Skinner's Round (29 page)

The Registrar smiled at the compliment, and heavy laugh lines creased his eyes. 'I always have had. Every so often I'll see a face I think I recognise, and it'll come to me a day or two later that it was someone I taught twenty years ago. My trouble is that I'm not so good at putting names to the faces.'

He paused. Now, talk of names brings us to Elizabeth Carr. What can we find out about her?

Why don't you begin by telling me about your meeting with the former Lisa Soutar.'

Step by step Rose took him through her visit to Germany, and through Lisa's story. From her briefcase, she produced her copied version of the family tree and handed it to him. He read it eagerly. 'Fascinating,' he said, when he had finished. `Parentage is traced back through the line, until Elizabeth Carr. We are given no clue as to who she is, or why Matilda Tod chose to entrust her story to her.

Ànd what of Matilda Tod herself! The sister and last witness of a doomed woman accused of witchcraft, and 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.

Òh 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?

Ìs 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.'

Ì 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.

Ì 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?'

Òf 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.

Ìt 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?'

Òh 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?'

Ìn 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.

Skinner stood on the tee of the 230-yard par-three twelfth, not far from the clubhouse, and looked in astonishment as Darren Atkinson hit an immaculate three-iron, cutting upwards through the rain and feathering down on to the green, no more than six feet from the hole.

The US Open Champion was one under par for his round, thanks to a birdie at the par-five seventh. Skinner himself was scrambling to play to his seven handicap, while Norton Wales and Hideo Murano were splashing their way around the course as best they could, every shot being applauded sympathetically, by a crowd which was smaller than on the opening day, but which still ran into the thousands.

`Shot, skipper,' said the policeman in admiration, as the gallery gasped its approval. He emerged from under Joe's protective cover to hit a five-wood, high and wide of the green.

Shaking his head, he retreated beneath the umbrella, as Murano stepped up to play. As he watched the Japanese ready himself, a hand tugged his sleeve. He looked down to see a small boy, clad in waterproofs from top to toe, proffering a squeezable plastic bottle of the official soft drink supplier's newest isotonic product. He put a hand on the child's shoulder, stilling him until Murano had played, then took the drink with a smile and a soft 'Thank you', imagining his own son, seven or eight years on.

A few seconds later the child returned, and handed a drink to Bravo. Then a moment later he stepped up for a third time, holding out a drink, and an autograph book, to Darren Atkinson.

The golfer took the bottle from him solemnly, unzipped his golfbag and slipped it into the big container pocket. He reached out his hand to Bravo. `Gimme yours too mate,' he said, 'we'll be on the move in a second.' The caddy handed over his drink. Atkinson stowed it in the bag, then squatted down to sign the autograph book. 'No school today?' he asked. The boy flushed and looked guilty. It struck Skinner that even during competition, when he was at his most intense, Atkinson had never turned away an autograph-seeker.

Norton Wales hooked his drive into deep grass to the left of the fairway. 'I think I'll leave it there, Darren,' he called, loudly enough for the spectators to hear. 'It might meet one just like it in that jungle and live happily ever after!'

They hustled down the fairway. Having underhit his drive, Skinner's second shot was too strong, but a good long putt from the back of the green secured him a four, one better than Murano's score. He stood at the side of the green, pressed alongside Sue Kinture and Joe, as Atkinson lined up his birdie attempt. He glanced at his caddy. She seemed in another world.

'Is the weather getting you down, Susan?'

`What? Oh, no. Sorry, Bob, I was miles away. Thinking about our cocktail party at Bracklands tonight. You and Sarah will come, won't you?'

Òf course, we're both looking forward to it. We've got a local baby-sitter this time. Sarah's joined a mother's circle. It's a sort of co-operative, operating on a knock-for-knock basis. No one gets paid money. They all have wee plastic rings and each one's worth an hour.'

`Sounds very WRI!' she whispered.

They were interrupted by the bellow of the crowd as Atkinson's putt rolled unerringly into the hole for a two. As it fell into the cup, the ball made a small splash. Skinner looked up at the sky as they walked across to the thirteenth hole. 'I don't know if the course can absorb much more water,' he said as they reached the tee. 'Mind you, the sky's getting a bit lighter.'

Atkinson delved into his bag as they reached the tee. When he stood up he held the two isotonic drinks, and a plastic bag containing golf ball wrappings and damp hand towels. He threw the bag into a dustbin, and handed one of the drinks to Bravo, opening the other himself, and taking a long draught.

Às long as it doesn't get too light, mate. I remember one time I played in the Open, not very far from here, in the worst July weather I've ever seen in Britain. It was the second round and I went out early. A howling gale, hail, freezing cold rain, you name it, God chucked it down that morning. I shot a seventy-one in that, and I still count it as maybe the finest round I've ever played. The next best that morning was a seventy-seven.

`Then, as soon as I stepped off the last green the wind dropped, the rain stopped and the skies cleared. Sandro Gregory was standing on the first tee waiting to play off. He gave me a big smile, the bastard, then went out and shot sixty-four. On the Sunday, he beat me for the championship by one shot. I've never forgiven God for that one!'

He stepped on to the tee and crunched a booming three-wood up the fairway of the par-five hole, leaving the ball placed perfectly for his second shot to the green. Skinner followed him, hitting a conservative two-iron which left him well behind the champion, but safe. The rain was easing slightly by the time he reached his ball. From where his drive had finished, the green was nowhere near in range. He asked Susan Kinture for his three-wood.

He was almost at the top of his back-swing, but was able to check the shot when he heard the crash of clubs and the surprised cry of the crowd. He turned to see Bravo, Atkinson's caddy, lying on the ground. His legs were kicking and convulsing, and he clutched himself in pain.

Atkinson stood over him looking aghast. Skinner rushed over to the fallen caddy. His eyes were rolling wildly, and his mouth was working.