The Green Man

Fourteen

I must have started or taken a step backwards because Mistress Beton asked sharply, ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Matter? Why … n-nothing,’ I stammered, feeling extremely foolish. ‘Nothing.’

She followed the direction of my gaze and laughed, but without displaying any sign of real amusement.

‘Oh, that medallion,’ she said. ‘Those eyes staring up at you! They are very lifelike, are they not? The embroidery is remarkable. In fact the whole coverlet is extraordinarily well done.’ She came to stand beside me, stooping to smooth the quilt with one admiring hand.

‘The Green Man,’ I murmured. ‘A strange conceit for a bed-covering.’

‘Not for the St Clairs. Or Sinclairs, as the name goes now-adays.’ She glanced sideways at me. ‘The chapel at Roslin, built by the last Earl of Orkney forty years ago, is almost a shrine to the Green Man, there are so many heads carved into the wood and stonework. You have not been there?’

I shook my head. ‘No. Although my lord of Albany was very anxious to make a detour to visit it as we approached Edinburgh the day before yesterday, but the Duke of Gloucester forbade it.’ I looked round at the housekeeper as I spoke and realized, by the sudden lowering of her sandy lashes and the slight flush that stained her cheeks, that she had been regarding me with an intensity which, had I noticed it earlier, I might have found unnerving. However, I gave no sign of having marked anything untoward and asked, ‘Does the Green Man have any special significance for the Sinclair family? I caught sight of a beam end, downstairs in the solar, which also showed his head.’

‘Special significance?’ she repeated, then paused a fraction of a second too long to make her subsequent denial truly convincing. ‘No. I do not think so. The Green Man is, of course, a symbol of fertility, of renewal, but that is all.’

‘Who embroidered this coverlet?’ I enquired. ‘Mistress Sinclair?’

‘Aline?’ Maria Beton was scornful. ‘She was not a skilful enough needlewoman. No, it was made many years ago by her grandmother’s mother. Or maybe, perhaps, by her mother. I do not know.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘May I ask why the Green Man seems to disturb you so much?’

It was my turn to be on the defensive.

‘Disturb me? No, no! No such thing. As you say, those eyes are very lifelike; the embroidery superb. At a quick glance, it was as if someone were looking up at me. It gave me a bit of shock, that’s all.’ As I spoke, I laid hold of the quilt and began pulling it off the bed.

‘What are you doing?’ Mistress Beton demanded indignantly, clawing at my arm with restraining fingers.

I shook myself free.

‘I’m stripping the bed,’ I answered, ‘just to make certain that the diary has not somehow or other become entangled with, or hidden in, the coverings.’

‘How could that have happened?’ Her tone was furious.

And she was quite right to be angry. I was not even clutching at straws now, but at thin air. I knew very well that I should find nothing, but continued just the same to strip the bed of all its furnishings, even shaking the curtains and climbing on the stool again to inspect the top of the canopy, simply in order to convince myself that I was doing something useful. The truth was that I had no more idea where this diary, so vital to proving Rab Sinclair’s innocence, was concealed than I had when I entered the house half an hour and more ago.

I stared in frustration at the pile of bed linen, pillows and feather mattress heaped on the floor. I bent to heave the latter back into its wooden frame, but Maria Beton snapped, ‘Leave it! I’ll see to it later. When you’ve gone,’ she added pointedly, and led the way downstairs again. She made no effort to return to the solar, but stood in the passageway, one hand on the latch of the street door, a foot tapping impatiently on the flagstones.

However, I made no immediate move to depart.

‘Mistress,’ I said imploringly, ‘can you think of no one else besides your neighbour who entered this house on either Saturday or Sunday last?’ A thought occurred to me. ‘Did neither you nor Master Sinclair go to church on Sunday?’

But I was doomed to disappointment here as well.

‘No.’ She did not elaborate and I had no choice but to accept this brusque and unadorned negative. I sighed.

‘Then I won’t bother you any further, Mistress, except to thank you for your courtesy in receiving me. Meantime, if you do remember anything, or if the diary suddenly comes to light, you may send a message to the castle to any one of the Duke of Albany’s servants.’ I executed a brief bow. ‘I’ll relieve you of my presence and go to call on Mistress Callender.’

The housekeeper frowned and gestured angrily.

‘Do you really need to bother the goodwife? She can tell you nothing. Nothing! She will not like to be questioned.’

