The Green Man

Nineteen

I had been used! I had been used! The four words kept thumping around in my head, like a refrain beaten out by drums. The questions followed.

What had been the point of this elaborate charade in which I had been an innocent player? Answer: to establish the fact that Rab Sinclair had never planned to murder his wife because she had meant to kill him, and that her death had been an accident as a result of Rab defending himself.

Did Albany know the truth, and had he been complicit in the plot to clear his friend’s name? Answer: it seemed probable because of the way he had latched on to the possibility of ‘finding’ the supposedly missing diary in the possession of John Buchanan. And if I hadn’t mentioned Aline Sinclair’s brother or the fact that she might have had an opportunity to pass him the diary? Who then would have become the focus of suspicion? Mistress Callender? I felt certain that Albany would have seized on something in my report which could be used for his purpose. He must have visited Master Sinclair in his cell before he took me to see him; a visit during which he learned what Rab and the housekeeper were planning.

So why was I brought in? Answer: to add greater credence to the whole sordid affair. I have no idea how the two conspirators originally intended the damning evidence of the diary to be discovered. But Albany must have seen at once that the intervention of a disinterested outsider, particularly one who was already known to no less a personage than the Duke of Gloucester as a solver of mysteries, would carry great weight with Master Sinclair’s prosecutors, and almost certainly result in his being acquitted.

That, however, led to the biggest question of all: why would a royal duke risk an already tarnished reputation by trying to save a murderer from the gallows? And to this I had no answer. I racked my brains, sitting there in the dim light of Saint Margaret’s Chapel, but could think of no good or adequate reason. And after a while, I realized that there was no alternative to tackling the duke himself, especially if an innocent man were not to be accused of suppressing vital evidence which would ‘prove’ that the killer had been the intended victim.

I hauled myself to my feet, brushing my breeches free of dust from the chapel floor, and stood for a minute or two in seeming contemplation of the saint’s effigy, but in reality wondering if it would not be wiser to take my story to Prince Richard and ask him to demand an explanation of his cousin. He would listen to me, I felt sure of that, nor would he dismiss my tale without investigation. (He hated injustice of any kind as much as I did.) But he was a very busy man and, by now, would be locked in another session of negotiations with the Scots, hammering out the final details of a deal that would see Berwick returned permanently to the English, and at least part of the Princess Cicely’s dowry refunded to swell King Edward’s depleted coffers. No; I couldn’t trouble him. I should have to demand an explanation of Albany myself. Reluctantly, I made for the chapel door.

There was a strong smell of fish in the air, reminding me that it was Friday and that dinner would undoubtedly be fish stew. The thought made me retch again, prompting fresh memories of the past night’s events and causing me to wonder anew what had been in the drink James Petrie had given me. Had there really been anything sinister, or was it simply that my stomach could not tolerate the usquebaugh? In the end, I decided that it must be the latter. It seemed highly unlikely that the body-servant would be carrying a flask of drugged whisky in his pocket. For what reason? As for the apparently prolonged absence of the two squires and Davey, perhaps there again I had been mistaken. Maybe it had been a shorter time than I had thought it.

‘You’re looking green about the gills, Roger,’ said a familiar voice, and Timothy Plummer, an official-looking expression on his face and an official-looking bundle of documents in his hands, came up behind me. ‘What’s the matter, man? Don’t you feel well? And why are you wandering about like this? Haven’t you anything useful to do? I’m sure you could set your hand to something.’

‘I’m riding with my lord to Roslin after dinner,’ I snapped. ‘Until then, I’ve been told the time’s my own.’

‘Roslin, eh?’ The Spymaster General eyed me up and down. ‘Well, don’t let the duke keep you away too long. My lord Gloucester has given me a strong hint that business may well be concluded today, so we shall probably be on the road back to Berwick very shortly. And from there, the levies will be dispersed. We can all go home.’

I groaned with relief and immediately began to feel better. Perhaps when I had tackled Albany on the matter of Rab Sinclair, I would also find the courage to tell him that I refused to accompany him to Roslin. I was no longer his unpaid servant. (Although, in truth, I had been promised a substantial purse by the Crown when this affair was over, in addition to my initial payment.)

As Timothy was about to move away, I asked, ‘Where is Albany? Do you know?’

