‘Did you tell her what you had discovered?’
‘No. How could I? It was too horrible.’
Albany asked angrily, ‘Didn’t you have the sense to show her the diary?’ But Rab Sinclair just shook his head.
‘I was too ashamed. And I still wasn’t sure that it wasn’t some kind of horrible joke.’
‘But when Mistress Sinclair came back from Roslin, surely you tackled her about it eventually? What did she say?’
‘She denied everything. She became quite hysterical. She said I was making it up. She challenged me to produce the … the diary.’
‘So? Did you?’ Again, I don’t know whether it was the duke or myself who spoke, but I feel sure that the same question was on both our lips.
Rab Sinclair shook his head.
‘No. When I went upstairs to fetch it and confront her with it, it had gone.’
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.’