I doubted this. My experience as a chapman had taught me that in general goodwives, bored and lonely by the middle of the day, were only too glad to talk to anyone who was not either a debt or a rent collector. Mistress Callender might, of course, prove to be an exception to the rule, but if that were indeed the case, I should have to rely on my well-practised charm. (I could hear Adela’s mocking laughter echoing in my head.) It also struck me that Maria Beton’s agitation on behalf of her neighbour was not consonant with her general air of self-containment and indifference to her fellow creatures. I was more than ever determined to call next door.

Mistress Callender was every bit as pleased to see me, and every bit as voluble as I had expected her to be. A little, bird-like woman of indeterminate age — she could have been anything between forty and sixty — with exceedingly bright blue eyes (an ugly, almost kingfisher blue), I was in possession of her life’s history within quarter of an hour of entering the house.

She was the widow of a carpet-maker who had left her in comfortable, if not affluent, circumstances, sole owner of this comparatively recently built house close to the castle ward, and with sufficient savings to maintain it as a lady would wish. For she desired to assure me that she was indeed a lady, daughter of a gentleman and gentlewoman as I could probably tell by the fact that she spoke English with a fluency taught her at her mother’s knee, and not the broad Scots dialect used by so many of her neighbours.

‘For my mother, sir, was an Englishwoman. Only from just over the Border, it is true, but English nevertheless. And she never did hold with the Scots’ tongue, even though my dear father would speak it occasionally, to her great distress. I must admit that I do use it myself now and then, but only when forced to.’ She smiled, batting surprisingly thick eyelashes at me, suddenly coquettish. ‘You, I think, are not from these parts?’

We were by this time seated in her upstairs parlour, for her house was one, like most of the others, with an outside staircase and I thought I had glimpsed a cow and a sheep peering at me from the ground floor casement, but I had been hurried past before I had time to be certain. The parlour was a comfortable chamber with cushions distributed the whole length of a settle pulled up in front of a small, but very welcome, fire burning on the hearth which was set, as modern hearths were, in the wall instead of in the centre of the room. Chimneys were now much in vogue, even here in the wild, barbarian north. The floor was covered not with the usual rushes but with a beautifully woven carpet in vivid greens and reds and yellows, a rare luxury even in the more decadent south and something I had never seen before except once, in a royal palace. I complimented my hostess on it.

She flushed with pleasure and suspended the story of her life to assure me that it was an example of her late husband’s work and as fine an example of the carpet-maker’s art as you would find anywhere in Scotland or, indeed, in England.

‘For my dear Thomas said to me, “Annuciata,” he said, “why should we not have the comfort of my trade as well as those whom God, in His wisdom, has seen fit to set over us?” And I agreed with him.’

I nodded vigorously to demonstrate that I, too, was in agreement with the late Master Callender’s sentiments; then before the widow could continue with her narrative, I proceeded to enlarge on the brief explanation for my presence that I had been able to give her when she first answered my knock at her door. The realization, not perfectly understood until then, that I was working on behalf of no less a personage than the Duke of Albany — possibly her future king, as I was at pains to emphasize — finally stemmed Mistress Callender’s recital of her own concerns and made her more than eager to cooperate with anything I wished to know.

Not that she wouldn’t have eventually got round to the murder next door, for it was plainly the most exciting occurrence in her life so far, but from the moment she accepted that I was an emissary of royalty — even renegade royalty — she became even more loquacious than before.

‘I was the one who found them, you know.’ Her voice rose a little as the full horror of that moment returned to her. ‘They were in the kitchen. Aline was lying on her back on the floor, and just for a moment I thought she’d slipped and fallen and that Master Sinclair was trying to help her to her feet. Then I saw the knife in his hand, dripping with blood. Aline’s blood.’ Mistress Callender’s tone was shrill now and she had gone rather pale. There was no doubt that the memory affected her deeply. ‘He had stabbed her, right through the heart.’

One of her hands fluttered towards me. I took and held it in a sustaining clasp as I was plainly meant to do while making sympathetic noises.

‘It must have been a terrible moment for you. Why had you gone in there?’