‘In council, of course, with the rest of ’em. Today, he’s sealing a bargain with the Scottish Chancellor that restores to him all his former estates in return for renouncing his claim to the throne and recognizing James as king. Although he’s obviously not proposing to spend much time on the business, if he’s riding to Roslin this afternoon.’ Timothy shrugged. ‘But I suspect the deal has already been struck outside the Council Chamber. This morning’s business just makes it official … Now, now, this won’t do! I must be on my way.’ He puffed up his skinny chest importantly in a manner I had grown to know well over the many years since I had first rescued him from the importunate attentions of a London pieman, and, with a brief nod, was gone.

I was just wondering what to do next when I heard myself hailed for a second time.

‘Roger!’ It was Davey, just rounding the corner of a nearby building and heading for David’s Tower. ‘You know we’re riding to Roslin after dinner? My lord has informed you?’

‘Yes.’ I noticed suddenly, and with a quickening of my heart beats, what it was he was carrying in his hands. I recognized the knots of red ribbon. ‘Is that …?’ I began, then stopped.

The page grinned and nodded. ‘The famous diary? Yes. I’ve been told to stand guard over it in my lord’s chamber until he’s free to take it to the City Magistrates. I’ve strict instructions not to let it out of my sight.’

‘Do you think I might just glance at it?’ I asked. ‘Just out of curiosity. Just to see what it is I’ve been looking for. A peek, nothing more.’

Davey hesitated for a moment, then conceded, ‘I don’t see why not. It seems only fair, after all. But for you, it wouldn’t have been discovered, or so I gather. Here.’ He put the diary into my hands. ‘But be quick. And I’m not moving from this spot until I get it back again.’

There was not a lot to read; both sides of three or four sheets of parchment covered with a spidery writing that was none too easy to decipher, largely because of the fatly looped ‘g’s and ‘j’s. The letter ‘h’, too, was curiously formed. But once my eyes had grown accustomed to these idiosyncrasies of style, the words leaped up at me, off the page; the intimate details of making love with the unnamed lover, referred to merely as ‘J’, and, after that, a list of possible ways to do away with Rab Sinclair, which method would prove to be easiest and which would attract the least suspicion.

I returned the diary to Davey, who received it back with a sigh of relief.

‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘It makes my blood run cold. Well, no one could convict Master Sinclair after reading this. I wonder who “J” is, and if they’ll catch him.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The duke reckons it’s Master Buchanan. Incest,’ he hissed.

He was plainly disappointed by my lack of reaction to this hideous revelation and, clutching his precious burden, made off, leaving me to my own reflections.

There was something wrong with the diary in my estimation, mainly with the descriptions of love-making, which were both prurient and innocent at one and the same time. My feeling on reading them had been that they were written by someone whose imagination was not matched by experience. Maria Beton?

I glanced up at the pale sun, struggling to be seen through another swarm of black clouds hurrying in from the west, and judged from its position that I had perhaps half an hour or so until ten o’clock and dinner (although I had noticed that the Scots tended to eat somewhat later than we did at home). There was time, I decided, for what I had to do.

I left the castle almost without challenge. The sentries had presumably grown used to the frantic comings and goings of the past twenty-four hours and although one of them stopped me, he seemed satisfied with my mumbled, ‘On the Duke of Gloucester’s business.’ If he understood nothing else, he recognized the name of the King of England’s brother.

It was only a short walk to Mistress Callender’s house, where I was lucky to find her in, as she answered my knock in her outdoor cap and shawl and with a basket on one arm. She looked astonished to see me.

‘Oh, my dear sir! What a surprise. But please come in. Come in!’ Her features sharpened with curiosity. ‘Has something happened?’

No word, then, of Master Buchanan’s arrest had yet reached her. I decided to leave her in ignorance: she would no doubt find out soon enough and I had no wish to be drawn into sharing my doubts and suspicions with her.

‘Mistress Callender,’ I said, giving her my best smile (the one that always makes my dear wife ask if I have indigestion), ‘I’ve come to beg a favour of you.’ She flushed with pleasure and fluttered her eyelids. ‘May I see one of the recipes given to you by your neighbour, Mistress Beton?’

She looked astonished, as I suppose was only natural. Whatever reason she had anticipated for my visit, it certainly wasn’t this.

‘A-A recipe?’ she fluttered. ‘Why … why yes, of course. Which particular one d-did you want?’

Ah! Now which one did I want? I had to think quickly, but nothing came immediately to mind. Then I remembered the bunch of herbs held out by the saint in my dream.

‘Herb broth?’ I suggested tentatively. ‘I’m sure Mistress Beton mentioned something about herb broth.’ I hoped I sounded convincing. I’ve never been an especially good liar.

