The Green Man (25 page)

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.

W
hile I had been in the Widow Callender's house, the sky had grown darker, and now I could see black clouds shouldering their way across the hill that rose up behind the abbey at the other end of the town. There was suddenly a sullen look to the afternoon and I noticed people pulling their caps more firmly about their ears, the itinerant street sellers beginning to look for the shelter of nearby doorways. As the last rags of sunlight disappeared, I realized yet again, if anything even more forcibly than before, how far I was from home; how alien this bleak, grey city seemed to me after the soft, rolling hills of my native west country and the small, smudged towns and villages that nestled in their folds. I was once more gripped by panic that I was trapped in some dream from which I could not awaken, and was caught for ever, like a fly in amber, unable to get free.

‘Saint Margaret,' I prayed fervently. ‘child of Wessex, come to my aid. Saint Dunstan, Saint Patrick, assist me now.'

I kept repeating the words foolishly, and after a while meaninglessly, as I walked blindly through the Lawnmarket, oblivious of the surrounding booths with their bales of chequered cloth, bright among the paler silks and linens, and the stalls where butter and cheese were displayed, until a man barged into me with a muttered oath of annoyance and brought me to my senses. Regardless of passers-by, I stood stock still and took a deep breath.

Gradually, peace and common sense returned. I felt comforted by some inner presence as I recollected that I was not alone, but in the company of several thousand fellow Englishmen, camped in the valley below the city, at the foot of the castle rock. Moreover, my friend (if I dared to think of him as such) and patron, the Duke of Gloucester, was only quarter of a mile distant, perhaps less, in the castle itself. What possible harm could come to me while I had his protection?

And yet I could not quite suppress all uneasiness. I kept remembering the strange warnings I had received from the ‘Green Man' that suggested I was in some kind of danger; and from there my thoughts inevitably strayed to the depictions of this weird figure in Master Sinclair's house. Was there any connection, or was it just a coincidence, a part of the same nightmare?

I was growing morbid again. I drew a second deep breath, sent up another short prayer to my three Wessex saints and, with a sense of renewed purpose, strode forward through a maze of little alleys, described to me by Mistress Callender, into the Grassmarket.

It was a busy, thriving place which, again according to my erstwhile hostess, had been granted a royal charter five years previously to hold a weekly market, making it one of the busiest quarters of the city. But slicing through the friendlier, commercial smells of spices and fruit, vegetables and meat, together with the less exotic aromas of the open drains and cess-pits of the crowding houses, was the familiar, but gut-churning stench of rotting corpses. For the Grassmarket was also the place of execution, and the bodies of three felons, in various states of decomposition, were dangling from the gallows; never a pretty sight, but one from which, like most people, I had learned to avert my gaze with practised ease. Only the nostrils remained offended.