Destroying Angel Page 14

  ‘I asked to go.’

  He looked at me, shook his head as if I had said something quite idiotic. ‘I think you should go to bed now, Rose. It’s very late,’ he added sternly, as if I was a little girl who had disobeyed him and stayed up long past her bedtime.

  I was certain I would never fall asleep with the day’s terrible images pursuing each other relentlessly across my mind, but welcome oblivion descended at last.

  Which was just as well. When I awoke again it was to discover that I had not been the only one whose life had been in danger.

  The Destroying Angel had claimed its first victim.

  The kitchen was in uproar.

  Mrs Robson was in tears. Wolf and Collins were there, the former trying to comfort her. There was no sign of Hubert, who was closeted in his study with the doctor, as the story was pieced together.

  Cedric had staggered into the kitchen and collapsed in the housekeeper’s bedroom at four that morning, being violently sick and screaming in agony. Mrs Robson rushed to alert Hubert, who had been somewhat difficult to rouse. I guessed that was because he had been drowning his disappointment over the dead calf and all those dollars invested in it.

  He could have allotted the task of going to Alnwick for the doctor to Wolf, but had manfully ridden off himself.

  By the time they returned, it was already too late. Cedric was dead.

  The doctor took one look, a quick examination. ‘Poisoned mushrooms, most likely.’

  This raised a storm of indignation from Mrs Robson, who informed him indignantly that they were picked only yesterday morning and made into soup immediately.

  ‘Excellent soup, Mrs Robson,’ Hubert nodded vigorously. ‘And we’re all still alive and well, doctor. Everyone enjoyed it,’ he added in happy reminiscence.

  I exchanged a glance with Wolf, who shook his head, and I refrained from mentioning that far from enjoying Mrs Robson’s soup, I had had an almost fatal encounter.

  Hubert’s reassurances, however, did not deter the doctor, who read us a stern lecture on the dangers of picking mushrooms for amateurs lacking scientific knowledge and then irresponsibly turning them into soup.

  Mrs Robson, despite her distress, was outraged. She pointed out that she had been picking mushrooms since she was a child of twelve and had never poisoned anyone yet. She knew what she was doing all right, she added scathingly.

  I listened, unimpressed. I could have told them the whole shattering truth about my own experience.

  I had not a moment’s doubt that Cedric had been murdered.

  But why?

  Well, I was to find out the answer to that in time.

  And by whom? That was still part of a larger, complex and dangerous puzzle. It swept aside all reason for interviewing Lily Craid’s railwayman husband, now an unlikely suspect.

  What I still did not realise was how far I was into the labyrinth, or that I had unwittingly passed the point of no return.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Cedric’s body was lying in Mrs Robson’s room. He could not remain there or be buried from Staines Manor. When I asked why not, she said that it would not be proper, for his station in life. The hint was that his doubtful parentage ruled him out of such a privilege.

  Maybe she was shocked by my expression. Besides, she said, there was no longer a church in Staines since the pit closed, and the Staines’ private chapel had been disused since a disagreement with a previous incumbent. The church-going inhabitants now had to walk the two miles into Alnwick and back again.

  However, there was a kirkyard still in Staines where many wished to bide their time until the last trump, and poor Cedric had to be taken to his own home in the village to await burial. She would make all the funeral arrangements.

  ‘The old priest at Alnwick,’ she continued, ‘used to give services at Staines Chapel. Long retired, but I visit him from time to time and I’m sure he would say the words over poor Cedric. He would remember him as a little bairn.’

  And with terrible realisation dawning once again, throwing her apron over her face, she began to sob noisily. Poor Mrs Robson. I put my arms around her.

  I could sympathise. I knew what she was feeling. The guilt of not having cared enough for her would-be nephew who had met such a tragic end; who, now and forever, would be known not as ‘that young villain’ but, with all sins and misdemeanours wiped out by his tragic death, would be deified as ‘poor Cedric’.

  Wolf came in, asked if there was anything he could do. The situation was explained to him and he said, of course, he would take Cedric’s body back in the cart to the village.

