Destroying Angel Page 3

  Pausing, he shook his head and gave me a quizzical smile.

  ‘A man who likes a challenge. You will no doubt have recognised his connection with our remarkable grandmother. He wishes to capture a beast from the famous Chillingham white cattle, whose territory you have just invaded, and to breed a domestic strain. I understand that a wealthy white rancher in America has offered him a considerable amount of money and what he offered me was the last temptation.’

  ‘To do what exactly?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘To work on his estate and to extract a new-born calf from the cattle to send to Texas.’

  ‘Surely that will be very difficult – and from what you’ve told me of the cattle, very dangerous.’

  Again that dismissive shrug. ‘True, but I will receive enough money to return to Arizona – or to remain in Britain. I have grown rather fond of Scotland,’ he added wistfully. ‘It wasn’t until I came to Staines that we found out we were related. Quite a coincidence.’

  That word again, I thought.

  ‘I will take you to meet him in the morning.’

  ‘Why not now?’ I asked.

  ‘He had to go to Newcastle unexpectedly. A change in the weather, by which outdoor photography is dictated. He said he was expecting a visitor from Scotland, but did not mention a name, only that this person was bringing back a dog that belonged to him—’

  I bristled at that assumption as he went on. ‘I think it would be best if you stayed here tonight. You are tired and need rest; I am sure it has all been a rather trying experience. Hubert is notoriously absent-minded, except where his passion for photography is concerned. Mrs Robson, the housekeeper, did not mention this morning that she was expecting a visitor. There will be nothing prepared for you.’

  He smiled. ‘You shall have my bed. I shall sleep in here—’ And cutting short my protests, he said, ‘Sleeping under a roof is a fairly new experience. I have spent most of my life in a teepee or under the sky. A bed of the kind provided with blankets and pillows of soft down is still a novelty.’

  A slight pause then without the least embarrassment, he added: ‘But you must be comfortable before you retire. There is a water closet at the side of the cottage – you may have noticed it.’

  When I returned, perhaps aware of my doubtful acceptance of his hospitality – here I was spending the night in a cottage with a man I had met only once, but instinctively trusted – he bowed, opening the door to the bedroom.

  ‘Take Thane with you, he will be company if you wake during the night,’ he said, handing me my valise.

  I had decided to send my small travelling trunk in advance, leaving my hands free. I need both for bicycling, but I had an excellent roomy saddle bag for my valise, very practical and by courtesy of Jack.

  Jack, I thought, with a sudden shaft of pain. Is he lying in bed in Glasgow in the arms of his new love? Such imaginings are the circuit to despair. A full moon glowed in through a window that lacked curtains or shutters. Its light streamed across the room, exploring corners, like an eager watchful face.

  I believed I would never sleep, though Thane settled down on the floor, unperturbed and soon snoring gently. At last I closed my eyes, and opened them again to find the moon had been replaced by bright sunlight.

  It was morning, and Thane had gone. I opened the door, but there was no sign of him or of Wolf Rider. They had not been long absent, for there was a basin of warm water and a towel in readiness for my morning ablutions.

  In the kitchen, breakfast had been prepared. There was a kettle on the hob, and I lifted the lid of a pan to find porridge. Rider had certainly adapted to some British habits, I thought, recalling the clean crisp sheets and pillowcase, provided by the Staines housekeeper no doubt, and easier than sleeping outdoors in our cold climate.

  I had just poured a second cup of tea when the door opened and Thane rushed in looking pleased, wagging his tail and dancing around his new friend. At least he was happy and I am ashamed to say that I felt suddenly quite envious and neglected.

  Had the faithful Thane now transferred his devotion to Wolf Rider, deserting me as he had once before for Jack’s father, in Eildon in June? Just months ago, when Jack’s parents were preparing for a wedding that never happened, though my demise almost did.

  I studied Thane. Perhaps he preferred male companionship.

  Wolf greeted me with the conventional question – had I slept well? – and satisfied that I had done so, he said: ‘Hubert is due back soon. I will take you over to the house. I called on Mrs Robson and she is preparing a room for you. As they don’t have many visitors she was a little flustered, especially since, as I suspected, Hubert had completely forgotten to inform her of your arrival.’

