Destroying Angel Page 12

Entering the railway station, I remembered my arrival in Alnwick with Thane, full of misgivings and trepidation, wondering what Staines would be like. All that seemed to belong to another world, for I had soon discovered that my usually reliable stepbrother had been seriously misinformed concerning the state of affairs at Staines. The dying child, whom he had never met, pining for her lost deerhound was in fact a pretty young lady who, to outward appearances at least, looked far from her deathbed.

  I had little guessed that I was riding into a complex case of blackmail and would soon once again be donning my role as Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed, and returning to this town, certain that here the truth was to be found and the identity of Hubert’s blackmailer revealed.

  And then there was my unexpected encounter with Wolf Rider, that enigmatic Sioux Indian whose sinister insinuations regarding Thane I still regarded with fear.

  What did it all mean? I was sure sometimes that I had all the facts and was on the right road, only to find that each path I took led further into the labyrinth.

  As I was riding through the Bondgate towards the station, the sun disappeared and a hovering black cloud erupted into a heavy shower of hailstones. I dived for cover and found that I was just steps away from the local library.

  Parking the bicycle, I went inside, where my revised plan of action brought with it a much needed stroke of luck.

  Enquiring at the counter for information concerning the level crossing and the Staines Pit, for an imaginary newspaper article I was writing, another mantle more or less skilfully assumed, I was conscious of being watched. Looking round, a hand was raised, and when the face came into view, I recognised, seated behind a mound of books, the old scholar who had told me about the Battle of Alnwick and the phantom hound of King Malcolm of Scotland.

  As I acknowledged his greeting, the assistant emerged with a file of newspapers and indicated that I follow him to a vacant seat alongside the old gentleman.

  ‘Do you mind if this young lady shares your desk, Mr Tetley?’

  ‘Not at all. I will be delighted,’ he replied with a grin.

  As the assistant left he held out his hand. ‘James Tetley, schoolmaster, retired.’ And indicating the pile of books, ‘Amateur genealogist.’

  I told him my name and he nodded. ‘Ah yes, the owner of the deerhound that gave me such a scare. Are you enjoying your stay in Staines?’

  I said yes and again he nodded, then putting on his spectacles, he resumed his reading, pausing only to switch volumes and make copious notes.

  I tackled the newspaper cuttings, which turned out to be hardly a mine of new information regarding the history of the level crossing, for which a former Duke had graciously extended the necessary permission to give access to the Staines Pit.

  I had almost given up hope when, at last, I found what I was looking for: an article about how the crossing had been the sad cause of two tragic deaths. The local doctor, Fergus Holt, got a good spread; there was a full account of his funeral, mourners who included Members of Parliament and a representative of the Duke himself. He had obviously been a popular figure in the neighbourhood, with a moving tribute from Hubert Staines.

  Curiously, I could almost hear Hubert’s voice as I read his eulogy to this man who had been his family’s doctor for two generations. He praised his work and said how sadly he would be missed, both at Staines and by his many friends in Alnwick.

  Less space – a mere paragraph – was given to Lily’s father, who had been crossing the line in the dark. There was an obvious hint that his death was due to lack of vigilance and intoxication. No requiem from Hubert or anyone else this time.

  I had little idea of the exact date of the deaths of Mary Staines and her daughter Amy, or of the gun-cleaning accident that killed Amy’s lover Dave, and I felt that asking the assistant for such information might be regarded as ghoulish.

  However, the young assistant was keen to help since I was on friendly terms with his former schoolmaster (as I gathered). He came over and said, ‘If you are interested in material for your article, miss, there are some cuttings on Staines House. It is well worth a visit, if you have the time to spare.’

  Disregarding Mr Tetley’s wry look, I thanked him and was soon in possession of a file relating to the Staines, which contained an account of Mrs Staines’ death fall ‘from a window carelessly left open during a storm by one of the young servants, who has since been discharged.’

