The Green Man

Twelve

Someone had to ask the stupid question, so I saved Albany the embarrassment and framed it myself.

‘What do you mean, gone? Are you certain?’

Rab Sinclair turned on me savagely. ‘Of course I’m certain,’ he snarled. I thought he was going to strike me.

The duke again clasped his friend’s arm.

‘Robert! Rab! Calm yourself. Roger just needs to make sure. Did you search the cupboard thoroughly?’

Master Sinclair controlled his temper with an effort.

‘I had everything out of it. I shook out the wedding gown. I scraped with my nails along the back and sides of each shelf to ensure that there was no crack between it and the cupboard wall where the diary could have lodged.’ He raised his hands in a despairing gesture. ‘Mind you, I don’t need anyone to tell me that that was a waste of time. The parchment sheets were too big, and the knots of ribbon that bound them too thick, to permit of such a thing happening. I merely mention it to demonstrate how desperate I was. No,’ he finished on a quieter note, ‘it had vanished.’

‘But who might have taken it?’ I asked. ‘Do you suspect your housekeeper, this … this Maria Beton?’

‘Of course not!’ His anger flared again as he leaped to his servant’s defence, before once more controlling his emotions. ‘Why should she? She had no idea of the diary’s contents.’

‘Normal curiosity,’ I suggested. ‘Mistress Beton must have seen that when you read them they upset you. Surely it would only be human nature to want to find out what the diary said. Had you locked the cupboard again after you replaced it?’

Master Sinclair shifted uncomfortably.

‘Yes,’ he admitted at last. ‘But I left the key where Maria had found it, on a neighbouring shelf. All right! Perhaps, with hindsight, it was a foolish thing to do, but I was so upset at the time that I couldn’t think properly. Besides,’ he added defiantly, ‘I trust Maria totally. She is a distant kinswoman of Aline’s and has been with us since we were married.’

‘Nevertheless, the diary vanished,’ Albany pointed out grimly. ‘And according to you, she was the sole person, apart from yourself, with the slightest knowledge of its existence and where it was hidden. As Roger says, her curiosity to know what was in it — what had disturbed you so greatly — must have been extreme. And the key was there to her hand, where you had left it.’

‘But why would she steal it?’

The duke gave vent to a splutter of laughter. ‘My dear friend, don’t be so naïve! To blackmail Aline, of course. Once she had mastered the contents, Mistress Beton could have held them over Aline’s head and wrung from her anything she wanted.’

Master Sinclair, who seemed to have shrunk back into his corner while we talked, suddenly sat forward, flapping his hands.

‘No! No, she couldn’t. Maria can’t read.’

Albany and I were both stricken to silence by this information. Our chief suspect — the obvious and, as far as we were concerned, the only one — had been snatched from us.

‘Well,’ I said grudgingly, ‘that necessarily puts a different complexion on the matter.’ I thought for a moment or two, while Albany looked equally nonplussed. At last, I said, ‘Leave that for now. Let’s go back to Mistress Sinclair’s denial of any knowledge of the diary after her return from her aunt’s. When you failed to produce it, what happened then?’

‘She maintained her total ignorance of any such object. She became even more hysterical, accusing me — me! — of having a mistress and of fabricating this tissue of lies — that was what she called it — in order to divorce her.’

‘Did she say who this mistress of yours was supposed to be?’

‘No, how could she? For she knew as well as I did that there is no one; that I have always been faithful to her and her alone. I swear on our Saviour’s suffering on the Cross that this is the truth.’

I didn’t much care for Robert Sinclair, but I reckoned it would take great courage to swear such a tremendous oath if he were lying. The fear of eternal damnation, of roasting for ever in the fires of Hell, would surely deter him as it would us all.

Albany evidently thought the same, for he sprang to his feet and went to put an arm about the other man’s shoulders, once more exhorting him to be calm. ‘We believe you, Rab. We believe you.’

‘Master Sinclair,’ I broke in, ‘where was your wife’s brother while all this was taking place? You told me he had accompanied his sister to their aunt’s house at … at …’

‘Roslin.’ Albany supplied me yet again with the name.

‘Roslin,’ I repeated, trying to commit it to memory. ‘So,’ I continued, ‘he had presumably brought her home.’

