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man and his boy who did the renovations on the estate, likewise the man who brought firewood, plus the hardware and farm supplies store. They all said she paid in cash. Even Mrs. Mackenzie, the town and county chief gossipmonger, could not fault Miss Ramsay, as she always paid the garage bills and the petrol account on the due date.
    Joanne knew that in a small community where most businesses survived from one job to the next, a reputation for prompt payment put you at the top of the queue where tradesmen were concerned; it was also the measure of a decent person.
    â€œAnother thing about her . . .” Joanne could sense that Mrs. Galloway cared for Alice Ramsay and she was glad Alice had at least one friend. “Miss Ramsay was really good to my mother before she . . .” A tear glistened. “Sorry, I’ve said too much. She doesn’t need me discussing her with a stranger.” She began backing away. Gossip had condemned Miss Ramsay to months of misery, and Mrs. Galloway was not about to be another of the tongue-wagging brigade—no matter how sympathetic this Mrs. McAllister seemed.
    â€œI would never publish anything about Miss Ramsay without clearing it with her first,” Joanne promised.
    â€œI hope all this nonsense is soon dead and buried. She doesn’t deserve . . .” She shook her head, banishing the mental midgies. “If there’s nothing else I can get you . . .”
    Joanne smiled. “No, thanks. The pie was lovely.”
    â€œThanks. Not very grand but filling. Breakfast’s between seven and nine. See you in the morning.” She pushed the door half open with her hip, the tray in both hands. “By the by, if you want, I can point you to the stone that shows where the last witch in Scotland was burned. Only a wee bit of a marker stone, mind, but at least you can say you seen it.”
    â€œThanks.” Joanne was not at all sure she wanted to visit the spot. The story was gruesome enough, and horribly unfair was her verdict when she read that the woman was old and probably mentally unstable. The only redeeming information was that the witch’s daughter had escaped the same fate, never to be discovered. Perhaps her descendants are living hereabouts. She grinned at the thought.
    Although her legs ached from the walk up the last mile of the glen, with the left leg aching most from the endless changing of gears on the drive to the northeastern town, Joanne had no difficulty falling asleep. The bed was perfect—the landlady had put a hot water bottle in to take the chill off the sheets. Her last thoughts were of the execution.
    1728. The date was branded in her memory. Janet Horne was the name. The trial documents recorded that her daughter had a withered hand. Joanne wondered if that was why she was accused of witchcraft, knowing that over the centuries women were executed based on equally flimsy justifications.
    Joanne eventually slept but kept the bedside light on, and when she awoke, she was surprised by the lack of nightmares. Not even a dream, or so she thought, had kept her from a long deep sleep. She awoke at seven, and that was only because she heard men talking in the hotel courtyard and the noise of bottles clanking as the empty crates were lifted back into the delivery lorry.
    After a bowl of porridge and lots of tea, Joanne listened to the landlady’s instructions and walked through town to the place of execution.
    All the while she was telling herself, I do not want to do this , yet she kept on walking. It was a blustery, cloud-racing wind-shifting rain-threatening day, and she enjoyed the air. The spot was a stone. Just a stone. She stared at it. Contemplating how a soul died in agony made her shudder. Father was right; too much imagination, that’s my trouble.
    Joanne drove to the petrol station on the main road south of town. She watched a wee woman in blue overalls come over. Her perm was