‘I saw Aline and her brother return some while earlier and thought it would be neighbourly to call and welcome her home. Maria had told me on the Friday that she — Aline — had gone to visit her aunt at Roslin, accompanied by Master Buchanan, and would be away two or three nights. So I waited until I saw her brother leave, and then I … I …’

I pressed her hand before releasing it. ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘And after that?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t remember really. I think I screamed and ran into the street … and went on screaming. I recall a lot of people surrounding me, shouting and asking questions, but I think, after that, I must have fainted, because the next thing I remember is being in a neighbour’s house and her husband forcing whisky down my throat.’ She shuddered delicately. ‘Such a horrid drink.’

‘You say that Mistress Beton had told you of Mistress Sinclair’s visit to Roslin on the Friday. How … How did that come about?’

‘I’d gone in there with a recipe for quince jelly that I’d promised Maria. She and I often exchange recipes. She’s not quite so good a cook as I am, but she tries.’

I doubted if Mistress Beton would agree with this dictum, but held my peace.

So far everything Mistress Callender had told me agreed with the testimony of both Rab Sinclair and the housekeeper. It was time to probe a little deeper.

‘Had you ever had reason to believe,’ I asked, ‘that Mistress Sinclair had a lover?’

My companion’s extraordinary blue eyes opened to their widest extent.

‘A lover?’ she breathed. ‘Aline?’

I nodded. The idea was plainly new to her.

‘No, never,’ she answered. ‘She wouldn’t. Not Aline. Why, she adored Robert.’ She paused, then added slowly, ‘But I would have said that he adored her, as well.’

‘So why did he kill her?’

‘He … He said it was an accident. Of course! I’d forgotten until this moment, but I can remember him shouting it after me as I ran from the kitchen.’

‘Yet when you saw him stooping over Mistress Sinclair’s body, that wasn’t your impression?’

‘No. I mean yes. Or do I? I don’t know. Sir, you’re confusing me.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I took her hand again and patted it. ‘Think back, Mistress. Clear your mind of all I’ve said to you. Just think of what you saw when you entered the room.’

She stared at me, all coquetry forgotten. I could feel that she was trembling. After a moment or two, however, she answered quietly, ‘I thought — I was sure — that he had killed her. But maybe I was wrong. Perhaps it was an accident …’

‘Why did you think Master Sinclair had killed his wife?’ I insisted. ‘You knew them both. You believed that they adored one another. So why would you think, even for a moment, that he’d murdered her?’ She was silent, mulling over what I had said. ‘Did you,’ I went on, ‘hear raised voices as you entered the Sinclairs’ house?’

Somewhat to my surprise, she shook her head decidedly. ‘No, all was quiet as far as I can recall.’ Then, suddenly, she gave a brief nod. ‘Yes, I remember now. It was the expression on Robert’s face as he looked down at her that made me think he’d killed Aline.’

‘What sort of expression? Can you describe it?’

Mistress Callender closed her eyes for a second or two, frowning.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said at last, withdrawing her hand from mine and pressing it to her forehead. ‘In fact the more I think about it, the less reason there seems to be for me to have suspected what I did. I suppose it was simply shock that prompted my behaviour. And yet …’

‘Go on,’ I urged. ‘Try to picture the scene again in your mind’s eye. It’s not so long ago, after all.’

Obediently she closed her eyes once more and concentrated hard, but finally gave a little sigh and shook her head.

‘No. I’m sorry. But I do assure you, sir, that something at the time made me take fright. And if you are saying that Aline had taken a lover that would surely explain any untoward expression of Master Sinclair’s that I might have seen.’ The full import of what I had been hinting at suddenly struck her; and the bird-like features sharpened with curiosity. ‘But who says that Aline had taken a lover? Maria Beton? You don’t want to believe everything she tells you, that’s for certain. It’s my opinion that she’s in love with Robert Sinclair herself. I wouldn’t put it past her to have tried to poison his mind against his wife.’

For a moment or two I debated with myself the wisdom of putting my hostess in full possession of the facts, then decided against it.

‘It was Master Sinclair himself who told me of his suspicions,’ I said, ‘not Maria Beton. So I ask you again, have you ever had any reason to think that it could be the case? Have you ever seen Mistress Sinclair in the company of a younger man? A man who could have been her lover?’

My companion shook her head slowly and, I thought, rather regretfully.