‘Yes. But naturally I said nothing to Aline until Johnnie had left to go to his own house in the Grassmarket. It was their parents’ home. He still lives there.’

I nodded. ‘So, after he left you confronted your wife with your knowledge of the diary. What happened next?’

‘I told you. She denied the accusation frantically. She pretended to be hysterical …’

‘Pretended?’

‘All right,’ was the snapped response. ‘Perhaps she really was frightened by the realization that I had discovered the diary and was aware of its contents. But by the time she had challenged me to produce it, and by the time I had searched for the thing upstairs and been forced to admit that I couldn’t find it, she was perfectly calm. Moreover, she had had the opportunity to think. She must have known that, from then on, I should be on my guard. Any hope she had cherished of planning my murder to look like an accident was gone. She had to do something quickly. I can’t imagine what was in her mind, or how she hoped to explain my death afterwards, but she ran into the kitchen and grabbed a knife that Maria uses for cutting meat. I had followed her, and when she turned round and came at me, clutching it in her hand, I knew she meant to use it. I struggled with her furiously and finally got possession of the handle, but as I did so, she must have slipped and fallen forward on to the point of the knife. The blade entered her heart. She died immediately.’

‘In other words, an accident,’ Albany proclaimed triumphantly.

Master Sinclair bowed his head. ‘An accident. But without the diary to prove the cause of our quarrel, how can I prove it? There were no witnesses. Maria had been in the garden, picking herbs to savour the meat for our dinner. And it was the purest misfortune that our neighbour, Mistress Callender, entered the house at that particular moment to welcome Aline home after her absence. The screech she set up was loud enough to waken the dead. Then she ran into the street, screaming.’ Rab shook his head as if still bewildered by the turn of events. ‘After that, the house suddenly seemed full of people … there was a lot of noise … shouting … I was arrested and brought here, to the castle, and charged with murder. No one will believe that Aline attacked me first. Everyone knew her for what she appeared to be; a loving, sweet-natured, devoted wife. And without that diary, there’s no proof to the contrary. I shall be hanged for certain.’

‘Not if I can help it,’ Albany asserted, adding with a confidence I was far from feeling. ‘Our friend here is going to find the proof for you. He’s going to find out who stole that diary and why, aren’t you, Roger?’ I gave a half-hearted sort of gurgle that could have meant anything and which the duke ignored. ‘But I want it done quickly,’ he went on. ‘I’ve my own affairs to attend to and I shall need your help — ’ this was an unwelcome surprise to me — ‘so bring all your wits to bear on this mystery. Any assistance you want, you shall have. Just ask Murdo and he will ensure that you get it.’

The cell door creaked open and the wall-eyed gaoler grunted, ‘A message for your Grace.’ And, with the help of his toe, he booted in a small boy as unprepossessing as he was himself and bearing a strong family resemblance. His son, I decided, who added to the general coffer by running errands and delivering messages for anyone within the castle precincts. His mother was probably the castle washerwoman. ‘Well, go on then,’ the gaoler added, as the boy hesitated, glancing awkwardly between me and Albany. ‘Tell His Highness what you’ve come to say.’ He spoke in the broad Scots’ tongue, but, with a certain amount of guesswork, I was beginning to follow simple sentences and phrases.

The boy gabbled something which, however, I was unable to understand except for a word which I guessed to be a rendition of ‘Gloucester’. Albany confirmed this when he announced that his absence at dinner had been marked, and that his presence was now urgently required at a meeting of the Council with Duke Richard. He clapped me on the shoulder with a great show of camaraderie and I knew what was coming. When royalty start to get familiar, it can only mean that they want something. And woe betide you if you fail to deliver.

I was right.

‘Roger, I’m putting this entirely in your hands,’ Albany said. ‘For the next few days, my place will be at the council table.’ He didn’t add ‘guarding my interests’ but I knew that was what he meant. ‘I must leave you here now with my good friend, Rab Sinclair. Rab, my man, give Roger your full cooperation and he’ll have you free of this coil in no time.’

