Destroying Angel (5 page)

When I collected Thane from Kate’s room, he was lying on the floor near the door, as far away from her as possible. He immediately ran to my side, his expression one of almost human boredom – and relief.

Collins was at my heels. She looked round anxiously and gave the impression of being reluctant to let her charge out of her sight.

Kate laid aside a ladies’ magazine and looked up wearily. ‘Roswal is rather detached now. He was much livelier in the old days. Loved to play and he was so affectionate—’

I felt sorry. She sounded so let down and disappointed, especially as affection was the one thing Thane had in abundance.

‘He used to sleep here, at my bedside, every night,’ she ended sadly.

‘That won’t be possible now, Miss Kate,’ said Collins sternly. ‘Your father has given orders that he is to sleep in the stables.’ And to me, perhaps with a note of triumph, ‘Our two Labradors sleep in the kitchen; they are guard dogs, you know.’

They hadn’t given me that impression, but I nodded. Thane looked at me as if he understood, and I wondered for a moment if I could have him in my room.

‘You are taking him for a walk?’ said Collins.

‘Perhaps I could come with you,’ said Kate eagerly. ‘Poor Roswal must be weary of my long silences and I’m sure I could manage a short walk in the gardens while the sun is shining,’ she added to Collins.

‘Perhaps later, Miss Kate.’

‘Why not today?’ was the weary response, but her protests were cut short as Collins hurried me out of the room. In the corridor she said, as if this was not for Kate’s ears:

‘Quite out of the question, Mrs McQuinn. She is very frail, you know, thinks she is much stronger than she is, as is often the case with her condition. But you would need to take her out in the bath chair, make sure she doesn’t catch a chill. That could be fatal.’

I felt sudden pity for Kate, an unhappy prisoner. ‘Does she ever leave her room?’

‘Sometimes she feels well enough to go downstairs and dine with Mr Staines. But such occasions are getting rarer.’

I thought about Collins as I walked with Thane. She did not seem at all happy, her nervous manner betraying her unease, yet she did not strike me as Hubert’s blackmailer.

Just as I was dismissing her as not nearly confident enough and the first to be struck off my small list, I realised this was a hasty decision. No one was beyond suspicion and often the most surprising and unlikely person can turn out to be a blackmailer, or more often a writer of poison pen letters.

Collins’ actions betrayed her love for Hubert. Had she seen the photographs by accident, then, jealous and angry, simmering with resentment that he had not asked her to marry him and made her mistress of his house, had she decided that blackmail was the answer?

But what had she to gain? Anger and instant dismissal if he ever found out, but she would still have the money which, I suspected, would be a great deal more than her salary. Could it be a last resort, an insurance for her uncertain future and that eventual rainy day when, no longer required as a nurse, their relationship came to an end?

That set me wondering if the payment for my investigation was the mark of an open-handed employer. It did strike me as odd in this large house with its vast estate that there were no other indoor servants. Perhaps a probe in the direction of Mrs Robson, who had been with him far longer than Collins, would provide some answers.

‘Our needs are modest,’ Hubert had hinted. Did this indicate that he shared, in common with many wealthy men, a tendency to be mean about paying servants and employees?

If so, his decision to pay me a substantial sum as a private investigator took on a new aspect and should be regarded with extreme caution.

There was a lot more I wanted to know about members of the Staines family, alive and dead, and my thoughts drifted towards Kate’s mother, whose photograph in its silver frame occupied her bedside table.

And who better to supply some information regarding the late Mrs Staines than Mrs Robson, who seemed disposed to be friendly, I thought, as I drifted into the kitchen.

Sipping the cup of tea she offered, I remarked casually that having been at Staines for many years she must have known Kate’s mother very well.

‘Indeed. A charming lady she was, too,’ she sighed. ‘We all miss her.’

I said how sad it was for Kate to have been orphaned so young, and, trying to phrase it delicately, asked how she had died.

Mrs Robson’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Has no one told you about her?’

There had scarcely been time for that, I thought, as she continued: ‘Madam was a bit older than Sir but fit as a fiddle, in her prime as you might say. Her first husband had left her very well off.’ she added confidentially. ‘A Durham colliery owner with a posh big house and pots of money.’