‘No. I can’t say I have. Indeed, as I told you, I was certain that there was no one for Aline but Robert. Mind you, she could be very discreet; almost secretive in some respects. You never knew what she was really thinking. She was one of those people,’ Mistress Callender added shrewdly, ‘with whom you imagine that you are having an intimate conversation, only to discover later, when you think back, that you have done all the talking and that she has said very little. Yes … Yes, I suppose it is possible that she could have tired of Robert. He is older than she is — or, rather, was. Oh, how terrible to think that she has gone, and in such a dreadful way!’

Deciding that I had prised as much — or as little — from Mistress Callender as I was likely to get, and that she seemed as reluctant to offer me any refreshment as Maria Beton had been, I rose to my feet. I was beginning to utter my thanks, but she ignored them, still absorbed in thoughts of her own.

‘Of course,’ she began, looking up at me in puzzlement, obviously wondering why I was no longer sitting down, so I resumed my seat. ‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘there hasn’t been so much money these past three years. Perhaps Aline resented that. Robert had always been a very generous husband. More than generous some would say. She had grown used to having anything she wished for. Maybe she had become discontented. Maybe she had found a richer, younger man.’

‘Why had money become short?’ I asked.

‘Oh, well — ’ my hostess lowered her voice conspiratorially — ‘Robert Sinclair had been a companion and friend of the Earl of Mar. When Mar was accused of treason and died in Craigmillar Castle …’ Her voice sank to a whisper and she moved closer to me as though afraid of being overheard, although there was no one else in the room. ‘The rumour is that he was murdered on the king’s orders because of his involvement with witchcraft. Certainly his brother, my lord Albany, thought he was done to death because he fled to France, and a number of Mar’s servants joined him there.’

‘I know, Mistress,’ I said, somewhat impatiently. ‘And they have now all returned with the duke and are at present quartered in the castle.’ Her mouth formed a little O of surprise. ‘So how did the earl’s death — or murder — affect Master Sinclair?’

Once more the kingfisher-blue eyes widened and a bird-like had clutched at my arm.

‘He was forced to compound with the crown for being Mar’s friend. It was a choice between being accused of treason and clapped in prison or paying an enormous fine. So, naturally, he chose the latter.’

‘Naturally,’ I agreed. I remembered something Donald Seton had said; that Rab Sinclair had not followed Albany to France because he would not leave his young and lovely wife. And now he had killed her, accidentally maybe, but certainly she was dead. So the wheel of fortune turned. ‘Would the lack of money really have bothered Mistress Sinclair?’

Mistress Callender grimaced.

‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that there was a lack of money,’ she demurred. ‘The Sinclairs have always been a wealthy family, even the cadet members of the clan. But there was less to spend, that’s for sure. But what Aline’s feelings were on the matter, I have no idea. Nor would she have given the slightest hint. I’ve told you, she was not one who discussed her affairs.’

‘Mistress Beton dropped no word in your ear?’

‘Alas!’ Again came that regretful note. ‘She always had as little to say as Aline. But the setback in their fortunes might explain … might be one reason … why Aline took a lover. If she did.’

‘You are certain that you never saw her in the company of another man?’ I persisted. ‘You never noticed anyone entering or leaving next door who might possibly have fulfilled the role of a lover? There is no one you can remember seeing who could fit that description? Please think very carefully. Master Sinclair’s life may depend on your evidence.’

Mistress Callender’s thin bosom swelled with importance, rather like a sparrow attempting to emulate a pouter pigeon I couldn’t help thinking, and tried not to smile. But after considerable cogitation, she was forced, most reluctantly, to shake her head.

‘No, I’m sorry. There’s no one. I noticed people calling at the house now and again, of course, but they were tradesmen or friends of Robert. That isn’t to say that your information is incorrect. Indeed, how could it be when you got it from Master Sinclair himself? There has to be a reason for him acting as he did. But,’ she added with a note of asperity, ‘I have better things to do with my time than to spend my days poking my nose into my neighbours’ affairs.’

‘Of course. Of course,’ I murmured soothingly. ‘It wasn’t my intention to accuse you of any such thing. I just thought that an intelligent woman like yourself might have noticed something that wouldn’t perhaps have seemed of any moment to you at the time, but which could, in the light of extra knowledge, assume some significance.’ I got to my feet again and now my hostess rose with me. I held out my hand. ‘Forgive me for bothering you, Mistress Callender. You have been most forbearing.’

She flushed a delicate pink. (She didn’t look to have sufficient blood in her to turn red.)

