“I will, and I promise we will talk of other matters.”
Gregor nodded. “Tell me what I have missed these eleven years past around the locality, and I will be in your debt.”
Three mugs of ale later, Mister Grant’s tongue was well and truly loosed. “Craigduff fairs well. The fishermen keep the village in good coin, and that will never change. It is the landowners who have struggled with the changes in Scottish governance.”
“Landowners? Such as Ivor Wallace?”
“Wallace used to own much of this area, as I am sure you are well aware. However, his son has not managed things quite so well. Ivor Wallace had hoped to pass the reins to his son, but instead spends his time correcting his mistakes.”
Gregor tried to piece this together with what Robert had said about Wallace. His old friend had described Forbes Wallace as a guard dog. That was perhaps what he saw—the son returning home if things were to change. “This has had significance on the size of their estate?”
Mister Grant nodded vigorously. “Some of the less fertile ground has already been sold off, and more of it is to go up for sale soon. I hear it’s to pay the son’s gambling debts.”
Gambling debts, as well as the desire to support the battle for independence… Ivor Wallace needed money all right, and Gregor had it. The irony hit him, making him laugh into his ale. Perhaps fate agreed with his need for revenge. Perhaps God himself had spied Wallace’s evil tactics and turned the tide.
“If only I had spoken to you before,” Gregor murmured, amused. This information made him rest easier about the likelihood of land for sale. Now he only needed Jessie to find out which land w
as due to be sold. It occurred to him that he could have her out of there before the week was done.
Grant, who was now somewhat ale-sodden, smiled bleary-eyed at him.
The urge to ask him another question would not be quelled, even though Gregor wondered at his own sanity in asking it. “Tell me, Mister Grant, if you will. Something that made me wonder on my return. In Dundee there was talk of witches and burning.”
Gregor paused.
Grant nodded, unsurprised.
“I thought such things were done with here in Scotland.”
Grant nodded again. “There hasn’t been a burning in Dundee for many years, but still the accusations arise from time to time.”
“Based on what—facts and evidence?”
“Rarely. Mostly it is hearsay. It is a sad truth about human nature, but many times an accusation is vengefully meant, and innocent people have suffered unnecessarily.”
Those words made Gregor feel desperately uneasy. He ran one hand around the back of his neck and nodded, wishing he hadn’t brought up the subject. Still, it was something he had not had the chance to speak with anyone else about, and his concerns had been building. “But do you believe it truly exists, witchcraft?”
Grant considered the question at length, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed. Eventually he replied, “Although I work with sums and coins and what is true and not true, I know that there are many strange things that we cannot account for in this world, and it pays not to put blinkers on.”
He smiled, as if pleased with his own musings. The ale surely had him tonight.
Leaning forward, Grant tapped the wooden table with one finger. “Ask yourself this, Mister Ramsay. If there was no truth in it, why would the church warn so heavily against them?”
“They warn us against witches because they think they are evil and seek to bring down the church.” Gregor could not think of anything less likely to interest Jessie.
“Aye.” Grant appeared wistful. For a while he looked away, deep in thought, before returning to meet Gregor’s gaze. “I saw a woman hanged and burned once. Up at Carbrey it was, a few years back.” He shook his head. “McGraw was her name. They said she made another woman throw her bairns from the womb before they were ready, because she was in love with the woman’s husband. Then the husband died quite suddenly, while she was being questioned. Poisoned, he was. It was a terrible affair.”
Gregor frowned. “A horrendous crime on both scores, if it is true.”
Grant nodded. “I see we share the same thinking on such matters. If it is true, it was indeed a terrible crime. But how does one prove such a thing?” He pushed his mug of ale away, as if he had had enough. “I cannot say if it was true or not, but I saw what they did to her, and I will never forget that.”
Gregor’s gut turned. For a moment he saw Jessie as she had been in the tollbooth, accused and facing trial. If he had not gone to her the same dreadful fate may have awaited her, as it had her mother.
“It is terrible what people will do to one another,” Grant added, “in the name of justice.”
“Justice,” Gregor repeated, with some unease. For it was what drove him, too.
Jessie was allocated a small room in the top attics. The window was tiny and at the level of the floor, for the room was up under the eaves. She was grateful, however, that she did not have to share with another maid, a possibility that had been mentioned at one point. All the servants were very curious about her, quizzing her about where she had come from and who she knew in this area. Jessie had handled them well, but was eager most of all to make the acquaintance of the master of the house.