Pausing to sigh, she went on: ‘Sir was her first cousin, and a struggling photographer, the last of a fine old family who had been here since the year dot. They’d fallen on hard times when the coal ran out at the Staines pit, and in those days taking photographs wasn’t considered a worthwhile occupation, until the Queen’s interest changed all that.’

Another pause for breath and to refill the teapot. ‘A real love match. Would you fancy a piece of fruit loaf – or a scone? I make good scones—’

She beamed on me and gave a romantic sigh, and in order to prolong the subject I yielded to the lure of a tempting snack.

‘Miss Kate was eleven when they married, but there were hopes of an heir. Sir was desperate for a son, poor man, the son who would have solved all his problems, but after a few false alarms nothing happened.’

Laying aside her cup with an air of resignation, she returned to her darning. A pile of men’s socks. Was this another indication that her master was a little on the mean side? Her sigh as she threaded the needle might have been taken as dismissal and a sign that the conversation was at an end. But not for me. Not yet.

‘You were saying,’ I reminded her with a sad smile. ‘About how Mrs Staines died.’

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ Another sigh. ‘A tragic accident. We could hardly believe it. Such a simple thing. You know yon big bay window in the sitting room, overlooking the garden?’

I nodded, and she went on. ‘Well, it was a stormy day – we get awful storms up here sometimes, take the full force of the gales. That night there was a shrieking wind rattling the panes. It woke Kate and Madam went to see what was wrong. In the sitting room someone had left the window open. The wind had caught it and as she leant forward to seize the latch, she lost her balance – and – that was that!’

She shook her head. ‘Poor lady, fell out head first, down onto the terrace. Broke her neck. Poor Sir, he was distraught, poor little Kate screaming for her mam. An awful business, Mrs McQuinn – none of us could take it in.’

Did that terrible moment still haunt the room, their cries, their anguish, linger in the air, clinging to the very stones? Was that why I had felt so uneasy?

‘A terrible time, terrible. Poor Sir was beside himself with remorse, looking round the house, as men will, for someone to blame. Fortunately it had nothing to do with me, but we had a maid, a young lass just a couple of years younger than Kate is now, a bit slovenly and careless. Always breaking things in my kitchen – a nightmare she was. Anyway, Sir seized on her, blaming her for leaving the window unlatched. He sent her packing and, what was worse, refused to give her a reference.’

That sounded very harsh to me and I protested: ‘That was hardly fair. She was very young, after all.’

‘Lasses go into service here at twelve often enough, Mrs McQuinn. They don’t need much wages, work for pennies at that age—’

Another sign of Sir’s meanness, I thought, as she went on: ‘And Lily’s family – there were five other bairns younger than her – needed the few shillings she got each week. Their dad was an invalid, after an accident in the mine when he was a lad. Couldn’t work again.’

I felt a rising sense of outrage against Hubert Staines, with his child labour exploiting the family of one of his injured pitmen. ‘Surely Mr Staines could have given her a reference,’ I said angrily.

Mrs Robson shook her head. ‘No. Sir said she was unreliable and that he couldn’t in all conscience recommend her to anyone else after her causing his wife’s death.’

‘She didn’t push her out of the window, Mrs Robson. It was a tragic accident,’ I protested.

She shook her head. ‘We all knew that. But Sir was beside himself at the time, said I’d have to do all the work myself, he would never trust another young maid in the house. Put a lot of responsibility on my shoulders, I can tell you,’ she said, sounding ill-used. ‘And all for two extra pounds a month, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they? I had my living to make and I’d been a loyal trusted servant to the family for years.’

‘What happened to the girl? Does she still live in Staines – I mean, did you keep in touch?’

She gave me a slightly offended look. ‘Not with me. Sir wouldn’t have approved. Sad for Kate, though, she missed her, they were very friendly. Lily might have been useless in the kitchen but she liked making things for Miss Kate, doted on
her. Good at sewing, too,’ she added with a reproachful glance at the pile of darning. ‘Used to do all this sort of thing, even said she enjoyed it. Now it all comes to me, as if I hadn’t enough to do running the house.’

My thoughts were with Lily. ‘I hope she got another job in spite of everything.’