Again I made a gesture of protest, and again it was ignored. Albany swung on his heel, tossed a coin to the expectant boy and was shown out by the obsequious turnkey. I was left in the evil-smelling cell, extremely hungry with no immediate prospect of a meal, and facing a hostile gentleman who regarded me as way beneath him in God’s scheme of things. It did fleetingly cross my mind that now, while Albany was suddenly absorbed by his own affairs, might be a good time to effect my escape from the castle and start on the long journey home, but common sense prevailed. I had very little money in my purse, all my bodily needs having been provided for ever since I left Bristol — where was that? Somewhere on the far side of the moon? — and no means of earning a living, my pack having been left behind me. And I was, moreover, in a country not my own, where even the language of the inhabitants was strange to me. I was likely to get lost very quickly, a prey to all the vagabonds and outlaws that no doubt roamed this thickly wooded region. (And what was not forest seemed to be made up of treacherous bogs and wild, open tracts of moorland where it would be easy to lose my way and go round and around in circles, ending up where I had started.)

But if I were honest, I had to admit that there was another reason that prevented me making a bid for freedom. All my natural curiosity was aroused by any mystery or conundrum: I never could resist ferreting around for the truth of any puzzle. So I sat down on the stool again, drawing it closer to the prisoner, ignored my belly’s insistent grumbling and proceeded to question Rab Sinclair, freed from Albany’s inhibiting presence.

‘This all happened three days ago, on Monday, I believe?’

‘How do you know that?’ The tone was aggressive and the eyes glittered angrily beneath their heavy lids.

‘I heard Donald Seton tell the duke so last night when he brought His Grace the news of your arrest and imprisonment.’

Master Sinclair gave a sudden crack of laughter. ‘Donald Seton, eh? I heard my lord mention the MacGregor. Who else is with him? Davey Gray? Tullo? Petrie?’ I nodded and he laughed again. ‘Mar’s people. At least, the ones who were with him when he died so mysteriously in Craigmillar Castle.’

‘So I’ve been told. They fled to France after the earl’s death to offer their services to his brother. Is it of any significance?’

‘No, no!’ The disclaimer was a little too vehement, but I let it go. It was none of my business. My job was to discover and retrieve, if possible, the missing diary of the dead Aline Sinclair. And the sooner I achieved that aim, the sooner I could persuade Albany that my usefulness was at an end; that his life was no longer in jeopardy. He would either be king (and his wretched elder brother, the imprisoned James III, deposed, probably murdered) or, if not, he would no longer be considered a threat who needed to be eliminated.

‘Were you and your wife kin to one another?’ I enquired of Rab. ‘I ask because you mentioned that her great-aunt, her grandfather’s sister, was also called Sinclair.’

He gave me a quick, sideways glance from beneath those heavy eyelids.

‘You don’t miss much,’ he said, almost as if he resented that I had my wits about me. ‘Yes, Aline was a cousin in the second or third degree, I can’t remember which. Is it important?’

I shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Most likely not. But it isn’t always possible to say what might prove to be of importance.’ I regarded him straitly. ‘Who do you think has the diary? Is it not possible that your housekeeper, this Maria Beton, stole it, even though she’s unable to read? As I said before, unless she’s a fool, she must have noted your reaction when you read it and worked out for herself that it contained something very damning. Why should she not have taken it to someone, a friend maybe, who could inform her of its contents?’

He shook his head vehemently.

‘No! I told you just now, she’s — I mean she was — ’ tears started to his eyes — ‘devoted to Aline. She’s some sort of distant kinswoman. When we got married, Mistress Buchanan, Aline’s mother, suggested her as a housekeeper on account of her trustworthiness and her fondness for my wife. Mine had been, up to then, a bachelor household with just myself and my man servant. It was necessary for Aline to have another woman to keep her company, apart from her personal maid.’

‘Wait!’ I interrupted when he would have gone on speaking. ‘You mention a man servant and a maid …’

It was his turn to cut in. ‘The maid, Gudrun, a silly young piece, had accompanied Aline to Roslin and had been left behind on account, I think my wife mentioned, of some bellyache caused by eating too many plums — or some such thing. I really can’t remember. Events happened so fast after John’s departure that other matters have slipped my mind.’ And he leaned forward, clutching his head in his hands, the picture of abject misery and despair.

I ruthlessly ignored this bid for my sympathy and continued, ‘This man servant of yours! Presumably he remained at home with you and Mistress Beton?’

‘Jared? Yes, he was at home.’ The voice was muffled as it issued between the long, elegant fingers muzzling Rab Sinclair’s mouth. ‘There was no need for him to go to Roslin. Aline had her brother.’