‘Herb broth … Herb broth … Now, let me see …’ The widow put down her basket. ‘Yes, I believe there is a recipe for herb broth. It’s a favourite of yours, sir?’

‘Of my wife’s. And Mistress Beton assured me it was a particularly good one.’

‘Yes, I think it is. I’ll have to go down to my kitchen behind the — er — front parlour,’ she murmured, obviously hoping that I had somehow failed to notice her animals in the lower room. ‘I shan’t be a moment or two.’

She was as good as her word, and was breathing heavily when she returned as though she had been hurrying. ‘And now, sir,’ she pleaded as she handed me a piece of paper, ‘do please tell me what has been happening since your visit yesterday. I went to the Grassmarket very early this morning, and there seemed to me to be a lot of activity around Master Buchanan’s house.’

But I was listening to her with only half an ear and was not really aware of what she had been saying until I was almost back at the castle. Instead, I was staring at the piece of paper I held in my hand — the cheap, flimsy stuff that is made from old bits of rag — on which was written a recipe for herb broth. At least, I suppose that’s what it was because the sense of the words eluded me. My eyes were fixed on the looped ‘g’s and ‘j’s and the oddly formed letter ‘h’s. Whoever had written the recipe had also written the diary.

‘Mistress Callender,’ I interrupted without even realizing that I was doing so, ‘are you certain that Mistress Beton wrote this recipe?’

She broke off, startled, staring at me wide-eyed, rather like her own sheep. ‘Of course. Who else could have written it?’

‘Mistress Sinclair?’ I suggested.

She gave a high-pitched, tittering laugh. ‘Oh my goodness, no! Aline was hopeless at cooking. I’m not even sure she knew how to. Recipes meant nothing to her. And if she had, she wouldn’t have used a cheap scrap of paper like that. There was always plenty of the finest parchment in the house. Master Sinclair wouldn’t have used anything else, and he was always writing letters.’

‘Do you know who to?’ It was, on reflection, a stupid question, but it got a far better answer than it deserved.

‘Well, I did hear a rumour once-’ Mistress Callender lowered her voice to a confidential whisper — ‘that he belongs to some ancient cult or another. Don’t ask me what! And I must stress that it was only the most insubstantial of rumours. Although it wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Men,’ she added scornfully, ‘never grow up. They always want to be little boys and have secrets from their mothers and sisters and daughters and wives. Especially their wives.’ Her contempt was beautiful to behold and made me wonder about the doings of the late carpet-maker.

‘And you think Master Sinclair was a person of some importance in this … this society? Or whatever it was. He wrote letters to …’

‘I think nothing!’ The widow flushed with indignation. ‘I mind my own business. I told you, what I heard was the barest of rumours. I can’t even recall who mentioned it. But I know I didn’t give it much credence. And now, perhaps, you’ll have the kindness to answer a few of my questions …’

I waved the paper at her, unheeding. ‘So this is definitely Maria Beton’s writing? I was told she couldn’t read.’

‘What nonsense! Who told you that? Of course she can read. And write as well, as you can see. And now maybe you’ll …’

I leaned forward and planted a resounding kiss on one thin cheek, and while she was still gawping at me in amazement, I asked, ‘Can I keep this?’ I held up the recipe.

She made no reply, merely blushing fierily, so I took this as an affirmative and made my escape, clutching the piece of paper tightly in my hand.

In the lower ward of the castle, passed by the sentries with a nod of recognition, I slowed my pace, trying to determine what next I should do. It was obvious now that the diary was a forgery written, perhaps overnight, by Maria Beton. It had to be brought to somebody’s attention, but to whose? Albany’s would seem to be the answer except for the what now amounted to conviction that he was a party to the plot. I saw no way in which I could exonerate him. His actions of the previous evening and this morning, his determination to pin the blame on John Buchanan, all pointed to his complicity. I should have to find someone else to whom to present my case. The Duke of Gloucester again suggested himself as the obvious choice, but once more I hesitated to bother him over a matter that was beyond his brief as an Englishman and an outsider. I needed a Scot, someone of standing; Atholl or Buchan perhaps, one of Albany’s and King James’s half-uncles. But how to come at them was the difficulty. I should have to find somebody willing to introduce me.

