What Will Burn by James Oswald (latest novels to read .TXT) 📗

more swiftly than a man half his age. ‘Sounds like a fine excuse to get out of this gloomy basement.’

Interlude

She is asleep when they break down the door, still groggy as they pull her from her bed. Too dazed to understand what is happening, she is hauled outside without a fight. Not that she would have been able to do much to these strong, young labourers.

The light dazzles her, coming so soon after the darkness of her tiny cottage. But she can see the crowd gathered on the scrubby grass. She knows these people, they are her neighbours. She has helped them out over the years, attended at the births of more than a few. Is that not Murdo McKenzie there, with his wife Bethan? It was only last week she sent him that salve for the boils on his leg. Perhaps that is why he won’t meet her eye.

‘Kathrine Black.’

The words are not a question. She turns her head and sees the man standing a few paces off. She does not know his name, but his black clothes and dour face leave her in no doubt as to who he is.

‘You stand accused of the practice of witchcraft. That you did consort with the devil and cast curses upon your kinfolk. Confess your sin, repent your evil ways and God will welcome you back into his embrace.’

The young men turn her around so that she can face the man, but before she can respond they force her to the ground. She kicks out, catching one of her captors a blow to the chest, but he barely grunts before grabbing her leg once more. Out of nowhere, a hand catches her a blow to the head and the world dims around her for a while.

‘Lay not your hand upon her, brother,’ the man says. ‘It is not for us to force the devil from her. By her own word will she condemn or save herself.’

They pin her to the ground, arms and legs outstretched, and all she can do is shake her head as two more men bring a stout wooden board into view. She has only enough time to see that it is her own front door before it is placed on top of her. Head forced to one side, she sees the mud-spattered riding boots of the dark man as he approaches, hears his words muffled by the planks.

‘How do you plead, witch? Guilty or no’?’

The cruelty in his voice is laced with an edge of glee. She cannot answer. Nothing she might say would ever satisfy the likes of him. He seeks not justice for any wrongdoing, nor salvation for her soul. He wants only power for himself.

‘Nothing?’ he asks, crouched down close to her. Then his voice fades as he stands, turns, addresses someone else. ‘The rocks. A little weight will loosen her tongue.’

She grunts as the first rock pushes the door down onto her. Sharp stones in the ground stab into her back. A second rock cracks the dry wood, its weight making it almost impossible for her to breathe.

‘Confess, Kathrine. Repent and you will be with God.’

The third stone drives the air from her in a short, whistling gasp. She cannot draw another in. Panic plucks at her like night terrors, but there is nothing she can do. Even the strong men at her arms and legs need no longer hold her; she has no strength left, no life.

‘Not one word of contrition? Then may you rot in hell.’ The man’s voice is distant now, the terrors receding as the darkness comes to take her. The people from the village, folk she has known all their lives, stand silent witness to her death.

Their silence is one final mockery, a dreadful mimicry of her own affliction, and here at the last she hates them all for being so weak, so craven, so superstitious. She would curse them if she could, but such was beyond her even before they crushed her with rocks. For even had she air to speak, she could not form the words. Malformed tongue and crooked neck, she has been mute since the day she was born.

23

Early morning, and McLean sat at his desk, squinting at the screen of his laptop. The sun streaming in low through the window that formed one entire wall of the room made it almost impossible to see the words of the email. Sadly, he knew that wouldn’t wash as an excuse. He’d realised that it would only be a matter of time before the first of the chief superintendent’s invitations came in, but had hoped he’d be given more than a few hours’ notice. A function at the North British Hotel wasn’t exactly onerous, but that same evening? Had to be a mistake, surely. He couldn’t be expected to jump so quickly, not even if the station chief commanded it.

Frustrated, he picked up the desk phone and after a couple of abortive attempts managed to find the right number. The chief superintendent herself didn’t answer, of course. She had secretaries for that. In some ways that made things easier.

‘Chief Superintendent Elmwood’s office. Helen speaking.’

Helen. McLean tried to picture the woman. Short, mid-fifties, dark hair going chaotically grey, nice smile. ‘Hi Helen, it’s Tony McLean here. About the chief superintendent’s email. I wonder if I could—’

‘Ah yes, the Safe Streets Committee. Gail was particularly keen you join her as the representative of Specialist Crime Division.’

‘But it’s this evening.’

‘That’s right. Seven o’clock sharp. Gail will meet you there.’

‘I . . . But . . . Wait. She’s going to this thing anyway? Why do I need to be there?’

‘As I understand it, Detective Inspector, there’s always a representative from plain clothes at these functions. The chief superintendent is attending because she feels the need to engage with the community as much as possible. You know how it is, surely? She’s come up from England and that can put people’s backs up a little. Helps to have a local on hand to smooth the waves, as it