Finally, and somewhat reluctantly, settling into the uncomfortable chair opposite Cruikshank, Lindsay reached for the papers. They were held together with faded black ribbon.
“They have never been bound?”
“No,” Cruikshank said, “nor even much opened since they were written, by the look o’ them. That’s a blessing, of course, seeing as they’ve no’ been very well-kept. They could still be bound into book form by a skilled man, if that was wanted. I know someone who would do a good job o’ it.”
Carefully, Lindsay undid the knots in the ribbon holding the packet together and set the fraying strands aside. The whole packet contained perhaps twenty or so folded sheets. Cautiously, he opened out the topmost one. The paper was thick and yellow, though somewhat brittle, the script close-written in faded brown ink. The penmanship was not good, a scrawl of words that looked to have poured out of the author at a swift rate.
Lindsay peered at the words, trying to discern them in the candlelight.
At the top of the first page was written:
Kirkallenwater, fifth day of March in the Year of our Lord fifteen hundred and ninety-one.
Lindsay read on.
It is four days since we came to this quiet border town and I can scarcely believe what has happened within such a short period, even after half a year in George Cargill’s company, witnessing sights I could never have imagined I would see.
When first we arrived, it seemed a good, respectable place with a civil populace, but Cargill was summoned here by a gentleman who had said all was not as it seemed, and that there was darkness beneath the peaceful appearance.
Cargill did not speak to me of the particulars mentioned in that summons—he never does—but on the way here, he read to me a passage from the work of the great John Knox regarding the influence of Women. The passage stated in the strongest of terms that women should not pretend superiority above men. It seems I am becoming used to Mr. Cargill’s ways as I discerned from this that he believed there to be women in this town who exercised an influence unbefitting to their status—and so it has proved to be.
On the day of our arrival, Cargill met with the town dignitaries, including the sheriff himself, and on the Sunday, went to the church where the minister invited him to speak to the congregation. He delivered there a sermon regarding God’s Sentence upon Women, beginning with the passage from Genesis, in which God pronounced that the will of woman would always be subject to that of man who would ever bear dominion over her.
At the end of his sermon, Cargill said to the congregation, “If you know a woman who defies this judgment of the Lord, who seeks power and influence, who dares to speak over men who are her acknowledged superiors, then hear this: This woman is a witch.” And he urged the people to come forward and report their suspicions to him.
The next day, they came. A dozen or more, every one of them reporting Mistress Geddes, a widow who had run the town’s inn since the death of her husband two decades before.
A shiver ran up Lindsay’s spine, as he read on, his finger tracing the faded, antique letters. Naismith told of Mistress Geddes’s arrest, and then the swift arrest of her daughter and son-in-law, and two more of the townswomen, each of whom had made the mistake of speaking up for her.
Cruikshank said nothing as Lindsay set down the first paper and picked up the next in the bundle. This one was concerned with the examination of Mistress Geddes, the first of the group to be interrogated by George Cargill. As he read the long passages describing in salacious detail the torments and degrading acts inflicted on the poor woman, horror yawned in his gut, making him feel physically sick. One of the pieces of “evidence” used in her trial was Cargill’s report that bodkins had been pressed into her flesh but had left no mark. Lindsay thought of the witchprickers on Cruikshank’s shelf with their retracting needles and he and burned with outrage on this long-dead woman’s behalf, even as he hid his feelings from Cruikshank behind a blank expression.
He read for another half hour or more, perusing several more papers in detail before skimming the contents of the rest of the bundle in search of a mention of anyone who might be Alys. He found no one who obviously fitted her description, but this, after all, was only the first of the packets.
Finally, he set the last paper down and glanced back at Cruikshank who said, his voice sly, “So, what do ye think, Mr. Somerville? The papers make a fascinating read, do they not? I daresay ye’re itching to read the lot properly, but I must get back to my guests...” He spread his hands in apology.
Lindsay forced a smile. “That’s a shame, but I believe I’ve seen enough to know that I do wish to acquire these papers.” The letters themselves appeared genuine enough to Lindsay’s untutored eye, and even if there was no explicit mention of Alys within them, they might conceivably contain an important detail that would mean something to Marguerite. He was not, however, convinced they were worth anything like five hundred guineas.
Cruikshank smiled his lipless smile. “Very well—what is yer offer?”
Lindsay considered for several moments, then said softly, “Two hundred and fifty guineas.”
Cruikshank’s smile vanished. For a long time, he said nothing. Then he leaned forward and reached for the papers Lindsay had read, carefully folding them back up and binding the packet back up.
“As I told ye before, Mr. Somerville, I already have a client who wants these papers. It will take a great deal more than two hundred and fifty guineas to disappoint him.”
Lindsay laughed softly. “Come, Mr. Cruikshank. Five hundred guineas is daylight robbery for those papers and you know it. Be reasonable. At least make me a counteroffer.”
Cruikshank glared at him. “My client is no’ a reasonable man. If I break my agreement wi’ him, I need to be able to compensate him accordingly.”
“But he’s not paying you anywhere near two hundred and fifty hundred guineas, is he?” Lindsay replied. “I’d wager he’s not even paying half that. Am I right?”
Cruikshank’s glare darkened and he pressed his lips together stubbornly, but it was perfectly clear to Lindsay that he was right—two hundred and fifty hundred guineas was considerably more than Cruikshank would get from his other client. Knowing that, Lindsay couldn’t bring himself to offer such an exorbitant sum as Cruikshank had first mentioned. Not with the papers looking as though they may not even mention Alys.
“Two hundred and fifty guineas is a handsome sum,” Lindsay said, then couldn’t resist adding, “You’d be able to pay your debt to Mr. Nicol and still have plenty left over.”
Cruikshank flushed angrily at that, clearly not liking being reminded of the scene with Nicol. Briefly, Lindsay wondered if he’d gone too far, but when the man finally spoke, his voice was icily calm.
“My client is no’ coming to Edinburgh to collect the papers for another fortnight,” Cruikshank said. “In view of that, ye have a week to change yer mind, if ye wish to do so. If not...” He shrugged, as though unconcerned by that possibility. “And now, I will wish ye goodnight. I must to return to my other guests. I have neglected them too long.”
