‘None of us are responsible, reverend,’ said Bailie Bell finally, starting to rise to his feet, then thinking better of it and sitting back down. ‘None of us informed Edinburgh.’

‘It would not be in the interests of anyone here,’ added Bailie Cook. William Bell cast a grateful look towards him.

The reverend kept his anger in check and pretended to be placated. He knew it wasn’t the bailies’ fault. ‘Nevertheless, they’re sending lairds here to pass judgement upon us. Again. Upon events that occurred more than two weeks ago.’ The reverend flicked the letter in his hand. The sound was like an arquebus shot.

The bailies flinched. All except Bailie Vernour.

‘Calm down, man,’ he said, folding his arms and huffing.

The reverend’s eyes widened; words tangled in his throat.

Bailie Vernour continued quickly, ‘At least you’re not named, unlike Robert here.’ He gestured with his thumb to Bailie Cook, who nodded and swallowed miserably. He was all but being blamed for Janet’s murder. Why? Because the council happened to be dining at his house the night it occurred.

‘They’re accusing me of doing naught,’ said Cook, wringing his hands. ‘But they weren’t here. They didn’t see the mob, feel their rage, their determination. There was nothing we could have done. By God, not even the soldiers could control them. As it was, we’re lucky there was only one body to deal with.’

Patrick bit his tongue, swallowing the recriminations that crowded his mouth. He knew it was only a matter of time before they were held accountable for failing to send the rabble home and, worse, inviting them to do what they wanted with Janet.

Before he was.

Much to his surprise, although a few guarded looks passed between the men, nothing was said.

‘Well,’ he said eventually. ‘There’s no use fighting among ourselves, not when, according to this, they’ll be upon us tomorrow, asking questions, and we must have answers.’

‘What will we tell them?’ asked William Bell.

Patrick had given the notion much consideration and was waiting for the right time to apportion blame. It hadn’t suited his purpose to identify the culprits too soon, not while so many incomers remained in town, hoping something more was going to be done about the witches who, as he reminded anyone who’d listen, were still at large. The incomers’ coin had been very useful. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to speed them on their way, but not before they served one last useful purpose.

He took his time regaining his seat, then placed his forearms on his desk, leaned forwards and lowered his voice. The fire crackled in the hearth, the flames reflecting on the walls behind the bailies, making it appear as if they were trapped in a furnace.