‘Not if I can help it,’ Albany asserted, adding with a confidence I was far from feeling. ‘Our friend here is going to find the proof for you. He’s going to find out who stole that diary and why, aren’t you, Roger?’ I gave a half-hearted sort of gurgle that could have meant anything and which the duke ignored. ‘But I want it done quickly,’ he went on. ‘I’ve my own affairs to attend to and I shall need your help — ’ this was an unwelcome surprise to me — ‘so bring all your wits to bear on this mystery. Any assistance you want, you shall have. Just ask Murdo and he will ensure that you get it.’
The cell door creaked open and the wall-eyed gaoler grunted, ‘A message for your Grace.’ And, with the help of his toe, he booted in a small boy as unprepossessing as he was himself and bearing a strong family resemblance. His son, I decided, who added to the general coffer by running errands and delivering messages for anyone within the castle precincts. His mother was probably the castle washerwoman. ‘Well, go on then,’ the gaoler added, as the boy hesitated, glancing awkwardly between me and Albany. ‘Tell His Highness what you’ve come to say.’ He spoke in the broad Scots’ tongue, but, with a certain amount of guesswork, I was beginning to follow simple sentences and phrases.
The boy gabbled something which, however, I was unable to understand except for a word which I guessed to be a rendition of ‘Gloucester’. Albany confirmed this when he announced that his absence at dinner had been marked, and that his presence was now urgently required at a meeting of the Council with Duke Richard. He clapped me on the shoulder with a great show of camaraderie and I knew what was coming. When royalty start to get familiar, it can only mean that they want something. And woe betide you if you fail to deliver.
I was right.
‘Roger, I’m putting this entirely in your hands,’ Albany said. ‘For the next few days, my place will be at the council table.’ He didn’t add ‘guarding my interests’ but I knew that was what he meant. ‘I must leave you here now with my good friend, Rab Sinclair. Rab, my man, give Roger your full cooperation and he’ll have you free of this coil in no time.’
Again I made a gesture of protest, and again it was ignored. Albany swung on his heel, tossed a coin to the expectant boy and was shown out by the obsequious turnkey. I was left in the evil-smelling cell, extremely hungry with no immediate prospect of a meal, and facing a hostile gentleman who regarded me as way beneath him in God’s scheme of things. It did fleetingly cross my mind that now, while Albany was suddenly absorbed by his own affairs, might be a good time to effect my escape from the castle and start on the long journey home, but common sense prevailed. I had very little money in my purse, all my bodily needs having been provided for ever since I left Bristol — where was that? Somewhere on the far side of the moon? — and no means of earning a living, my pack having been left behind me. And I was, moreover, in a country not my own, where even the language of the inhabitants was strange to me. I was likely to get lost very quickly, a prey to all the vagabonds and outlaws that no doubt roamed this thickly wooded region. (And what was not forest seemed to be made up of treacherous bogs and wild, open tracts of moorland where it would be easy to lose my way and go round and around in circles, ending up where I had started.)
But if I were honest, I had to admit that there was another reason that prevented me making a bid for freedom. All my natural curiosity was aroused by any mystery or conundrum: I never could resist ferreting around for the truth of any puzzle. So I sat down on the stool again, drawing it closer to the prisoner, ignored my belly’s insistent grumbling and proceeded to question Rab Sinclair, freed from Albany’s inhibiting presence.
‘This all happened three days ago, on Monday, I believe?’
‘How do you know that?’ The tone was aggressive and the eyes glittered angrily beneath their heavy lids.
‘I heard Donald Seton tell the duke so last night when he brought His Grace the news of your arrest and imprisonment.’
Master Sinclair gave a sudden crack of laughter. ‘Donald Seton, eh? I heard my lord mention the MacGregor. Who else is with him? Davey Gray? Tullo? Petrie?’ I nodded and he laughed again. ‘Mar’s people. At least, the ones who were with him when he died so mysteriously in Craigmillar Castle.’
‘So I’ve been told. They fled to France after the earl’s death to offer their services to his brother. Is it of any significance?’
‘No, no!’ The disclaimer was a little too vehement, but I let it go. It was none of my business. My job was to discover and retrieve, if possible, the missing diary of the dead Aline Sinclair. And the sooner I achieved that aim, the sooner I could persuade Albany that my usefulness was at an end; that his life was no longer in jeopardy. He would either be king (and his wretched elder brother, the imprisoned James III, deposed, probably murdered) or, if not, he would no longer be considered a threat who needed to be eliminated.
‘Were you and your wife kin to one another?’ I enquired of Rab. ‘I ask because you mentioned that her great-aunt, her grandfather’s sister, was also called Sinclair.’
He gave me a quick, sideways glance from beneath those heavy eyelids.
‘You don’t miss much,’ he said, almost as if he resented that I had my wits about me. ‘Yes, Aline was a cousin in the second or third degree, I can’t remember which. Is it important?’
I shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Most likely not. But it isn’t always possible to say what might prove to be of importance.’ I regarded him straitly. ‘Who do you think has the diary? Is it not possible that your housekeeper, this Maria Beton, stole it, even though she’s unable to read? As I said before, unless she’s a fool, she must have noted your reaction when you read it and worked out for herself that it contained something very damning. Why should she not have taken it to someone, a friend maybe, who could inform her of its contents?’
He shook his head vehemently.
‘No! I told you just now, she’s — I mean she was — ’ tears started to his eyes — ‘devoted to Aline. She’s some sort of distant kinswoman. When we got married, Mistress Buchanan, Aline’s mother, suggested her as a housekeeper on account of her trustworthiness and her fondness for my wife. Mine had been, up to then, a bachelor household with just myself and my man servant. It was necessary for Aline to have another woman to keep her company, apart from her personal maid.’
‘Wait!’ I interrupted when he would have gone on speaking. ‘You mention a man servant and a maid …’
It was his turn to cut in. ‘The maid, Gudrun, a silly young piece, had accompanied Aline to Roslin and had been left behind on account, I think my wife mentioned, of some bellyache caused by eating too many plums — or some such thing. I really can’t remember. Events happened so fast after John’s departure that other matters have slipped my mind.’ And he leaned forward, clutching his head in his hands, the picture of abject misery and despair.
I ruthlessly ignored this bid for my sympathy and continued, ‘This man servant of yours! Presumably he remained at home with you and Mistress Beton?’
‘Jared? Yes, he was at home.’ The voice was muffled as it issued between the long, elegant fingers muzzling Rab Sinclair’s mouth. ‘There was no need for him to go to Roslin. Aline had her brother.’
Her brother, John. Now here was another J, the man servant, Jared. As my companion had pointed out, J was a very common letter. I cursed under my breath.
At that point, the gaoler reappeared, carrying a bowl of something highly unsavoury and a hunk of black bread, both of which he plonked down on the bed beside the prisoner with such force that some of the bowl’s contents slopped over on to the blanket.
‘Dinner,’ he grunted. Well, I took it to be what he said.
Master Sinclair removed his hands from his face and peered into the bowl, a look of pure revulsion contorting his features. I didn’t blame him. Hungry as I was, there was no way I could have swallowed even the smallest spoonful of such a grey and greasy-looking broth. A rapid exchange in the Scots tongue, too fast for me to be able to distinguish more than three or four words, resulted in money changing hands, the coins being produced by Rab from a purse looped on to his belt. These the gaoler pocketed with a satisfied grin and departed, returning almost immediately with a tray — obviously already prepared — on which reposed white bread of the finest quality, a wing of fowl, a hunk of goat’s cheese and some fruit. My mouth watered and my belly rumbled louder than ever.