  So it would all be arranged, his few drinking cronies notified as he had no relations. This brought new floods of tears from Mrs Robson. ‘There’s so much I could say, but I dare not – I dare not,’ she moaned, in the manner of one beside herself with grief.

  I offered to go with them down to Cedric’s home, and I must confess that it was not only out of sympathy for the distraught housekeeper, but also because I had an idea that there might be some clues as to how Cedric had met his end.

  Suddenly I wanted to see him.

  ‘You’re not afraid?’ asked Mrs Robson. I shook my head, seeing no need to tell her or Wolf, who knew already, that dead people, whatever their race, were no novelty to me.

  I followed her in and we both looked down solemnly on the young face I had never liked in life. Now death had taken away the mockery, the leering expression that had irritated me, and left only the marble effigy of a very handsome young man, almost noble in bearing.

  A statue somewhere? The shooting party came vividly to mind, the glimpse of the Duke and his entourage – then just as quickly vanished.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, Mrs McQuinn, would you do that? I’d be so grateful – that is, if you’re not too busy.’

  Wolf gave me an approving glance and left to talk to Hubert and bring round the cart, saying that he would deliver Thane to Miss Kate in his usual daily routine.

  By the time I came downstairs, dressed and ready to leave with them, Wolf was driving the cart and, in the back were the white-sheeted passenger and Mrs Robson who, with a sudden return to practical matters, was discussing undertakers and coffins and laying-out clothes.

  The doctor had said the police would need to notify the coroner. They would have to be informed of the name of the deceased’s next of kin. As Mrs Robson could not honestly claim that, she had told him she might come across something in his lodging – papers or letters that would reveal his parentage – a suggestion that also suited the purpose of my visit, but I hardly listened.

  Something was worrying me, something that should have registered with Rose McQuinn, Lady Investigator. True, I was horrified and shocked by Cedric’s death, far more than I would have imagined for a young man I had frankly disliked and avoided. Perhaps I was feeling guilty about that now, for whatever had been his real nature, that someone so young should have met with such a vicious and unnecessary end was an outrage.

  But was it an accident? Always a greedy lad, ready to snatch up any food left lying in his auntie’s kitchen, had he accidentally picked up the wrong soup? Or had he been deliberately poisoned, as would have been my intended fate had Thane not intervened?

  Cedric’s lodging looked little more than a derelict barn from the outside, but the sight that met us inside, as Mrs Robson pushed open the creaking door hanging by its one creaking hinge, was sordid in the extreme.

  At first glance, we saw papers, clothing, piles of dishes, cracked cups and plates with the remains of food scattered everywhere. Added to that, a pile of unwashed linen and a rough unmade bed in the corner.

  ‘Did he always live like this?’ I asked.

  ‘Like a rat’s nest, isn’t it?’ Mrs Robson shook her head. ‘I’ve only been here once before. He had a bad cold and I came to bring him some of Mr Rider’s herbs. Didn’t know the meaning of tidying or keeping a place clean, the poor lad. Knew no
better. There’s folks like that everywhere. He’s not alone in his bad housekeeping,’ she said, almost by way of apology.

  But what Mrs Robson had not observed was that although there was little furniture, someone had been here recently and in a great hurry. True, Cedric’s agony might well have accounted for an overturned chair and a table lying on its side, but he would hardly have been in a state to pull open drawers in the table, a cupboard and a decrepit sideboard and scatter their contents on to the floor.

  All the indications were that his lodging had been visited by an intruder whose very hasty search had been interrupted.

  Someone looking for something. And I could hazard a guess to what that vital something was. But had they found it?

  I found part of the answer as, leaving Mrs Robson and Wolf to their sad task and deciding that I could be more gainfully employed with a sweeping brush and duster, I went into the tiny scullery, which had been adapted from a large cupboard.

  There were no dusting cloths but in the dark corner of a top shelf I noticed a pot of glue and some newspapers, out-dated editions of The Times, surely odd reading material for Cedric. Removing them revealed a pair of scissors, and a substantial part of the solution to Hubert’s problem.

