Kate Sedley - The Green Man

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.