Mrs Robson shrugged. ‘Couldn’t say, but her father limped up to the house next day and went on something terrible, shouted at Sir, for taking away his daughter’s character. I was at the door but I heard every word. Threatened to strike Sir with his stick, he did. It was awful.’

Shaking her head, she added: ‘How it might have ended is anyone’s guess if Lily’s father hadn’t been killed on the level crossing in the village – the one that divides us from the old colliery. You would have come through it when you came on the train.’

I nodded and she said, ‘Last I heard of the lass was that she’d married a railwayman who was a chum of her father’s. That must have been a comfort for her. They moved to Alnwick.’

I was making a mental note of Alnwick and bad feelings, trying to see if they might add up to someone with a good reason for blackmailing Hubert. A maid who had been familiar with the house might have seen those photographs, and if she didn’t steal them herself, she might have gossiped about them. And that gossip could eventually have led to a burglary and Hubert’s present unfortunate predicament.

Mrs Robson was saying, ‘Sir really showed how kind he was and prepared to forget the past; he gave them a good wedding present.’

From someone who had refused Lily a character
reference, that was a surprise. I asked, ‘Something for their home?’

She laughed. ‘No. Money! To help them set up.’

Perhaps I was misjudging Hubert and he had shown genuine remorse. ‘A sad story indeed,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Do you ever hear of them?’

‘Not I, Mrs McQuinn. They weren’t my type of folks, if you understand. Lily was, well, a bit common and not really a suitable companion for Kate.’

‘Has Kate a good doctor to take care of her?’ I decided craftily to feign ignorance of what I already knew.

‘Not any more. Old Dr Holt was a good man and all his patients – that is everyone in Staines since he was the only doctor – they all loved him. He was more like a friend, a father confessor, they all said, as well as taking care of their bodies, they could tell him anything, get his help with all their problems.’

The recipient of secrets, I thought. That could be dangerous.

She was saying, ‘He looked after Kate, kept her spirits up. Refused to accept or let her accept that she might not get better. He was certain that her trouble might turn out to be some respiratory weakness, not that deadly consumption.’

A sigh and she went on: ‘He took her into the hospital in Newcastle just a few months ago for tests, and when he was driving back home, his carriage went off the road at the level crossing and he was killed by an oncoming train.’

Shaking her head, she added indignantly, ‘It ought to be got rid of, that crossing, especially with the pit closed. It isn’t needed any more.’

I agreed but could not help thinking that it might also
provide a convenient means of disposing of one’s enemies.

I made a mental note that it would be well worth investigating, as I said:

‘How tragic. Did he have a family?’

‘No bairns. His widow still lives in the village.’

And I decided to put Mrs Holt high on my visiting list.

So my introduction to Staines drew to a close. I was not sure what I had expected when I left Edinburgh, filled with a sense of dread and melancholy, to reunite Thane with his owners.

Now the whole scene I had imagined had changed well beyond my expectations. Thane’s owner was an attractive man with problems that made the arrival of a Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed extremely useful, and I had already accepted a very substantial fee to find out who was blackmailing him.

Quite frankly, I did not expect this to be too difficult; from what he had told me the possible suspects were few in number and in a limited radius, compared to many similar Edinburgh cases recorded in my logbook. Blackmail was always my most frequent case. The victims were ready to part with substantial sums of money to keep some indiscretion from reaching the eyes and ears of a wife, husband or employer or the general public through the newspapers.

The photographs in question suggested risqué French postcards of naked females in provocative poses, doubtless quite naughty, the kind most gentlemen had access to in their clubs and would dismiss with an appreciative grin.

But in Hubert’s case his employer was none other than Her Majesty the Queen, who would be outraged, shocked and
scandalised at having such a wanton creature anywhere near her precious grandchildren. His anxiety was understandable; a promising career and a prosperous future with the possibility of a knighthood were all at stake.

I had promised to take Thane in to see Kate before bedding him down for the night. This was a matter of form only, since there was little evident rapport between them so far. Much to my relief, I might add, but I was curious. Did Kate suspect that this was not Roswal but have motives of her own for accepting him?

She was sitting by the window and hardly lifted her eyes from the book she was reading when we entered, as always pursued by a breathless Collins, whose sudden appearances suggested that she was permanently stationed in a nearby linen cupboard.

