The gaoler gave me a sadistic leer and was preparing to take his leave for the second time, when he was detained by Rab Sinclair speaking to him again. And again I was unable to follow the gist of their conversation; although I did understand it to be a favour that Rab was asking, partly by the intonation of his voice and also by the way the gaoler rubbed his chin considering before finally nodding his head.
When the cell door at last closed behind him, I at once resumed my questioning, afraid, judging by the ravenous way in which the prisoner was attacking his dinner, that his mouth would soon be too full for him to answer.
‘This man servant of yours, this Jared, could he have stolen the diary?’
‘Why should he?’ My companion spoke thickly, having already made a determined onslaught on at least half the cheese. ‘He didn’t know anything about it. Wasn’t present when it was found, and I said nothing.’
‘But Mistress Beton could have told him,’ I pointed out. ‘They could have been in it together.’
Rab Sinclair bit into the wing of fowl and savoured it with relish, at the same time shaking his head.
‘Maria wouldn’t have done that,’ he stated positively, as soon as he could speak. ‘She and Jared don’t like one another. Never have, never will. They never exchange more than a word or two, and that only when necessary. He always resented the authority she took upon herself as housekeeper. Until my marriage, he had things pretty much all his own way.’
I watched enviously as another mouthful of flesh was slowly chewed and swallowed before asking, ‘You don’t think, then, that her curiosity could have overcome her dislike, and that she might have confided in him?’
My companion spluttered with laughter, spraying me with fragments of bird. ‘No, I don’t! I tell you, those two can’t stand the sight of one another.’
I sighed. I was getting nowhere.
‘Well, do you have any idea who might have taken the diary, and why? You’ve dismissed the notion that Mistress Beton could be behind the theft, in spite of the obvious reasoning that she might have taken it to someone who would be able to read it for her, with a view to threatening either you or your wife with its contents later on. Think about it, Master! If what you say is true, she was the only person with any knowledge of the book’s existence, and the only one who saw your dismay on reading it. I imagine she’s no fool. She can add two beans to three and make five.’
‘It’s wasn’t her,’ Rab Sinclair reiterated obstinately. ‘As for who it was, I don’t know any more than you. But the one thing I do know is that it has disappeared. Also that it has to be found if I’m not to choke to death at the end of a rope.’ He eyed me malevolently as he dug his teeth into an apple and crunched on it loudly. ‘So you’d better start looking for it if you want to keep in my lord Albany’s good graces. From all that I hear he may soon be king, so, if you fail, it’s possible you could also find yourself dancing on air.’ He gave a sudden deep-throated, gloating chuckle. ‘You may not know it — in fact you most likely don’t — but my lord is a great believer in Jedburgh Justice: hang first and ask questions afterwards.’
I forbore to point out that it was no matter to me whether Albany was crowned King of Scotland or not. By the time that happened — if it happened — I would be on my way home. Nor was it a priority with me to keep in the duke’s good graces. But I would pursue my enquiries out of pure curiosity and because I hated to see the innocent punished for the guilty. And if Master Sinclair were indeed speaking the truth, then the accident that killed his wife was nothing more than her just deserts. Not only had she been cuckolding a man who had treated her well and, above all, given her his love, but she had also attempted to murder him.
I got to my feet.
‘Where are you going?’ Rab Sinclair paused in the act of biting into a second apple. ‘What are you going to do?’ He was suddenly filled with panic.
‘Well, I shan’t get any further just sitting here, shall I? I must see and talk with people for myself. Your housekeeper, your brother-in-law, your man servant for a start. Maybe also your neighbour. Mistress Callender, did you call her? So I shall need directions to find your house, also Master Buchanan’s in the … where exactly did you say it’s located?’
‘The Grassmarket. Anyone will tell you where that is. As for my house, get Murdo or one of the others to take you there. They all know where I live.’
‘Can’t you tell me?’
He shrugged. ‘Many of those houses look alike. It’ll be easier if someone shows you the way.’
I could see by the obstinate set of his mouth that I would get nothing more out of him.
‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘Although it may still be dinnertime.’ It struck me that if that were indeed the case, I might be able to grab some food for myself, so I made no further demur and shouted for the gaoler.
It was a relief to be out in the fresh air again, free from the fetid atmosphere of the cells. I filled my lungs with it, drawing in great, deep breaths and letting my head clear, shaking my whole body to rid myself of the dirt and grime, much as a dog will shake itself free of water. I didn’t immediately go in search of Murdo, Donald and the others, but stretched my cramped limbs by walking from one end of that towering crag to the other. In one direction I could see below me the smoke of houses, billowing grey wreaths in the windy sunshine of that early August morning, the trees in the orchards looking no bigger than dandelion heads. In another, away in the distance, I could just make out — with the white foam flecking its blue and with the occasional flash of a white sail — the wide expanse of what Davey had told me was the River Forth as it broadened out towards the open sea. Clouds were scudding inland, and I felt I had only to lift my hands in order to touch them. Edinburgh Castle rock, I decided, was the nearest to heaven that I was likely to come in this life. (And as for the next, I decided not to speculate, but hoped that when the time came, my sins would be forgiven me.)
On this pious hope, I made my way to the great hall where my luck held, for although the trestles were being dismantled and moved to stand against the walls until suppertime, the baskets of broken meats which had been cleared from the tables had not yet been carried into the kitchens. I was able to help myself to bread, cheese and several hunks of beef. Excellent beef, too: someone had once told me that the Scots bred good cattle in spite of a largely barren landscape.
‘Stuffing your face again, chapman?’ asked a mocking voice, and I turned to find Donald Seton at my elbow.
‘Ah! Just the man I was looking for,’ I said, grasping his wrist and seizing another lump of meat to chew on as I led him outside. ‘I need you to show me Master Sinclair’s dwelling.’ And in answer to his raised eyebrows, I told him how I had so far spent my morning.
He regarded me meditatively for a moment or two, then nodded.
‘Follow me.’
He didn’t, as I had half-expected, make further enquiries as to what exactly had been said or what I intended to do. In his place, I would have been unable to curb my curiosity, especially when it concerned someone I knew. But Donald displayed no such interest. I had thought, just for a fleeting second, that he had looked at me rather pityingly, but I was used to people underrating my ability to winkle out the truth, even when a problem seemed insoluble.