‘But, you ken why this has happened, don’t you?’ Beatrix hadn’t quite finished. The crowd around her grew quiet. Nicolas and Therese released Sorcha and turned to Beatrix. ‘I have it on good authority,’ she smiled at her words, drawing a few chuckles, ‘that it was because of a letter sent to a military man in Edinburgh, which he then forwarded to the Privy Council, that justice for Thomas Brown and Janet Cornfoot and all of us who have been wrongly accused will finally be rendered.’

The men and women looked at each other in astonishment. They didn’t know about a letter. There were only a few among them who could put pen to paper. Nettie nudged Sorcha, who prayed Beatrix wouldn’t reveal the author. She didn’t write it so she might be praised, but so it would serve the purpose it had. That was all that mattered.

‘The Laird of Anstruther said it was an excellent if somewhat disturbing missive that warranted all their attention be turned to the events here in the Weem and that the writer was to be commended for his bravery in seeking to shed light on such terrible doings.’

Attracted by the raised voices and evident excitement, the crowd around Beatrix grew.

‘I wonder who wrote it?’ asked someone. The question was repeated.

‘Happens I ken who did.’

‘Tell us, Beatrix,’ demanded a voice. The cry was taken up.

Sorcha wished the sand would part and swallow her. Consternation began in her toes, rising like a tide to drown her, and enveloped her entire body. White spots appeared before her eyes. The call of the gulls became screams, the weak sunshine blazing heat. The raised voices cries for her head.

Before she could stoop below the harbour wall and disappear into the shelter of one of the boats, Beatrix pointed at her. All eyes fixed on Sorcha. Nettie stood, leaving her friend alone upon the creel.

‘They say the dispatch was signed “A Gentleman of Fife”. And I happen to ken who that gentleman is. ’Tis a lass. ’Tis our very own Sorcha McIntyre.’

There were more gasps. Whispers. Some dark murmurs that were smothered by loud cheers.

‘And I, and all those who believe in justice and Almighty God, thank her from the bottom of my heart.’

Two of the fishermen stepped forward and, before Sorcha could object, lifted up the creel she was perched on, turning it into a throne. Hoisting it onto their shoulders, they paraded about the sands to the claps and whoops of those present.

Children emerged cautiously out of houses, mothers with bairns on their hips or suckling at their breasts appeared in doorways, drawn by the laughter and merry-making, something they hadn’t heard for so long.

Throwing caution to the wind, pushing aside her feelings of foreboding, Sorcha became caught up in the impromptu celebration, catching a wreath of seaweed one of the fishwives hastily assembled, wearing it like a crown.