Glancing at Thane, she said, ‘You’re taking him to the stables. Mr Staines sends his apologies that he is unable to dine with you this evening. Perhaps you would like Mrs Robson to bring a tray up to your room.’

I said that would be agreeable. I was tired after my broken night’s sleep in Wolf Rider’s bothy and didn’t fancy sitting at one end of a vast dining-table under the solemn countenances of bygone Staines in their gilt frames.

‘Very well, I will inform Mrs Robson,’ said Collins, holding open the door. I wasn’t prepared to leave just yet, as if under supervision.

Taking Thane over to Kate, who patted his head dutifully, I pointed to the photograph on the bedside table. ‘Your mother was quite beautiful, wasn’t she? You must miss her.’

Kate jerked upright in her chair. ‘That’s not Mamma,’ her voice quivered, and sudden tears welled up in her eyes.

I was aware of Collins’ touch on my shoulder. ‘That is Miss Kate’s sister,’ she whispered, and as Kate began to sob noisily I was bundled out of the room. Outside the door, she said: ‘Amy was her older sister. She – died – and Kate can’t bear to talk about it. Surely you understand that,’ and emphasising ‘that’ she slipped inside again and slammed the door behind her.

Left in total embarrassment, I could hear their murmured voices, Kate protesting, Collins consoling.

What on earth was going on? A sister no one had mentioned; where did she fit into this untidy scheme of things?

As I walked Thane towards his night’s lodgings, considering why Mrs Robson, so eager to impart the Staines’ family history, hadn’t mentioned Amy, I decided to give the unhappy subject an airing when I returned my supper tray later that evening.

At the stables a man leant against one of the stalls. Little more than a boy, with black curls tumbling across his forehead, the cigarette dangling from his lips seemed inappropriate, a defiant gesture against the grown-up world.

He watched us approach with a mocking bow and an insolent gaze that stripped me naked. ‘Ye must be the new woman.’

I said nothing, concentrating on Thane as the boy patted his head. ‘You’re a good dog, aren’t ye?’

Thane wagged his tail politely but made no further overtures of friendliness.

The boy turned his attention to me. A bold glance from large, dark eyes suggested that he might be a gipsy.

‘Me auntie mentioned ye – I looked in to see her just now.’

‘Mrs Robson?’ I questioned.

‘Aye, that’s her.’

‘Do you work here?’

He grinned. ‘On and off, like. On and off. Give Mr Rider a helping hand when required. Ye can put yer dog ower there,’ he pointed to one of the stalls. ‘There’s food and water for him, and fresh straw.’

I thanked him and received again that suggestive leer as he bowed and said, ‘I’m away then. Be seeing you if ye’re to be staying for a while.’

I watched him stroll away, the cigarette smoke trailing after him. He even walked with an insolent air and seemed a very inappropriate nephew for Mrs Robson. If he came to Staines ‘on and off’, was he a suitable contender for my list of possible suspects as Hubert’s thief and blackmailer?

I returned to the house, wishing I could have had Thane’s company. I was so used to having him in Edinburgh where he had become more of a domestic pet – happy at my fireside – than a wild deerhound whose home was on Arthur’s Seat.

My hopes that another interview with Mrs Robson would reveal more about Amy as well as her nephew were thwarted. She was wearing her bonnet as she delivered my supper tray – steak pie and Scotch trifle – indicating that she was in a rush to leave. Later, returning it to the empty kitchen, I decided to have a walk in the gardens and take full advantage of a late summer evening.

The air was calm, very still with storm clouds building up in the west. Thunderheads, too, threatened the future and an end to this tranquil season. But there was with no hint as yet of autumn in the lush green leaves above my head as I sat on
a wall overlooking the village, its chimneys wreathed in smoke, huddled far from the brooding disused colliery, a blot on an otherwise charming rural landscape.

Suddenly I was overwhelmed by a sense of isolation and loneliness, a longing for someone to talk to, and my thoughts turned almost immediately to Wolf Rider. I headed briskly in the direction of his bothy and, a short distance away, still concealed by the path that emerged close by, I heard voices.