  As I reappeared, Mrs Robson snatched the sweeping brush from me. ‘You’re not to do that, Mrs McQuinn. I’ll attend to what’s necessary. Now, off you go.’

  As I stepped out of the door, Cedric’s friend Jock rushed over, looking considerably shaken.

  ‘He was sick and in terrible pain when we were having a pint. Said he felt like he was dying and wanted his auntie, so I helped him over to the house. I didn’t take it serious like.’

  He looked as if he was going to burst into tears and I realised then just how young he was too. I murmured condolences and he said how greatly Ceddy would be missed, what great times they had together, particularly on a Saturday night when they took the train to Newcastle, where there was more life than in dreary old Alnwick.

  And that, I decided, accounted for the postmark too. I was so deep in thought as I walked back through the village that I almost walked past Grace. With the speed at which news, bad and good, seemed to travel through Staines, she had already heard about Cedric. She made the usual hushed-voiced comments and put on a suitably sad face, the way people so often do about irritating persons suddenly transfigured and made noble by violent death.

  ‘Bit of a lone spirit was Cedric. Got into bad company, like yon lad Jock. Tearaway, he always was, even as a bairn. Now he works for the gardeners up at the Castle – sometimes. Mostly he’s bone lazy, lolling about and looking for fresh mischief to get into.’

  She sighed. ‘Poor Cedric, he was fond of his auntie, as he called her. Now she has the whole burden to carry. She won’t be the only one to miss him, either. That young Kate, up at the house – he was quite gone on her.’

  I must have looked surprised and she laughed. ‘They didn’t know what was going on under their noses. Not that Cedric had much hope there – Hubert would never have given his blessing. Not with her an heiress, if anything happens to him.’

  I said I’d only met Cedric a couple of times. I had no idea there was anything between them.

  She made a face, looked uncomfortable, obviously not wanting to say too much about the dead. ‘Having no parents made a difference to them, drew them together, and they were both so young.’

  ‘What of his father? I wonder if he’s still alive.’

  Grace nodded. ‘No one had ever heard of Mr Smith, the surname he claimed. Most likely his mother was a servant in some big house in Alnwick and the master had his wicked way with her. Happens all the time. Cedric was a handsome lad, he had a look of the better class, I always thought.’

  Those had been my thoughts too, seeing him lying dead.

  As she made casual remarks about the weather and asked how long I was staying at Staines, I noticed, rapidly approaching, a tall, thin man, wearing a policeman’s uniform and a purposeful expression.

  ‘Ah, here you are, Grace. I went to the house, thought I’d missed you—’

  She turned round. ‘Derek! Your fault, you always descend on us without warning.’ And introducing us she said, ‘Meet Sergeant Derek Sloan, Pete’s brother.’

  I had noticed the stripes as he touched his helmet and bowed politely.

  Grace asked: ‘What brings you here today?’

  Derek glanced at me and said: ‘Police business, Grace.’

  His voice held a note of warning, which Grace ignored as she said slyly, ‘I know why you’re here, or at least I can make a good guess. Derek is investigating Cedric’s death. He’ll tell you all about it himself, I’m sure,’ she added proudly, before giving an anxious look towards the teashop. ‘I have friends to meet – I’m late – gossiping as usual.’

  Dashing away, she turned and said, ‘Look in on your way back, Derek, if you have time. And, Mrs McQuinn, do come and see me any time, if you have any problems I can help with.’

  The sergeant smiled down on me. That wasn’t difficult, as he was over six foot tall. ‘Glad to meet someone from the house, Mrs McQuinn.’ He put his head on one side in an interrogating manner that evoked memories of Jack Macmerry and made me wonder, do all policeman have such penetrating eyes? Was it part of the necessary equipment along with the uniform?

  ‘Are you heading in that direction?’ When I said yes, he nodded. ‘Then perhaps I might accompany you?’

  As we began walking, he asked how long I had known Grace. Saying we had just met, he looked surprised.