  All of which I already knew. As I sighed and laid it aside, Mr Tetley abandoned his notebook and said, ‘An interesting family; rather too inbred. Some of them went insane and tragedy has certainly stalked them in recent years.’

  Hoping for more, I gave him an eager look and he continued: ‘I notice you were reading about poor Mrs Staines. Her daughter, you know, committed suicide after an unhappy love affair – we got that information not first hand, of course, but through the village grapevine.’

  He shook his head gravely. ‘I fear that first cousins marrying each other is not particularly healthy – in body and indeed, in mind also – for their offspring. Such unions are often motivated by money and dynastic aspirations rather than the demands of the human heart.’ And throwing down his pencil, he added grimly: ‘Property and money, money and property, the ruin of the human race.’

  A bell rang somewhere and he took out his watch. ‘Ah, time for a little refreshment. Would you care to have a cup of tea with me and we can continue our discussion?’

  I followed him out and a few moments later we were seated at a window table in the Swan Hotel, a coaching inn in the days before the railway opened up new prospects for travellers passing through Alnwick, north and south.

  As we waited to be served, he told me of his passion for local history and how he had made a lifetime study of the Staines family, whose roots predated the Dukes of Northumberland.

  ‘There was a time when de Percys and de Steyns had equal status and, if truth were to be told and records went back far enough to be deciphered, the de Steyns should be the present incumbents of Alnwick Castle, since the de Percys died out and the present family are descended from the distaff side.

  ‘Genealogy has become my hobby since I retired and I have helped many people to discover their roots. My efforts and a few published papers have extended my work beyond local history and Alnwick – it now extends south as far as London and north into Scotland, particularly Glasgow and Edinburgh,’ he said proudly, pausing to smile at me, perhaps hoping that I had heard of him.

  ‘I had a most interesting encounter with Mr Rider – the gamekeeper at Staines, an American gentleman, perhaps you have met him?’ I said yes and he went on, ‘Ah, quite a fascinating and romantic story. He was searching for his grandmother who had been kidnapped by Sioux Indians when the rest of the safari party she was with were slaughtered. Mr Rider’s grandfather fell in love with her.

  ‘My background research revealed that the lady was not Scottish as he believed. Miranda was a member of the Staines family here, not only by marriage but by blood. There was a history of twins on her side of the family who had twice married first cousins.’

  He shook his head. ‘A very complicated heredity, which I have been studying for some time now, but the indications are undoubtedly that Mr Wolf Rider could claim to be the legitimate heir of Staines.’

  His frown turned into a smile as he looked across the table. ‘I trust that he never will do so, of course. If you have read Mr Dickens’ Bleak House you will know that such claims can linger on unresolved for generations, costing not only fortunes but bitter grief and heartbreak to the claimants.’

  ‘Is Mr Rider aware of these facts regarding your research and his possible claim to Staines?’ I asked.

  His eyes widened. ‘Of course. Yes indeed he is.’ A sigh as he added: ‘I doubt whether Mr Rider would have enough money to initiate such a search in the courts of law. I sincerely hope not, anyway, for the bad feeling it would cause in these parts where Mr Staines and his family are held in high
regard. I doubt whether the substitute of a—’ he searched for a suitable word and said ‘a gentleman from a savage part of America would be held in high esteem by the Duke either.’

  He had certainly given me food for thought, and a damning reason for Wolf Rider to dispose of Hubert Staines without going through the intricacies of a legal claim. Whether this tied in with the blackmailer was another matter.

  As I prepared to part company with Mr Tetley and thanked him for the tea, he handed me his card and extracted a promise that I would call upon him if I needed any further material for my level crossing article – the subject that, I confess, had been completely obliterated by the unexpected revelations regarding the Staines and Wolf Rider.

  I remembered my mission and said that I was keen to interview some of the people whose lives had been upset in any way by the presence of the level crossing.

  ‘Such as one of the servants from Staines, a young maid called Lily. I am told her father was killed by a passing train. Does she still live here?’ I asked innocently.

