‘I’d come to the harbour to see if anyone was working, then I saw the reverend on the Sophia. Before I could reach him and ask what he was doing, he fell overboard. The rest you ken,’ she said quietly, gesturing to the rope they’d all hauled upon together that had finally hanged the man.

The bailies shuddered with the memory.

If they wondered why she was so bruised and bloodied — and then only the parts of her they could see — they never said. After all, if they accused Sorcha McIntyre of killing the reverend then they were just as culpable. Had they not also heaved upon the rope that had lynched him?

When Sorcha began to cry, dropping her head into her hands and murmuring that she’d only tried to save him, they insisted Mr Brown take her away.

‘The lawyers from Edinburgh will no doubt want to investigate this too,’ Mr Borthwick said, his expression revealing he was already imagining what the officials would make of it and cursing the absence of the regular bailies who were in Edinburgh, elevating him into sudden officialdom.

Sorcha could tell from the glance he cast in Mr Carter’s direction that the last thing either of them wanted was to be indicted for a crime they didn’t commit or to be seen in any way as responsible. If they accused Sorcha McIntyre, then they, old Mr Brown, Mr Adam, and Jon Durkie as well, would have more than a bit of explaining to do.

‘I wouldn’t think there’ll be much to investigate, would you?’ asked Mr Carter. ‘It’s clearly a terrible accident.’

‘A tragedy,’ added Mr Borthwick.

The men nodded gravely.

Mr Brown squeezed Sorcha’s arm to keep her silent. He needn’t have worried. She had no intention of speaking more than she had to.

‘Off you go, Mrs McIntyre. Just be sure to make yourself available when the authorities want to question you.’

As they walked carefully along the slippery pier, it was evident the storm had wreaked even more damage. The sun, which had been trying to make an appearance, was a radiant glow in the grey heavens, squeezing the clouds in an effort to shine. Gulls pirouetted above, crying out in protest that the fishermen weren’t bringing in a catch.

Before she’d reached land, Nicolas and Isobel joined her, marvelling at what had happened, relieved she was, if not entirely unharmed, then at least safe.

‘Let Nettie and Beatrix know what’s happened,’ whispered Sorcha. Isobel, after a quick word to her father, took off down the road to Anster.

Fishwives and fishermen had commenced work along the harbourfront. The men checking the state of their boats, the women baiting lines and preparing nets. The storm likely meant the fish would be biting and, though the seas were far from calm, it was too good an opportunity to miss.