Her brother, John. Now here was another J, the man servant, Jared. As my companion had pointed out, J was a very common letter. I cursed under my breath.

At that point, the gaoler reappeared, carrying a bowl of something highly unsavoury and a hunk of black bread, both of which he plonked down on the bed beside the prisoner with such force that some of the bowl’s contents slopped over on to the blanket.

‘Dinner,’ he grunted. Well, I took it to be what he said.

Master Sinclair removed his hands from his face and peered into the bowl, a look of pure revulsion contorting his features. I didn’t blame him. Hungry as I was, there was no way I could have swallowed even the smallest spoonful of such a grey and greasy-looking broth. A rapid exchange in the Scots tongue, too fast for me to be able to distinguish more than three or four words, resulted in money changing hands, the coins being produced by Rab from a purse looped on to his belt. These the gaoler pocketed with a satisfied grin and departed, returning almost immediately with a tray — obviously already prepared — on which reposed white bread of the finest quality, a wing of fowl, a hunk of goat’s cheese and some fruit. My mouth watered and my belly rumbled louder than ever.

The gaoler gave me a sadistic leer and was preparing to take his leave for the second time, when he was detained by Rab Sinclair speaking to him again. And again I was unable to follow the gist of their conversation; although I did understand it to be a favour that Rab was asking, partly by the intonation of his voice and also by the way the gaoler rubbed his chin considering before finally nodding his head.

When the cell door at last closed behind him, I at once resumed my questioning, afraid, judging by the ravenous way in which the prisoner was attacking his dinner, that his mouth would soon be too full for him to answer.

‘This man servant of yours, this Jared, could he have stolen the diary?’

‘Why should he?’ My companion spoke thickly, having already made a determined onslaught on at least half the cheese. ‘He didn’t know anything about it. Wasn’t present when it was found, and I said nothing.’

‘But Mistress Beton could have told him,’ I pointed out. ‘They could have been in it together.’

Rab Sinclair bit into the wing of fowl and savoured it with relish, at the same time shaking his head.

‘Maria wouldn’t have done that,’ he stated positively, as soon as he could speak. ‘She and Jared don’t like one another. Never have, never will. They never exchange more than a word or two, and that only when necessary. He always resented the authority she took upon herself as housekeeper. Until my marriage, he had things pretty much all his own way.’

I watched enviously as another mouthful of flesh was slowly chewed and swallowed before asking, ‘You don’t think, then, that her curiosity could have overcome her dislike, and that she might have confided in him?’

My companion spluttered with laughter, spraying me with fragments of bird. ‘No, I don’t! I tell you, those two can’t stand the sight of one another.’

I sighed. I was getting nowhere.

‘Well, do you have any idea who might have taken the diary, and why? You’ve dismissed the notion that Mistress Beton could be behind the theft, in spite of the obvious reasoning that she might have taken it to someone who would be able to read it for her, with a view to threatening either you or your wife with its contents later on. Think about it, Master! If what you say is true, she was the only person with any knowledge of the book’s existence, and the only one who saw your dismay on reading it. I imagine she’s no fool. She can add two beans to three and make five.’

‘It’s wasn’t her,’ Rab Sinclair reiterated obstinately. ‘As for who it was, I don’t know any more than you. But the one thing I do know is that it has disappeared. Also that it has to be found if I’m not to choke to death at the end of a rope.’ He eyed me malevolently as he dug his teeth into an apple and crunched on it loudly. ‘So you’d better start looking for it if you want to keep in my lord Albany’s good graces. From all that I hear he may soon be king, so, if you fail, it’s possible you could also find yourself dancing on air.’ He gave a sudden deep-throated, gloating chuckle. ‘You may not know it — in fact you most likely don’t — but my lord is a great believer in Jedburgh Justice: hang first and ask questions afterwards.’

I forbore to point out that it was no matter to me whether Albany was crowned King of Scotland or not. By the time that happened — if it happened — I would be on my way home. Nor was it a priority with me to keep in the duke’s good graces. But I would pursue my enquiries out of pure curiosity and because I hated to see the innocent punished for the guilty. And if Master Sinclair were indeed speaking the truth, then the accident that killed his wife was nothing more than her just deserts. Not only had she been cuckolding a man who had treated her well and, above all, given her his love, but she had also attempted to murder him.

