rightly accused according to the words of the curse as it is written down.
What an amazing occurrence: to stand history on its head! Our understanding of the witch hunt is one of superstitious persecution of simple, innocent women. Yet here we have Agnes Tod, with the firewood piled around her, declaring, 'Yes I'm a witch, and you who are crossing me will suffer for it.' And here's something else. This self-proclaimed witch has a sister who is literate, an uncommon attribute in those days, when country people were no better than serfs.
Oh yes, Miss Rose, we must find out all we can about Elizabeth Carr, but Agnes and Matilda Tod are even more important. Who were they? What of their lineage? Who are their descendants, and who else might hold the knowledge behind these letters to the press?
Is there someone else guarding the Devil's altar of Witches' Hill, and are they prepared to kill for it? Doesn't it set your detective's blood tingling?'
Wills's excitement had infected Maggie Rose, in spite of herself. As the young waiter delivered their coffee- pot and cups, she realised that she was gripping the table-edge so tightly that her fingers had gone white.
`Realistically,' she said, 'can we find out anything about any of them? After all, we're talking about people who lived four hundred years ago.'
I won't know that until I start to look.'
`Where will you begin?'
Wills poured coffee for each of them. 'I'll begin and probably end at the General Register Office. Registration as we know it today began about a hundred and fifty years ago. Before that records were kept in parishes, fairly informally, and those old records that still exist are stored now in the GRO. Some of them are even computerised… courtesy of the Mormon Church, believe it or not, but that's another story.
I know the staff in New Register House fairly well, so I'll have ready access. It all depends on whether they have records from Longniddry covering the period in which we're interested.
If that is the case, then Lisa's family tree will get us off to a flying start. Elizabeth Carr gave birth in 1623. We can trace back to find her marriage to Tullis and see what that tells us.'
Maggie shook a few grains of salt into her coffee and stirred it. 'If the records are there, how far back will they go?'
‘Far enough, if we're lucky. Many parishes had informal recording going back to the sixteenth century. If that's true of Longniddry, we'll be able to go in search of the Tod sisters, to see what sort of people they were.'
`What d' you mean?'
`Later birth records show the father's occupation. In those days it depended on the whim of the local minister. If we find the Tods' birth records, let's hope that theirs was a stickler for detail:
‘But how will it help us, to know what their father's work was?'
Henry Wills raised his eyebrows. 'Inspector Rose, even today we categorise people by occupation. In those days such things were absolute. The fact that Mr Tod produced even one literate daughter sets his family apart from the mass of artisans of the time.'
Rose sipped her coffee, savouring the sharpened taste. `When can we get started?'
`You want to come?'
Of course. This is detective work, after all'
`Very well. I have some things to do at the University, but I should be clear by around two o'clock. Let's meet in the Cafe Royal bar, at around two-fifteen. I always welcome an excuse to look at those tile pictures'
Rose nodded. 'That suits me. My photographs of Lisa's Bible should be ready by then. I'll let you see them. After that I'll have to find an expert.'
`No difficulty about that. The National Library of Scotland is where you should go. They're book historians, after all.' He paused, leaning his head back slightly, as if he were giving a new idea an airing in his mind. 'You know, that's another thing. That volume was in the hands of Matilda Tod. She gave it to Elizabeth Carr. Yet the family tree begins with Tullis and Carr.
Something odd about that, too.'
He smiled. 'Now, any other medieval mysteries to be solved before we go?'
Maggie Rose looked at him, with an expression which was as close to coyness as she could manage. 'Well, it's not quite medieval, but I did wonder if you could shed some light on the nineteenth-century reference to the curse which you mentioned the other day.'
Wills's smile widened into a beam, and the look in his eyes reached close to smugness. 'I've anticipated that one, Inspector.
`When I thought about it I realised that the story was virtually received wisdom among Scots historians, and that I myself was no longer sure of its foundation. So I did some digging.
It comes from a history of Haddingtonshire — that's what East Lothian was then — written by one John Smeaton and published in 1843.. except that isn't quite true. Actually it comes from a review in the Scotsman of that work. The author must have been wounded when it appeared, because it was an extremely poor review. It said that the book was badly researched and badly written and described it as 'a ragbag of gossip and old wives' tales'. It made a particularly disparaging reference to what it described as a fairy tale of a bizarre witch's curse, calling down vengeance by blade, fire and water.'
Suddenly his beam by-passed smugness and attained triumph in a single stride. 'But do you know, Inspector, that is all that it said.'
Rose looked at him, intrigued. 'So?'
`Don't you see? It made no mention of Agnes. Now, think back to the note to the Scotsman.
Remember its wording.'
Comprehension dawned on her face. 'By the blade, said Agnes.' Of course. But what about the book itself, couldn't the writer of the note have a copy?'
`That's remotely possible, but it doesn't counter my argument. I have checked with all the Scottish university history faculties. None of us has a copy. But I did find one. Smeaton was an advocate, and he presented a copy of his work to the Advocates' Library. It was passed on to the National Library when it was set up in the early part of this century. I've seen it. It makes a very vague reference to the Witches' Hill burning, and paraphrases the curse more or less as the Scotsman described it, but nowhere does it mention Agnes Tod, or her sister Matilda.'
`John Smeaton; do we know anything else about him?'
Oh yes,' said Wills. 'His life is well documented. He was a cousin of the then Marquis of Kinture. An undistinguished man, who saw no success at the Bar, and who died in a riding accident, a few months after he published his magnum opus on Haddingtonshire.'
He paused. 'While I was at it, I checked the records of the trial and burning of Agnes Tod's coven. It was a very summary affair. Statements were made before the Earl of Kinture, he found guilt and pronounced sentence. There were three defendants in all, Agnes Tod, Christian Dunn and Mary Lewis.'
`But could the Earl do that? Didn't it have to go to a proper court?'
In those days, my dear, the Earl of Kinture was a proper court! He had what was known as
'power of pit and gallows' over his people. That meant that he could imprison wrongdoers, or execute them as he thought fit. Awful as it may seem today, the burning of Agnes Tod and her friends was quite legal.'
`But what was their crime?' asked Rose, real anger in her voice.
Wills's smile of triumph had gone. 'They were accused, believe it or not, of trying to kill King James VI by raising a storm against his ship, in Aberlady Bay, as he sailed down the Firth of Forth towards Leith.'
`What!'
`That's right. And what's more, if you take Agnes Tod's curse, written down by her sister, at face value, they were guilty!'
Forty-six
The rain hammered down as if the plug had been pulled from the Truth Loch and the heavens were trying to keep up the water level.