  I thought about Hubert’s omission. If I had found my way to Staines Manor, I might well have been turned away, much to my consternation, not to mention my anger and humiliation.

  ‘What of his stepdaughter?’

  ‘Kate? She has a very good nurse in attendance, so Hubert can leave her although he prefers to be constantly at her side—’ He stopped, sighed. ‘Just now. She will be glad to see her lost deerhound again.’

  ‘Do you think Thane is the missing Roswal?’ I asked, unable to keep the anxiety out of my voice.

  His expression was quite blank. He shrugged. ‘An amazing coincidence—’

  ‘Another one,’ I said bluntly.

  ‘Such things can happen. Life is like that.’

  I said, ‘I just wonder, if their deerhound was so devoted, why did he desert his master and run away at Holyrood?’

  Wolf looked surprised at the question. ‘Oh, I can understand that perfectly.’ And giving me a penetrating glance he said, ‘No one can own Thane, make no mistake about that. He obeys no laws but his own. He makes the choice; he will go to those who need him most. He chose you because you were the person he wished to be with. There is a possibility when he ran away from Hubert that he already knew of your existence.’

  These strange words failed to comfort me for they fitted in all too neatly with the terrifying theory that I had forced myself to reject. That the spirit of my dead husband had entered this extraordinary deerhound whose mission in life had become to protect me. And Thane really was an extraordinary deerhound. As much as I had tried to dismiss it as an hallucination, I could not forget that I had seen this dog shot dead before my eyes a few months ago, but that he rose again, with no trace of wound or scar.

  As if he read my thoughts, Wolf leant across the table and said solemnly, ‘Enjoy Thane but remember you can only keep him with an open hand.’ And making a tight fist he opened it again. ‘Like love, if we attempt to close it, then it is lost for ever.’

  And so we went to meet Hubert Staines.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The manor house was old, one of hundreds scattered all over Northumberland and Durham, built in the late eighteenth century by wealthy land and coal owners. It was Georgian, but had none of the asceticism of Edinburgh architecture. This sprawling, rambling house, half timbered with a nod in the direction of something much older, was a mixture of Tudor and modernity, with a hint of Gothic in the twisting chimneys, and the pale ghost of a Border peel tower, which rested uneasily alongside mullioned latticed windows.

  Wolf left me at the gate. As he walked away, there was a whimper of protest from Thane, which I sternly refused to indulge.

  ‘You’ll be seeing him again.’

  Heading along the short drive to the front door, I nervously watched Thane for signs that he recognised his old home, afraid that he might joyously race towards it. But, reassuringly, he never left my side. Unused to accompanying me on visits to friends in Edinburgh, I was secretly relieved that he was displaying his natural caution towards new places, certainly showing neither interest nor curiosity about what we were doing here.

  I suppressed a sigh of relief. Dogs have long memories and surely his first home would have had brought about a different reaction. As we reached the door, I felt almost happy,
convinced that Thane and Roswal were not the same. Complacently, I felt that I could afford to be magnanimous in such tragic circumstances, and would go along with the dying girl’s belief that this was indeed her lost deerhound.

  And that, I was to discover, was my first mistake – of many!

  I heard footsteps in the hall, and the man who opened the door eagerly stretched out his hand, but not to me – to Thane.

  ‘Roswal, old boy,’ he whispered. ‘Welcome home again.’

  A fine, deep, melodious voice, heavy with emotion. The upper-class voice of authority. A military man’s voice. Orders given, requests that were commands to be carried out immediately.

  A commanding figure indeed. Tall, well-muscled, strong. His head bent down showing thick, dark hair, lightly touched with white at the temples.

  His expression was concealed from me and I watched Thane anxiously. Apart from twitching his ears, he made no move to leap forward and dance around Hubert Staines as I had witnessed just a few hours ago with Wolf Rider.