Who? That was the question. I thought it unlikely that anyone in the Scottish camp would be willing to worry them at this critical juncture in the negotiations with what they would undoubtedly see as the triviality of an unknown man wrongly accused of concealing evidence. No one below a certain rank would contemplate it for a second; and who did I know, apart from Albany himself, of any standing at the Scottish court? With a sigh of frustration, I folded the recipe and put it into the pouch at my belt. If no alternative occurred to me before we left Scotland, I must enlist the support of my lord of Gloucester whose dislike of injustice, as I have just said, equalled mine. He might be able to do something.

I had by this time reached the summit of the rock. The smell of fish was stronger than ever and activity had increased as the dinner hour approached. I was suddenly gripped by both my arms, and there were Donald and Murdo, one on either side of me, rather, I could not help reflecting, like two gaolers escorting a prisoner. The thought made me uneasy.

‘Dinnertime,’ Murdo announced jovially (not a word I normally associated with the dour MacGregor).

‘Look out for Davey,’ Donald reminded him. ‘We might as well sit together. My lord wants us all assembled in the lower ward as soon as the meal is over. Horses will be waiting for us. He wants to set forward for Roslin before noon.’

‘Why the hurry?’ Murdo grumbled, reverting to his customary sullen tone. ‘It’s no more than seven or eight miles, if that.’

‘I’m not questioning my lord’s decisions,’ his friend chuckled good-humouredly. ‘You’re welcome to if you like.’

There was the usual jostling and shoving to get into the common hall, accompanied by the even more usual exchange of insults between the different liveries, and between English and Scots. But eventually everyone found a seat, however cramped, and the servers began bringing round the food. Davey had arrived before us and had managed, against all the odds, to save places for the rest of us, including not only James Petrie, but also John Tullo, of whom I had seen comparatively little during our recent odyssey. Not that I had missed him. He smelled strongly of horses and his protuberant brown eyes seemed to bore right through me in the most disconcerting fashion. A taciturn man, he said almost nothing and in any case, responded only to remarks in the Scots tongue. His English, like James Petrie’s, was confined to a few words merely. (I couldn’t help wondering now and then how these two had survived in France.)

As soon as I had satisfied my initial hunger with a bowlful of surprisingly excellent fish stew, I turned to Donald and asked if he knew what had happened to John Buchanan.

He shrugged. ‘In prison, I should imagine, awaiting charges. My lord was hoping to get the diary to the City Magistrates as soon as this morning’s session of the Great Council finished. He should have time. He’s excused himself from attending today’s second meeting.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell both Murdo and Donald — and Davey, too, of course — what I had discovered, but an interruption by the servers, collecting dirty bowls and slapping dishes of oatcakes on the table in front of us, made me think twice, and then the moment was lost. They were laughing and talking together in that Scots vernacular from which I was firmly excluded, although, judging by the way their eyes covertly flicked towards me every now and again, I had a feeling that I might be the subject under discussion.

The meal (washed down by small beer) at last over, Donald again demonstrated an unwanted comradeship by linking one of his arms firmly in mine. Murdo, also, was once more my friend, stationing himself on my other side and somehow remaining there as we forced a passage to the door. Nor did he show any inclination to move away when we reached the open air, only falling behind as we descended to the lower ward and then reclaiming his former position with a tenacity that roused my previous misgivings. I recalled my boast to Timothy Plummer that I would hold myself excused from accompanying Albany to Roslin, but now that the moment had arrived, for some reason, could not bring myself to do so. The horses, ready saddled and waiting, seemed to clinch the fact that I was to make one of the party, whatever my own wishes in the matter.

The duke did not keep us waiting for more than ten minutes or so, saluting us in his friendliest fashion, speaking to everyone by name, but, I thought, avoiding my eyes when he addressed a word of greeting to me. It also occurred to me that Donald and Murdo, together with Davey, moved, as if by some prearranged agreement, to hem him in, rather to prevent me getting too close than for any more sinister reason. I considered again breaking free of the group and announcing my refusal to go with them, but before the intention was more than half-formed, John Tullo and James Petrie closed in alongside me, their horses forcing my own mount forward as we passed the sentries and left the castle behind.

Murdo had been right. It was no great distance to Roslin, but riding at a quick trot that occasionally broke into a gallop, still made for an uncomfortable journey as far as I was concerned. Although I seemed to have spent half my life in the saddle these past two months, the pace had been slower and I had been mounted on a more sober beast than the mettlesome one I had now been given. I am, at best, an indifferent horseman, a fact known by now to all Albany’s henchmen, and it crossed my mind to wonder if John Tullo had been instructed to provide me with one of the friskier animals in Albany’s stable in order to discomfit me.