  Mr Tetley thought for a moment. ‘Indeed, yes. I meet her husband, Will Craid, quite regularly. One of my former pupils, we play chess together in the Diamond Inn. A most intelligent young man, very bright indeed. Works for the railway.’

  He shook his head regretfully and added, ‘But had he been born above the labouring class, I believe he would have gone far academically. I tried to persuade him into clerical work, perhaps for a lawyer. Writes with a splendid hand, and he’s an excellent shot, too. Wins many competitions. He had to miss our game of chess yesterday, as he was shooting with the Duke’s party.’

  ‘How interesting,’ I murmured faintly, as indeed it was.

  ‘If you would like to talk to his wife, I am sure I could arrange it for you.’

  Thanking him, pleading urgency and shortness of time, I said, ‘If you could give me her address, I might take a chance on her being at home.’

  He laughed. ‘At this time of day, you are most likely to find her up at the castle. She is a sewing maid to the Duchess.’

  Following his directions, I made my way up to the castle, wondering if I had found another suspect to add to those persons unknown who might have stolen Hubert’s photographs and were now blackmailing him for their return.

  Mr Tetley’s revelations about this highly intelligent chess-playing railwayman suggested that Lily’s husband might also fit perfectly the role of Hubert’s blackmailer.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My interview with Lily Craid was something of a let-down. It was heartening to know that the lack of a reference from Hubert had not put off the Duchess, who presumably had better latches on her windows, but my hope that this visit would provide an excuse to see something of the Castle’s grand interior was not to be.

  I was being passed through a series of long narrow corridors by a series of high-nosed retainers – very lofty in countenance – before my bicycle, which had received some hard looks, was removed to be parked outside. It was handled very gingerly, in a manner that suggested that it might be a carrier of the Bubonic plague.

  At last we reached the servants’ quarters, where I was finally unceremoniously pushed rather than ushered into Lily’s presence by a stout downstairs maid with the words; ‘Woman to see you, Lil. Don’t let her keep you from your work, mind, or Her Grace will give you whatfor.’

  Lily was seated at a well-scrubbed table in one of the kitchens, the surrounding walls bristling with gleaming copper pots and pans. Invited to take a seat, I soon realised that her position of sewing maid to the Duchess related to an overflowing basket of linen, presumably containing torn petticoats, dropped hems, garments to be altered, mended or patched, and buttons to be replaced.

  Seeing her engaged in this activity recalled Mrs Robson’s laments over her loss. I wondered if this was one of her noble employer’s socks she was busily darning, and whether His Grace shared in common with the humbler members of the male sex a tendency to thrift, not to mention downright meanness, concerning undergarments and socks.

  She greeted me nervously after the ample housemaid left us, obviously not used to receiving visitors. I introduced myself, saying that I was writing an article on the dangers of level crossings for a Newcastle newspaper.

  This explanation seemed acceptable, but I had a feeling that Lily was either shy or reluctant, or both, to recall the past and, indeed, looked most uncomfortable when I asked what her feelings were on the subject?

  ‘I knew it was dangerous, all the Staines folk thought so, and they all said it should be better guarded or done away with altogether when the pit closed down.’

  Trying to phrase my words carefully, I said, ‘I realise it is a painful subject for you personally, since your father met with such a tragic accident. You must have been terribly shocked.’

  She gave me a wry look. ‘Shocked yes, but not surprised. Not really. My pa was a firebrand, always talked too much and drank too much as well,’ she added bitterly. ‘He could be an interfering old so-and-so and he certainly made things worse for me, not better, up at the house – when I had to leave.’

  Although I knew already, she obviously wasn’t going to elaborate on the reasons why, so I said, ‘You were happy there. Were you not the personal maid to Miss Kate?’

  At the mention of Kate her face froze. Looking away from me, she concentrated on her darning.

  I persisted. ‘No doubt being near in age, you were good friends.’

  She thrust aside the sock, clasped her hands together, and said indignantly, ‘Whoever told you that, missus, was quite wrong.’ Nodding vigorously, she added: ‘I was only a servant and I knew my place.’