‘No, no!’ she disclaimed, once more allowing one of her little hands to be engulfed by mine. ‘I’m afraid I have been of no help whatsoever, and of no use to poor Master Sinclair. And if what you have confided in me is indeed true — and if it is, it is most shocking and throws an entirely different light upon events — then I regret exceedingly that I have been unable to assist in any way. What does Maria Beton say? You have questioned her, of course?’

I inclined my head. ‘I came directly here from next door. However, I’m sorry to say that Mistress Beton had as little information to impart as your good self. There is one other person I must visit and that is Mistress Sinclair’s brother, Master …’

‘Buchanan,’ my companion prompted.

I thanked her, adding, ‘I believe he lives somewhere called the Grassmarket. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Mistress Callender concurred with a vigorous nod of her head, and proceeded to give me instructions how to get there. ‘Any one will tell you which is Master Buchanan’s house.’

I thanked her yet again, but as I was turning to leave the room, she laid an anxious hand on my sleeve.

‘Sir, what is the news at the castle? I know the English are in the city. I saw the great procession pass by early this morning. I know, too, that the king is a prisoner in Craigmillar Castle and that all his minions were hanged from Lauder Bridge on the order of his uncles. Is it true that Lord Albany is to be crowned in his place? And why was there no resistance? We were all expecting a siege.’

I patted her hand reassuringly.

‘I don’t believe, Mistress, that you have any cause to be alarmed. My own feeling is that neither side truly has the stomach for a fight. And to the best of my knowledge the Duke of Gloucester, as King Edward’s representative and with full regal powers, is, at this very moment, at the negotiating table with the Scottish lords. More than that, I can’t tell you, except that it’s my opinion the English are as eager to go home as the Scots are to see the back of us. As to what will happen to King James, and, equally, as to my lord Albany replacing him, I have no idea. My own guess, for what it’s worth, is that the duke is living in a fool’s paradise and that his ambitions will be sacrificed for the surrender of Berwick and a return of the Princess Cicely’s dowry.’ I saw that this last piece of information puzzled her, but was myself sufficiently confused not to attempt an explanation. I simply added, ‘But for the moment, His Grace of Albany is more concerned with proving his old friend, Rab Sinclair, innocent of the charge of murder than with promoting his claim to the crown.’

This reminded me that I had been strictly charged with urgency over this affair by my temporary lord and master as he had matters of his own to attend to. Although exactly what they were, and how they could possibly involve me, I again had no idea. But I did know that if a peace treaty with the Scots were to be hammered out speedily, I wanted to be ready to march south as soon as the English army was on the move. It behoved me, therefore, to try to solve this mystery of the missing diary and Master Sinclair’s innocence as quickly as possible.

As Mistress Callender’s outer door closed behind me, I realized that it was well into the afternoon, and, moreover that I was extremely thirsty, so I crossed the street and bought a drink from a stall opposite. As pies were also on sale, I had one of those as well, after some altercation with the owner about the English coin I had offered him. He also treated me to a harangue in broad Scots which, although I could understand little of it, left me in no doubt that all Sassenachs were the sons of the Devil and that hanging, drawing and quartering was far too good for them. Restraining my natural impulse to land the unmannerly brute a punch on the nose, I did the next best thing and smiled beatifically, thanking him copiously for his great compliments to the English race. (Mind you, I couldn’t really blame him. My fellow countrymen can be arrogant bastards when in the company of foreigners, and the busy messengers riding between the castle and the abbey were running true to form, jostling the natives to one side and shouting at them to get out of the way.)

Suddenly, I found Maria Beton at my elbow. She had seen me from a window and had crossed the street to know what Mistress Callender might have said. She didn’t put it into so many words, remarking merely that she had come to buy a pie for her supper, but once the purchase was made, she was in no hurry to leave.

‘And what, if anything, did you learn from my neighbour?’ she demanded truculently.

There was, however, an underlying note of anxiety in the question, and a tense frown between the eyes, that I found hard to explain. And when I answered that I had learned nothing of significance, she let out a breath almost like a sigh.

‘Well, I cannot stand here all day,’ she said and prepared to depart. Halfway across the street, she turned and came back. ‘If my cousin’s diary should come to light, I will immediately send word to the castle. You are returning there now?’

‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘Almost at once.’

She nodded, and I watched her until she had once more disappeared inside the Sinclair house. Then, following Mistress Callender’s instructions, I made my way to the Grassmarket to find John Buchanan.