  Suddenly Hubert became aware of my presence and held out one hand in polite greeting, the other still firmly patting Thane’s head, who made no move apart from polite acceptance.

  ‘Same old Roswal,’ said Hubert, as he bowed over my hand.

  ‘Mrs McQuinn, pleased to meet you. I do apologise. I am quite overwhelmed, as you can see. This is a moment I believed would never happen. As you can imagine I had given up all hope long ago.’ And shaking his head sadly, he added, ‘Even in my wildest dreams.’

  I regarded him critically.

  He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who would be overwhelmed or troubled by wild dreams. He went on: ‘And I have to thank you for coming all this way. I assure you, I am most grateful and you are most welcome – more than welcome.’

  An odd similarity struck me at that moment. I have seen many a face in Princes Street that seemed to belong in a sixteenth-century portrait, but Hubert Staines’ went back quite a bit further than that.

  I took a deep breath. Here was Harry Hotspur to the life, a Northumbrian legendary hero, his rightful place the darker pages of Border history. His broken nose testified to ancient combat, and there were scars of war, too, now grown faint. All in all, he was meant for riding through Alnwick’s tower, named after him, carrying a broadsword, not a photographer’s camera. And on these ordinary nineteenth-century days, I wondered, did he ever feel the twinge of history?

  I was to learn later that the first de Steyns who came over with William the Conqueror had been well established in Northumberland before the original Percys, Harry Hotspur’s line, had died out for lack of male heirs.

  Now, as he spoke, I was mesmerised by this reincarnation of a Border warrior, the high cheekbones tempered by a thick-lipped, sensuous mouth, a firm line that conceded nothing to curves, heavy-lidded, shrewd and watchful eyes, so dark their colour was indistinguishable, taking in all the world at a single glance.

  Here was a man who had stepped straight from the pages of romantic fiction, a man that the vulnerable souls of gentle women would find irresistible.

  Not so, Rose Faro McQuinn, I told myself firmly. I was not in danger. I had been a pioneer, had fought off Indians, and was of the suffragette mentality – a fighter for ‘Votes for Women’ – I would not be swayed by handsome looks.

  I was only half listening to his polite remarks and apologies, while receiving the impression of a no-nonsense man who would not tolerate fools gladly. And, as he turned his attention again to Thane, I believed he was used to having his own way but would also make sure of his facts, and would be unlikely to embark on a deception in order to procure a deerhound, especially as I fancied he could afford a whole kennel full.

  Opening the front door wider, he bowed me into a panelled hall where the smell of aged wood mingled with wax polish. The walls were hung with trophies of the chase, killings the upper classes seem to relish, heads of deer and foxes eyeing them reproachfully in the glazed stare of their dying moments.

  Thane remained at my side, trotting obediently across the hall to follow Hubert up the handsome oak staircase. I wondered what his thoughts were. Although I imagined that occasionally I could read his mind, on this occasion he remained enigmatically canine.

  If only he could talk, tell me the truth of all this masquerade, I thought, as Hubert opened the door into a room similarly panelled. A massive bay window, with armorial bearings in the upper glass segments, overlooked a paved terrace some twelve feet below. A flight of stone steps led down the terrace to a formal garden, with smooth lawns that dissolved into a tree-lined estate, and a distant gleam of distant water.

  Magnificent as the view was, without knowing why, I didn’t like it. Feeling dizzy and slightly nauseated, I turned my attention to the huge stone fireplace supported by two unhappy looking medieval figures. Were they perhaps feeling more than a little threatened by the log fire burning briskly around the areas of their lower limbs while on either side well-worn leather armchairs spoke of comfortable evenings? An absence of the current passion for lavish ornamentation – not even a selection of his famed photographs or family portraits – hinted that although this was a man’s room, it was not Hubert’s favourite.

  Nor would it be mine. I was to find out why later.

  Invited to take a seat, I was gratified that Thane immediately moved to my side and sat down, ignoring the clicking fingers of his perhaps erstwhile owner, who shook his head a little regretfully, as though disconcerted by this lack of obedience.