  ‘You sounded like old friends. Of course, Grace is like that. Very caring. Some might even say a little nosey,’ he added with a laugh. Remembering her parting remark, I wondered what problems she thought I had on my mind.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about this unfortunate accident?’ Sloan asked.

  I had expected the question. ‘In what way, Sergeant? What is it you wish to know?’

  ‘Did you, by any chance, witness the incident of Mr Smith’s collapse?’

  ‘Hardly, Sergeant. It was four in the morning and I was in bed, asleep.’

  He sucked in his lower lip thoughtfully. ‘Of course. I observed you leaving his lodging just before you met my sister-in-law.’

  ‘Cedric was a stranger to me, Sergeant. I have only been in Staines a few days and encountered him a couple of times working in the grounds. I merely went this morning to support Mrs Robson. She was very upset.’

  Sloan nodded. ‘So I observed, poor lady, when I took a look around myself. Some kind of relative, I gather.’

  ‘Cedric called her his auntie, but I believe that was more by adoption than by blood.’

  A pause, then he asked. ‘Might I ask, did anything strike you as unusual in any way?’

  ‘Since that was the first and only time I had ever seen inside Cedric’s lodging, I was taken aback by the general untidiness – a certain squalor, to put it mildly.’

  He laughed. ‘You are obviously far too young to have lads of that age about the house, Mrs McQuinn. I can tell you, boys take a longer time to house-train than our police dogs.’

  I smiled. If he was hoping for information regarding Cedric’s accident from me, he wasn’t going to get it. Discretion guaranteed; lady investigators didn’t speculate – they kept their mouths closed until they were paid to open them.

  The conversation turned to Edinburgh, which Sloan had visited on occasion. I refrained from asking if he had ever encountered Detective Inspector Jack Macmerry, or mentioning my own interest in crime, domestic and otherwise.

  As we neared the house I left him to his official business, of getting statements from members of the household, so that Cedric’s death could be filed away as accidental.

  Or was it? And would he go back to Alnwick satisfied with the result of his enquiry? An enquiry that had only skimmed the surface of the terrifying truth lurking behind those smooth walls.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I took Thane from the stables
and, as we returned from our delayed morning walk, I met Sergeant Sloan leaving the house.

  ‘A splendid dog you have there, Mrs McQuinn,’ he said, as Thane politely allowed his head to be patted.

  Yes, he was mine, I replied to the next question. Good-days were exchanged and I went round the back of the house to the kitchen door in the hope that I could avoid Hubert. There was no escape; he was at his desk with the study door open, obviously awaiting my return.

  ‘Do come in, Rose. Close the door, please.’ He indicated a seat opposite him but, apart from that intimate look I found so embarrassing, he made no attempt to walk round and kiss me.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I went to give Mrs Robson a helping hand.’ He frowned at that. ‘She was taking Cedric back to his lodging, with Mr Rider’s assistance, of course.’

  He nodded, then said sternly, ‘Surely they could have managed without subjecting you to such a distressing ordeal.’

  ‘Not at all. Mrs Robson was very upset and I offered to go with her.’

  ‘Really?’ he said vaguely. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her shed a tear in this house in all the years she’s been with the family. Doesn’t sound like her at all.’

  To change the subject I asked, ‘What do you think happened – about Cedric, I mean? Weren’t you shocked?’

  He came to life, saying sharply, ‘Shocked, of course I was shocked – I still am – that something like that could happen in this house. I can’t imagine Mrs Robson being so careless with the mushrooms – that’s not like her either. She’s so meticulous. Mushrooms!’ he repeated. ‘My favourite! Now I don’t think I’ll ever feel the same about her blasted soup!’

  And thumping his hands on the desk, he added indignantly, ‘We could all have been poisoned. You are aware of that surely, Rose?’

  I could have told him the truth then, about Collins’ attempt on my life that would have succeeded had it not been for Thane’s timely intervention. However, I felt that such a remark would be unworthy. She was not here to defend herself and she had suffered – and was suffering – enough without me heaping on the final straw in her deteriorating relationship with Hubert.