Pat McIntosh - The Rough Collier

‘Aye, he was,’ objected the old man. ‘They found him a week later, I mind hearing o’t as if it was yesterday. They tracked him by the stink — ’

‘And then Mistress Weir’s man disappeared,’ she said stubbornly. ‘He went off and died and never came home.’

‘Aye, but she kent where he was buried,’ countered the old man.

‘Aye, so they say. And Beattie Lithgo’s man and all,’ she persisted. ‘Geordie says Jamesie says they never got him out to bury him decent, just closed up that bit of the working, because the roof wasny safe.’

‘Aye, and he walks,’ said someone else. ‘That’s why they’ll no work by night.’

‘Geordie’s talking nonsense, for I was at the burial,’ declared Maister William. ‘I could never walk so far now, you’ll understand, sir, but I still had my strength then. Adam Crombie the elder died away at Elsrickle, Will Fleming fell down a shaft, Adam the younger died under a roof-fall. That’s no disappearing. Any road, Beattie would never ha’ slain them and hid them in the peat, no like — she’d a great liking for her man, Beattie did. She tellt me that, one time she was here wi’ a wee pot of grease for my rheumatics. And I’ll tell you,’ a gnarled finger jabbed at Gil’s doublet, ‘whatever she’d put in it, it shifted the pains in my knees. I’m needing a bit more, Agnes, mind that, you’d best get me another wee pot.’

‘Best be quick about it, and all,’ said one of the women, ‘afore David Fleming gets his way and she’s hanged for a witch.’

‘Hah!’ said Maister William witheringly. ‘Davy Fleming, indeed! I kent his grandsire from he was the age of Jeanie’s wee one here, and he was just the same, all ower the countryside, and none of his get had the sense of a puddock. Whatever Davy’s took into his head, maister, you can wager he’s as wrong as he can be about it.’

Leaving Thorn, Gil strode down the track in the spring sunshine, deep in thought. He was still in hopes of giving the corpse from the peat-digging a name, and kin who could pray for him, but it began to seem likely he was not a local man. Perhaps down in Lanark, he thought, or eastward in Carnwath, someone might recall a tale like old Forrest’s. He could ride out that way tomorrow, and perhaps Alys would go too. The dog could come with them; he had sent him with Alys and Henry today as some protection, and it seemed strange to be out in the open without the lithe grey form loping round him.

Cheered by the idea, he made his way down the hillside, crossed the burn at its foot and climbed the other slope to pick up the way to Cauldhope. He had always felt Sir James’s dwelling was well named. It was a draughty and inconvenient tower-house at the back of Kilncaigow Hill, surrounded by considerable outbuildings, stables and barn and storehouses and a huddle of cottages like the ones at Thorn. A straggle of wind-blasted beeches made a sort of shelter to the east, but Gil had chilly memories of formal winter dining there as a boy, waiting on his parents and Michael’s and serving out congealing sauces with numb fingers while the candle flames streamed sideways. Today in the sunlight it looked more welcoming, and one of the household had obviously recognized him approaching, for Fleming was waiting at the gate, bowing obsequiously as he came up the track between the low houses.

‘Maister Gil! Come away in, come in! You’ll take a drop of ale to settle the dust? Bring that ale, Simmie, can you no see Maister Cunningham’s thirsty! And how can I help you, Maister Gil? They’re all from home, I’m sorry to tell you, Maister Michael rode out this morning, never tellt me where he — ’

‘Never worry about that,’ said Gil, accepting the ale. ‘It was yourself I wanted a word with, Sir David.’

‘Wi’ me?’ The plump priest looked alarmed, but bowed again. ‘At your service, maister. Ask away, whatever you want to know. Come in, come in out this wind, and get a seat.’

The fire in the hall had burned low, but Fleming bustled into a small chamber behind the screen, where a brazier kept the chill at bay. Two big aumbries and a rack of document-shelves stuffed with papers made the room’s purpose obvious. The man Simmie set down the tray with jug and beaker and left reluctantly, and Fleming drew the steward’s own chair forward for Gil and lifted the jug.

‘Take a seat, maister, take a seat, and ha’ some more of that ale. And what’s your business wi’ me? If it’s a matter of my maister’s affairs I might no be able to answer, you understand, I’m privy to a lot that’s in close confidence — ’

‘No, no,’ said Gil. ‘I’ll not ask you to break a confidence. It’s about yesterday’s matter. I need to know what your charge is against Beattie Lithgo, and it would help me if you could say when you last set eyes on Thomas Murray.’

‘The charge against the woman Lithgo!’ exclaimed Fleming. He drained his own beaker, and set it down on a pile of papers. ‘Is it no obvious, maister? She’s a notorious witch, widely kent for a cunning woman and dealing in charms and spells all over the countryside.’

‘This is not what I have heard,’ Gil observed. ‘Michael mentioned evidence. Do you have any, or have you heard any other say that she has done this?’

‘It’s all over the countryside,’ Fleming repeated. ‘Ask anybody. They’ll tell you.’

‘Not so far,’ said Gil. ‘All I’ve heard is that she healed this or mended that. She’s aye spoken of as a good woman.’

‘It’s no natural for a woman to do such things!’

‘Rubbish,’ said Gil irritably. ‘Any woman in charge of a household has to deal wi’ cuts and burns and treat sickness. My own mother and my wife are both herb-wise. Who else would keep the kitchen-hands safe or plaister a trodden foot in the stable-yard?’

‘She’s ill-natured, which is well known to be the attribute of a witch — ’

‘This is nonsense, man,’ said Gil, his exasperation growing. ‘By that token, Sir James himself would be a witch, and you’ll not accuse your own maister, I hope.’

‘You’ll not put words in my mouth, Maister Gil,’ said Fleming with anxious haste. ‘I never suggested any such thing, and you know it.’

‘Well, either tell me what Beatrice Lithgo has done that would warrant a charge of witchcraft, or stop spreading such things about. She could have you for slander, you know, if the charge was brought and proved false.’

‘Slander!’ repeated Fleming in dismay. ‘Are you threatening me wi’ the law, maister?’

‘No, I am not,’ said Gil crisply. ‘I am warning you. Now will you tell me what prompted your nonsense about witchcraft, or will you desist from it?’

I should not have let my temper get the better of me there, he thought guiltily Fleming swallowed hard, his expression suddenly blank, and reached out and poured himself another beaker of ale, which he drank down as if it would provide him with an answer. After a moment it appeared to do so.

‘It’s like this, Maister Cunningham,’ he said. ‘What made me suspect her was the deaths. Aye, the deaths,’ he repeated. ‘It’s all in the rent roll, which I keep.’ He nodded towards the document rack. ‘There was a death up there two year since, and one nine year since, that’s a seven-year difference, and another seven year afore that. Now what’s that if it’s no witchcraft, and the worst sort?’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Gil. ‘Are you claiming Mistress Lithgo caused all three deaths? Who were they, anyway?’ He paused, reckoning. ‘The young one — Matt — two years ago, he took ill and died, and neither his mother nor Mistress Lithgo could save him.’

‘Aye, for she’d cast a spell over him,’ Fleming asserted, nodding.