  Regarding me thoughtfully, he managed a somewhat rueful, ‘Roswal always displayed an instinct to protect the weaker sex.’

  I bristled as always at the reference to the weaker sex, but as Hubert came over and, bending down, put an arm around Thane’s neck, there was something quite endearingly boyish and vulnerable in his action. My attention was riveted on Thane, but there was no move on his part, no eagerness to lick that nearby cheek. His glance of despair signalled that he didn’t care for this familiarity.

  ‘Roswal is very well bred, you know, a gentleman among dogs – and bred by one of the finest of Scottish gentlemen. Your countryman, Mrs McQuinn, a great scholar and a fine novelist.’

  Pausing, Hubert regarded me quizzically, his manner that of a school master posing a question to a truculent child.

  ‘You must mean Sir Walter Scott,’ I said.

  ‘Who else!’ he laughed.

  Well done, Mr Clever Staines, that is your first mistake. Sir Walter could not have known Roswal. He died in 1832 and though Thane is remarkable in many ways, he cannot by canine standards be credited with sixty-five years.

  But Hubert had the explanation ready. ‘Of course you could not possibly know that Roswal was a descendant of Sir Walter Scott’s favourite deerhound, Maida, whom he described as “a most perfect creature of heaven”. It is she who sits at his side on his memorial in Edinburgh’s Princes Street.’

  Frowning, he bit his lip, and as if the thought had just occurred to him, he said, ‘Indeed, that could be the answer.’ Looking at me intently, he added eagerly: ‘Don’t you see – the reason why Roswal ran away from me when we were out walking on Arthur’s Seat? Perhaps some instinct told him that he was on his native heath – an attempt to return to the Abbotsford kennels.’

  A very remarkable and highly improbable assumption, I thought, even if Roswal and Thane were one and the same. He went on: ‘I remember the day perfectly; it was 15th May, three years ago. A day I shall never forget.’ And giving me a sharp glance. ‘When was it you first saw him?’

  ‘About a week later,’ I admitted reluctantly.

  ‘So that’s it! There now, that’s settled!’ he repeated triumphantly, leading the way upstairs and opening the door of a pleasant but informal guest room in the corridor alongside the family apartments, doubtless hastily prepared by Mrs Robson.

  Setting down my valise, he said, ‘Is that all your luggage?’ I said that I had left a small trunk at Alnwick Station for collection.


  ‘Rider will collect it.’ He laughed. ‘I must confess I am surprised. Ladies usually carry so much baggage. You are to be congratulated, Mrs McQuinn.’ Turning to leave, he said, ‘Tea in my study in, say, half an hour. Come, Roswal,’

  A quick glance in my direction, and Thane followed him. At the door, Hubert turned, smiled: ‘I’m delighted and relieved that we have solved the problem of Roswal’s disappearance so easily. Quite fascinating!’

  Left alone, his theory didn’t fascinate me in the least. Nor did it account for the fact that although Roswal/Thane had been out roaming the hill for a week, his coat was clean and well-groomed, as if he had gone missing only hours before, as I had presumed when he appeared on Arthur’s Seat.

  At that thought, another more alarming possibility occurred to me. That Thane/Roswal had not been trying, as Staines suggested, to find his way back to Abbotsford, but had been tracking down his strange soul mate Wolf Rider, who was at that time with the Wild West Circus in Queen’s Park.

  I still firmly rejected Rider’s belief that the spirit of a murdered man could enter the body of an animal to seek vengeance. If I really believed it to be true, and this story with all its coincidences, then I would have taken to my bicycle and headed for Alnwick Railway Station and the very next train back to Edinburgh.

  And once safe home in Solomon’s Tower, guarded by its ancient walls which had seen so much of Scotland’s history, what then?

  I could not bear to think about it. To continue living there alone, with Jack happy in the arms of his new love, and Thane happy to be back with his true owner.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hubert’s study door was open. He sat behind a large, untidy desk littered with papers, some books and a scatter of society photographs of ladies wearing tiaras and diamonds – doubtless his wealthy clients. I learnt later that he had adapted the cellar into a darkroom for his photography.