Here and there, the main tracks had been rendered impassable by the rain of the preceding night and we were forced to take lesser trails winding through woodland, where delicate veils of foliage let in pallid gleams of sun; then bursting out again on to wild sweeps of moorland, lying seemingly empty and unpopulated for mile after desolate mile. Wraiths of early morning mist still clung to the dew-soaked grass in unexpected hollows and crevices that once or twice almost brought me down, and only the steadying hand of one of my companions on my bridle saved horse and rider from imminent disaster. Once, I heard the groom’s voice raised in exasperation and someone else sniggered, but I set my teeth and held on like grim death: I would not give them the pleasure of seeing me thrown.

It was past midday when we finally arrived at our destination, and the light, now pale gold, struck the tops of the trees surrounding what I presumed to be Albany’s hunting lodge. As far as I could see at first glance, this was nothing more than a twin-storey building of the same grey stone that was widely used for construction purposes in this Border area. It had, as well, a thatched roof, further indication, had I needed one, of the impoverished state of the Scottish court compared with the opulence of the English palaces. True, there was luxury enough in Edinburgh Castle’s royal apartments, the little I had seen of them, but there was a Spartan quality to the outbuildings and the town in general that found an echo only in England’s northern shires and had nothing to do with the easier living of the south.

Within, the lodge was dank and empty, and I remembered that, of course, Albany had been exiled for the past three years. It seemed no one else had used it in all that time: it had been left to rot on the edge of the village. Which said, I suppose, much for the honesty of the villagers who had neither stolen the thatch nor broken down the door to pilfer what was inside.

Not, I thought, glancing around me once the shutters had been opened, that there was much to tempt a casual thief, not unless he were in need of benches and table or plain tallow candles in pewter holders. Albany, too, seemed somewhat put out by the bareness of the place, and remarked to Donald that he regretted stripping the walls of all their hangings before leaving for France.

‘Well, I did reach there eventually,’ he added, glancing at me and grinning conspiratorially.

I was in no mood, however, to respond, nor did I make any attempt to join in the general bustle of preparation which kept the others busy. Food and wine had been brought in pannier baskets and had to be carried indoors. John Tullo brought in wood from somewhere to pile it on the old-fashioned central hearth, where it was finally coaxed into a blaze, a welcome contrast to the dull August day outside. If Albany noticed my sullen defiance, he made no mention of it, and even did me the honour of waving me to the seat at his right hand when, at last, he called us all to the table where wine and an array of carved wooden beakers had been set out.

‘First, we’ll slake our thirst,’ he said, ‘before we make our pilgrimage to the church. I don’t doubt the ride has given us all dry throats. I’ll request you to do the honours, Murdo.’

‘Can I ask what we’re doing here?’ I demanded, suddenly finding both courage and voice.

Albany raised his eyebrows slightly at the bluntness of the question and the lack of his title to decorate it, but made no comment.

‘Patience, Roger,’ he said, smiling. ‘All will soon be revealed.’ He pushed one of the overflowing beakers towards me. (Murdo had poured out with a generous hand.) ‘Drink, now.’ He broke into a laugh. ‘It will cure you of the sullens.’

‘Before I do, my lord,’ I said, dragging the piece of rag-paper from my pouch, ‘I want you to look at this.’

The duke took it, puzzled, then glanced up for enlightenment. ‘It appears to be a recipe for something.’

I nodded. ‘A recipe for herb broth that I obtained from Mistress Callender, Master Sinclair’s next-door neighbour. A recipe written by Maria Beton who, according to your friend cannot read, let alone write. Moreover,’ I continued relentlessly before Albany had time to think up a reply, ‘you will find that the writing is identical to that of Aline Sinclair’s supposed diary. She didn’t have a secret lover, nor was she planning to murder her husband. It is a highly ingenious plot to cover the fact that it was Master Sinclair who killed his wife, deliberately and in cold blood.’

There was a long silence. No one around the table moved. Albany himself sat staring at the piece of paper as if turned to stone, his face expressionless. Finally, after what seemed an age, he shifted in his chair, expelling his pent-up breath and turning his gaze in my direction.

‘So … Well, this must certainly be looked into, without delay, as soon as we return to Edinburgh. Meantime-’ he raised his beaker — ‘drink up. A toast, gentlemen! To Roger’s ability to uncover the truth!’

Flattered — fool that I was — I lifted my beaker and, being thirsty, swallowed half the contents in almost one gulp.