal, Patrick put on his coat and, for the third time that night, left the house, Gerard and Angus behind him.

Patrick braced himself upright with one hand against the wall, bent over and stared at the oleaginous muddle on the ground. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d vomited so violently. At first he thought the lads were playing a joke bringing him to see that… that… It wasn’t until he recognised the Lawson cottage and the other houses around it, that he realised what he was seeing. Watching Janet Cornfoot’s death unfold from a distance earlier, he’d been able to persuade himself her demise was no more than she deserved. But now… Unable to shut out the sight of the shattered cheekbones, the twisted limbs, the crushed ribs; all the blood, bones and other matter spilled over the cobbles congealing in shining lumps in the grey dawn light, he heaved again.

With some distaste he looked at the toes of his boots, the hem of his long coat. They were splattered with his repulsion.

Wiping his mouth, he kept his back turned to the street. He waited for his stomach to stop spasming, his throat to still, and breathed deeply, screwing up his nose at the stench of his own horror — a horror mixed with the smell of blood and the stink of shit and other bodily fluids.

‘How many have seen her?’ he asked Gerard hoarsely.

Uncertain whether to offer sympathy or pretend he hadn’t just witnessed the reverend throw his guts and more upon the street and walls, Gerard didn’t appear to hear, he stood so far away.

Only when Patrick repeated the question did the lad shuffle closer.

‘I’m not sure, reverend. All those who witnessed her death plus anyone in the houses about here, I imagine.’

Not trusting himself to speak further, Patrick nodded, thrusting his fist against his lips as a sour belch budded in his mouth.

Angus glanced at his brother and raised a brow.