I looked out cautiously and there were Wolf and the bold youth who claimed to be Mrs Robson’s nephew, in fierce discussion. I was too distant to hear the words, but Wolf seized the other’s shoulders in a threatening gesture. It looked as if I had stumbled on an ugly scene and I made a rapid retreat, glad that the exuberant Thane was not with me to rush over to his hero and reveal my presence.

Returning to the house, my footsteps echoed hollowly on the polished floor of the hall. Where was everyone, I wondered, climbing the stairs to my bedroom alongside Kate’s. Gazing down into the silent regions below, I presumed she would be asleep and that Collins’ duties were over for the day. Perhaps she was with Hubert.

Taking out
The Tenant
of Wildfell Hal
l
, I sat at the window, distracted by what we call in Scotland ‘the gloaming’, the magic twilight between day and nightfall. Yawning, but not tired enough to retire, I was very surprised to open my eyes in total darkness and, still clutching my book, to realise that I had been asleep for some time. Wearily I crept into bed, sighed, and slept again until a busy rooster noisily summoning his harem announced that it was morning.

Mrs Robson was in the kitchen and greeted my entrance with the usual polite questions about whether I had slept well,
was warm enough, needed more blankets, pillows, etc. Having reassured her on these vital matters, as she juggled pots and plates, scarlet-faced with the stove’s heat, over her shoulder she said, ‘Sir takes breakfast in his study; I’ve set yours in the dining room.’

I could hardly refuse as the time was not right nor opportune to engage her in lengthy conversation about Kate’s sister Amy.

I said, ‘I met your nephew last night.’

She stopped, spoon in hand. ‘Cedric? So he claims, but that’s as maybe,’ she added darkly: ‘You look sharp with him, Mrs McQuinn, he’s a holy terror.’ And flourishing the spoon again, she went on, ‘Bone idle, works when the mood takes him, that is when he needs baccy money. He’s a bad lot, a devil for the girls.’ Pausing to draw breath, she said. ‘His ma, my da’s youngest cousin, told everyone she had him to a gipsy, married Romany fashion.’

Tightening her lips, as if there was a lot more she could say on that subject, she shook her head, leaving me hoping for more, and wondering if I might somehow lead her round to the topic of Amy. But as she turned away, spooning porridge into bowls, buttering toast and dealing with a whistling kettle, a bell clanged noisily above our heads, twice to denote urgency and impatience.

‘That’s Sir. Oh my goodness. I’m late.’ And off she went like the White Rabbit in
Alice in Wonderland.

Left to my own devices, I ate in lonely splendour in the dining room, where hard Staines’ eyes staring down from mediocre portraits made me nervous as I planned my first day’s sleuthing on the trail of Hubert’s blackmailer.

With clues virtually non-existent, this would certainly task
my ingenuity, I decided, pushing my bicycle towards the path overlooking Staines, where I had met Hubert yesterday. The street bordering the village green seemed oddly deserted at this hour, where I had imagined households would be busy with the usual early morning activities: labouring husbands and sons off to work, wives and mothers hanging out the family washing.

Where were the children? With Staines colliery closed, the village would now be too small to accommodate a school, so presumably they were sent to Alnwick for their education.

Instead there was silence, with none of those plumes of smoke that last night cast an air of homeliness over the village. Beyond the occasional cat or dog slinking across the road, the houses had a closed-in look, repelling any would-be visitors.

How did the villagers occupy themselves? I wondered. With the lord of the manor no longer eager to employ servants, did they all walk into Alnwick each day, or labour in neighbouring farms?

No doubt time would reveal all, if I remained in Staines long enough, I decided, as I bicycled along the street wondering what dramas were being, or had been staged behind those firmly closed doors, where only an occasional twitch from tightly closed curtains indicated that my progress was under observation.

But how to contact my few suspects I had not the least idea. And guessing which of the dull houses in that dull street harboured a hopeful blackmailer was quite beyond me.

From Mrs Robson’s account, Lily sounded like a prime suspect. The maid had had access to his study, was unfairly dismissed, and would have been distraught at the death of her father.

The drawback to this theory was that, from what I had heard so far, I doubted that she had the education or the initiative – without an accomplice.

And then there was Cedric, Mrs Robson’s would-be nephew. He had access to the house certainly but, bone idle, would he have the necessary ingenuity and the energy required for a blackmailer?