I got to my feet.

‘Where are you going?’ Rab Sinclair paused in the act of biting into a second apple. ‘What are you going to do?’ He was suddenly filled with panic.

‘Well, I shan’t get any further just sitting here, shall I? I must see and talk with people for myself. Your housekeeper, your brother-in-law, your man servant for a start. Maybe also your neighbour. Mistress Callender, did you call her? So I shall need directions to find your house, also Master Buchanan’s in the … where exactly did you say it’s located?’

‘The Grassmarket. Anyone will tell you where that is. As for my house, get Murdo or one of the others to take you there. They all know where I live.’

‘Can’t you tell me?’

He shrugged. ‘Many of those houses look alike. It’ll be easier if someone shows you the way.’

I could see by the obstinate set of his mouth that I would get nothing more out of him.

‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘Although it may still be dinnertime.’ It struck me that if that were indeed the case, I might be able to grab some food for myself, so I made no further demur and shouted for the gaoler.

It was a relief to be out in the fresh air again, free from the fetid atmosphere of the cells. I filled my lungs with it, drawing in great, deep breaths and letting my head clear, shaking my whole body to rid myself of the dirt and grime, much as a dog will shake itself free of water. I didn’t immediately go in search of Murdo, Donald and the others, but stretched my cramped limbs by walking from one end of that towering crag to the other. In one direction I could see below me the smoke of houses, billowing grey wreaths in the windy sunshine of that early August morning, the trees in the orchards looking no bigger than dandelion heads. In another, away in the distance, I could just make out — with the white foam flecking its blue and with the occasional flash of a white sail — the wide expanse of what Davey had told me was the River Forth as it broadened out towards the open sea. Clouds were scudding inland, and I felt I had only to lift my hands in order to touch them. Edinburgh Castle rock, I decided, was the nearest to heaven that I was likely to come in this life. (And as for the next, I decided not to speculate, but hoped that when the time came, my sins would be forgiven me.)

On this pious hope, I made my way to the great hall where my luck held, for although the trestles were being dismantled and moved to stand against the walls until suppertime, the baskets of broken meats which had been cleared from the tables had not yet been carried into the kitchens. I was able to help myself to bread, cheese and several hunks of beef. Excellent beef, too: someone had once told me that the Scots bred good cattle in spite of a largely barren landscape.

‘Stuffing your face again, chapman?’ asked a mocking voice, and I turned to find Donald Seton at my elbow.

‘Ah! Just the man I was looking for,’ I said, grasping his wrist and seizing another lump of meat to chew on as I led him outside. ‘I need you to show me Master Sinclair’s dwelling.’ And in answer to his raised eyebrows, I told him how I had so far spent my morning.

He regarded me meditatively for a moment or two, then nodded.

‘Follow me.’

He didn’t, as I had half-expected, make further enquiries as to what exactly had been said or what I intended to do. In his place, I would have been unable to curb my curiosity, especially when it concerned someone I knew. But Donald displayed no such interest. I had thought, just for a fleeting second, that he had looked at me rather pityingly, but I was used to people underrating my ability to winkle out the truth, even when a problem seemed insoluble.

We left the castle, reversing the route by which we had entered earlier that same morning; descending the steep stairs by the Portcullis Gate, past the Constable’s Tower to the rugged forecourt that gave on to the town outside.

Donald led me down the main street a little way and then pointed to a house on the right-hand side as we stood with the castle at our backs. It was one of the newer timber-built dwellings, but differing from its neighbours in that it had no outside staircase. The first storey window, like many others, hung out over the street and, I reflected, it must have been there that Aline Sinclair had sat in preference to the solar so lovingly provided for her by her husband, at the back of the house. Watching for the lover whose name began with J? Writing her secret diary and plotting the death of that same husband? I suddenly felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the general chill of the day.

‘I’ll be leaving you then.’

Donald’s voice broke in on my reflections and made me jump.

‘Oh … Yes. Very well, then,’ I said. ‘If His Grace asks for me, you’ll tell him where I am?’

‘I’ll tell him.’

The squire gave me a brief nod before striding away, uphill towards the castle. I looked after his retreating form for a minute or two, vaguely disturbed, but not knowing why. Then I gave myself a little shake, crossed the street and knocked loudly on the door of Master Sinclair’s house.