‘I’m sorry,’ I said mechanically, but my thoughts were otherwise occupied.
If John Buchanan and Aline Sinclair had indeed had some time alone together in the Sinclair house, could she not have passed the diary to him for safekeeping? It would have been the work of only a few minutes for her to run upstairs — so simple with that indoor staircase — unlock the cupboard and bring it down. If he was already aware of its contents for whatever reason, her lover or her confidant, he could have slipped it beneath his travelling cloak and taken it away with him. I found myself glancing around the room, half expecting to see the diary carelessly dropped in a corner or amidst the welter of papers littering the table.
I breathed deeply and told myself not to be so foolish. If what I suspected was indeed the truth, the foolishly incriminating diary had probably been destroyed by now. But then a niggling doubt raised its unwelcome head. Why would Aline suddenly have taken fright and passed her confession of intent to murder to her brother? She knew nothing of what had happened while she had been away. So what would have been the reason for her sudden panic?
‘Why are you staring around like that?’ my companion asked aggressively. ‘What are you looking for?’ I didn’t know what to answer and stood there, appearing no doubt more than a little foolish, trying to conjure up a suitable reply. But my companion, who proved to be sharper than I had given him credit for, exclaimed indignantly, ‘You’re thinking that Aline might have given the diary to me, aren’t you? That’s what those questions were about. To find out if we were alone; if Aline had time to pass the wretched thing to me?’ He jumped up from his chair, bringing his fist crashing down on the table top for a second time. (That right hand of his was taking a lot of unnecessary punishment. He would have some bruises, I reckoned, in the morning.) ‘Can’t you understand, you great ungainly Sassenach, that there never was, never has been, a diary? I’d stake my life on it! I told you! It’s something Rab’s thought up to explain his murder of my sister!’
I had to admit to myself that it was a possibility that had begun to nudge at the edges of my own mind, but as yet I could see no alternative reason for Rab Sinclair wanting to kill his wife. The one offered by Master Buchanan I dismissed. I didn’t know why — as I’ve said, I’d known some very strange matings and couplings in my life — but some deep-rooted instinct told me that, in this instance, it was not the case. And I have, to a large extent, learned to trust that instinct. So, if Master Sinclair were lying, I had yet to discover his purpose.
Nevertheless, I had a nagging feeling that I was missing a vital clue; that I had been told something of significance that I had ignored, that had not made the impact on my consciousness that it should have done. But the more I struggled to remember what it was, the more it eluded me.
‘Well, say something!’ John Buchanan barked. ‘Don’t just stand there, staring, like a stuffed duck!’
I have been called some names in my time, most of them unrepeatable, but to be likened to a duck (and a stuffed one at that) insulted me beyond measure. I opened my mouth to retaliate in kind, but instead, to my own great surprise, as well as that of my host, I heard myself ask, ‘What do you know of the Green Man?’
‘What?’ Master Buchanan was regarding me in astonishment at a question that seemed to him to be a total irrelevancy. His bewilderment was not to be wondered at. I was confused myself.
‘The Green Man,’ I repeated feebly.
‘The Green Man?’
‘Yes.’
His face suffused with colour. He was getting angrier by the minute.
‘Is this a joke?’ he demanded scathingly. ‘And if not, what does the Green Man have to do with my sister and this diary that she is supposed to have written?’
‘Nothing really. At least …’ I hesitated. The thought had come from somewhere and it suddenly occurred to me that God might be giving me a nudge. ‘It’s just … It’s just that Mistress Beton told me that the Green Man has a particular significance for the Sinclair family. The coverlet on your sister’s bed has an embroidered medallion of the Green Man as its centrepiece; a coverlet made by your great-grandmother or, possibly, great-great-grandmother Sinclair. You are related to your brother-in-law, I believe, by blood as well as marriage?’
John Buchanan had sunk back into his chair, a frown between his brows.
‘Yes,’ he admitted, still puzzled. ‘Both Aline and I are — were …’ He broke off with a choking sob that half-stifled him for a second or two, but then made an effort to pull himself together and continued, ‘I have Sinclair blood in me, yes. So, therefore, did Aline. But what’s this nonsense about the Green Man? I know his effigy, of course. It’s carved in a great many places.’
I nodded. ‘Robert Sinclair even has it carved on a beam-end in the back parlour of his house. Have you never noticed it?’
The frown deepened. ‘No, I can’t say that I have.’
‘Well it’s there.’
I decided at this point that I’d had enough of standing up and that if my host wasn’t prepared to invite me to sit down, I would find my own seat. So I hooked one leg over the edge of the table and eased my buttocks on top of the litter of papers, ignoring his indignant protest. I pushed the tray out of the way, slopping a little more of the wine in the process.
Master Buchanan furiously mopped up the mess with his sleeve, eyeing me malevolently as he did so.
Before he could say anything, however, I went on, ‘Mistress Beton also told me that the chapel at this village where your aunt lives — Roslin is it? — the chapel built forty years ago by one of your ancestors — is filled with images of the Green Man.’
‘Oh, that place!’ he said, his annoyance suddenly evaporating. He shivered. ‘It’s a very strange building. Very strange indeed. Do you know it?’
I pointed out politely that I wouldn’t be asking about it if I did.
‘I’m a stranger to Scotland,’ I said, and was about to add that that was how I hoped matters would stay; that I never wanted to come back to this cold northern land with its bleak hills, its seemingly never-ending vistas of moorland, its dark, brooding forests and the winds that blustered in from the wild North Sea. Yet even as I spoke, other pictures crowded my mind; a grassy hollow clouded with harebells and sweet-smelling thyme; the long, startled cry of a curlew as the bird beat its way skyward with a whisper and rush of wings; a breeze that silvered the heather and rippled the face of a little black tarn; and, far away in some high glen, a string of goblin figures as a herdsman took his goats and cattle to the shelter of his hut for the night, sleeping, curled for warmth, against their stinking hides. I realized then that it was a country that could come back to haunt the soul.
‘Tell me about this chapel at Roslin,’ I invited.
‘Why? What has it to do with my sister and that murdering husband of hers?’
‘I’m just curious. My lord Albany was so anxious to turn aside to visit it on our journey to Edinburgh that it excited my interest. There’s no other reason.’
John Buchanan shrugged like one humouring an idiot.
‘It was built about forty years ago,’ he said, ‘maybe not so long, by William Sinclair, last Earl of Orkney. In fact, I think I’m right in saying that it was never finished. Only the choir and part of the transepts were completed. A lot of the local inhabitants don’t like it. Won’t go near the place.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s the carvings. The place is full of them. God alone knows what stonemasons William employed, but whoever they were, they knew how to work stone. They carved it like it was butter. Mind you, some people hold that it’s all the work of the Devil. They say that many of the images aren’t even Christian. Some are pagan like the Green Man, the ancient symbol of death and rebirth, and he’s everywhere you look. My aunt reckons there must be sixty or more carvings of him in the choir alone. Swears she’s counted ’em. Mind you, I wouldn’t place too much reliance on anything she told me. She’s getting on a bit now. Wanders in her mind occasionally. I’ve also heard it said by those who claim to know about such things that some of the symbols are Judaic. Then there’s the great pillar. I’ve never seen anything like the carving on that. There’s a story about it.’