  ‘Perhaps I got it wrong.’

  ‘You certainly did that.’

  I changed my tactics. ‘How did you get along with her sister Amy?’

  ‘Never knew her sister. She was older,’ was the sharp response.

  I knew I could not stumble on in this clumsy fashion so I returned to the subject of the level crossing, made some more notes and left her. I felt she was relieved to see me go.

  As I recovered my bicycle and headed back to Staines, I was disappointed, unsure of what I had expected regarding Lily, but one thing was clear. She accepted her father’s death as an accident. It had certainly never occurred to her, knowing her father’s fiery nature, to think that someone might have wanted to be rid of him. And for a man known to drink too much, the level crossing seemed to provide an admirable assassin.

  I decided my next step would be to see how best I could engineer an interview with her husband, the chess player.

  A fine smell of cooking greeted my arrival in the Staines kitchen. Mrs Robson was making soup.

  ‘Mushroom,’ she said, holding up the ladle. ‘Sir loves it – a special treat, his favourite. What a morning we’ve had. The mushrooms are at their best at this time of the year. We all turn out with our baskets. There’s a special place in the wood over there. Mind, you have to be up early for the best ones.’

  So that was the explanation for why I had breakfasted alone.

  ‘Even Collins came and gave us a hand. And she doesn’t like leaving her bed early. A right sleepyhead she is in the mornings.’

  And remembering the angry sounds of quarrelling that had awakened me during the night, I felt Mrs Robson had a point. After such a disturbed and distressed night, Collins must have felt dreadful plunging out into the morning mist to collect mushrooms.

  Thane had spent the day with Wolf and was now back with Kate, who sat by the window with Collins. When Thane greeted my arrival like a prisoner on reprieve, they were jolted from their earnest conversation, their guilty expressions giving me the uncomfortable feeling that I had been the subject under deep discussion.

  As I left with Thane to take him for his long-awaited walk, Collins followed me out. At the top of the stairs she said, ‘I hear that Hubert has asked you to marry him.’

  I was taken aback by her blunt statement. Who had told her? It must have
been Hubert himself, and I think I blushed furiously, but words failed me and I could think of no denial or indeed of any response.

  She seized my arm, and for a moment, I panicked. I had a horrible feeling that she was going to push me over the banister, for her face was livid with fury.

  ‘Don’t fool yourself that he is in love with you and that’s why he wants to marry you. He’s only marrying you because you’re young and he thinks you will be able to give him a son, to cut out Kate.’

  And pausing to give me a triumphant look, she sneered, ‘That’s all. A son is what he needs most in all the world. Remember love hasn’t anything to do with it. He could never love a woman like you. But anyone would do.’ Her look as she said the words reduced me to something she had trodden in on her shoe.

  ‘Once you have given him a son, he’ll be off again, leaving you stranded. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ she added shrilly. ‘I know him well; I know what he’s like.’

  I was suddenly angry. This was none of her business, or was it? ‘Then why doesn’t he marry you?’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘That’s easy to answer, Mrs Clever McQuinn. It’s because I can never have a child. We’ve both known that for long enough,’ she added bitterly.

  I pushed away from her and went downstairs with her leaning over the banister, watching me. Still trembling as I left the house with Thane, I was furious, but tried putting myself in her place. As Hubert’s discarded lover (and had I not suffered a similar fate all too recently with Jack Macmerry?) her venom and spite were understandable, especially realising that had she become pregnant, he would have married her.

  It didn’t do Hubert any credit, though, that they had had a showdown last night and he had told her what he intended. I felt pity, too; a woman’s pity for Collins. I knew all about loving blindly. And I was furious at Hubert’s presumption that I would change my mind and marry him.

  Thane didn’t seem eager to go to the stables after our walk, which was shorter than usual. He seemed tired, possibly the effects of spending all day with Wolf, trailing the white cow about to drop her calf. When I returned to the house for dinner, he had followed me, a little distance away. As I walked up the steps he rushed forward and his eyes begged to stay.