Destroying Angel Read online

  Thane trotted over to greet me as Mrs Robson, plump and bustling, arrived with tea, scones and fruit cake. An odd choice for a mid-morning refreshment, I thought, but maybe this excellent fare was standard for visitors who, according to Wolf Rider, were rare.

  It was certainly most welcome. I have a decided weakness for home baking and appreciate others’ efforts in a field of domestic activity in which I am a non-starter. My ten years of marriage to Danny McQuinn were spent in the wilder outposts of Arizona, where food was eaten for survival rather than pleasure. Similarly, as my pantry in Solomon’s Tower is spartan in the extreme, I am ashamed to confess that I become quite exhilarated, not to say downright greedy, at the prospect of anything vaguely appetising.

  Mrs Robson poured the tea and set the plates silently, and curtseyed without making eye contact. When I praised this feast, she blushed and looked pleased in a shy way, while I could not fail to notice her rather challenging glance towards Sir Hubert. It suggested that compliments on culinary or any other domestic skills flowed seldom in her direction.

  I ate alone. Hubert indulged in some more robust refreshment from an assortment of bottles on a side table, leaving me feeling somewhat embarrassed as I proceeded to demolish a couple of scones while yielding not to the temptation of assaulting the slices of cake.

  Hubert, glass in hand, devoted little attention to Thane.

  I was curious. He did not seem in any hurry to reunite the prodigal deerhound with his stepdaughter, and I decided he was waiting politely for me to dust off the last crumbs. In an effort to speed up the process, I asked, ‘How is your little girl?’

  He seemed taken aback by the question and, for a moment, quite confused. Surely he had not forgotten that she was my reason for being here. Recovering, he sighed. With a sad shake of his head, he said, ‘She has disturbed nights but Collins reported that she slept well last night. Collins is her nurse and very reliable,’ he added, tugging at the bell pull, at which the immediate appearance of a tall, thin woman of about forty, with tight pulled-back hair and a forbidding expression, suggested she had been either stationed outside the door or had slid down the banisters from the bedrooms upstairs.

  ‘Ah, Collins, this is Mrs McQuinn.’

  We shook hands and I learnt a lot from that first encounter. My powers of observation and deduction, inherited from Pappa, interpreted a brooding, naked glance in Hubert’s direction, suggesting that my presence troubled her. They were not good actors and the atmosphere between them, despite the public show of formality, hinted that Collins was much more than a nurse and ‘very reliable’ in more intimate matters.

  I was intrigued by the absence of a first name. What did he call her when they were alone with the bedroom door shut? Surely not Collins, the surname a formal address for upper-class servants.

  Her anxious reception of me, which I suspected would be the fate of any young woman who crossed the threshold, hinted that whatever commitment she hoped for was not yet forthcoming.

  What was the impediment?

  Hubert was a widower. But as her shrewd appraisal summed me up as a possible rival, I could have put her mind at rest. Later, however, that would not be so easy as matters developed between her master and myself.

  As I watched, she regained her role as nurse and was assuring Hubert in the polite tones of a paid employee that Miss Kate was awake, had breakfasted, and was ready to see Roswal.

  She looked towards me dismissively, but that was not to be. Hubert smiled and said, ‘Mrs McQuinn must come along. Kate will wish to know all about Roswal’s amazing adventures all this time away from us in Edinburgh. Is that not so, Collins?’

  I got the impression that Collins was completely indifferent to such fascinating information and as Thane stood up she backed away from him hastily.

  She was afraid of dogs, but Thane knew his place, always remembered his manners. Polite to strangers who he guessed might be intimidated by his size, he never bounded forward to leap and greet but waited patiently, allowing them to make the first move.

  There was none but as we climbed the stairs he remained at my side, with the other two in the lead, and I was in for yet another surprise.

  Having expected to see a frail, childlike creature, I was astonished to find that the girl sitting by the bay window was a beautiful, exquisite young woman with long, pale gold hair and enormous, deep blue eyes. Seventeen years old, she could have passed for twenty-five. Although fragile as Venetian glass, she certainly did not have the look of near-death from a long and terminal illness.

  Anxiously I awaited Thane’s reaction. He remained at my side, but when the girl put out her hand and said, ‘Roswal’, he glanced at me apologetically, a look of understanding passed between us and, tail wagging gently, he went over to her and sat at her side.

  Again I was relieved, for there was no rapturous reunion here, nothing more than his usual acceptance of any stranger visiting me in Solomon’s Tower.

  Kate looked up from rather timorously patting his head and Hubert, hovering close by, said heartily, ‘You remember Roswal, my dear?’

  An odd question, since he had been brought to Staines on the grounds that she yearned for the deerhound as her dying wish.

  Without looking up, she whispered, ‘He is lovely. I remember that, but he is – so big.’ Sighing, she frowned. ‘He must have grown in the time he was away.’

  ‘Three years is a long time in a dog’s life,’ was Hubert’s soothing response.

  Leaning forward, Kate kissed Thane’s head and looked across at me. ‘Thank you for taking such good care of him and bringing him back to us again.’ And to Collins, who was standing by with nurse-like hands primly folded, she said, ‘Will it be all right if he stays with me for a while?’

  ‘During the day, yes, of course, Miss Kate.’

  Thane raised his head in my direction, giving me a look of despair. ‘He needs a lot of exercise,’ I protested. ‘He’s not used to being treated like a lapdog.’

  Hubert came to our rescue, smiling at Kate. ‘Since he has spent the last three years with Mrs McQuinn and is used to her daily routine, we must leave it so for the present, my dear.’ Another reassuring smile. ‘Especially as you are not well enough to go out of doors and take him for long walks – yet.’

  Did he mean ‘if ever’? I looked at him sharply, but his face remained inscrutable, and as Kate sighed and looked a little sulky at this decision, he added gently, ‘We don’t want him to run away from us again, do we, now?’

  She shook her head and Collins said, ‘It is time for your bath, Miss Kate.’

  I blessed her for that as Thane took the opportunity of rushing back to my side.

  ‘We will see you later, my dear.’ Hubert kissed Kate’s forehead and motioned us towards the door. As we descended the staircase, not a word of explanation was forthcoming.

  In the hall he turned to me, saying, ‘Lunch is at one o’clock. Feel free to use the library.’ He indicated a door across the hall. ‘Anything you need, just ask Mrs Robson.’

  Dismissed with another of those penetrating looks, I went out into the fresh air and Thane, glad to be released, trotted ahead, eager to explore his new surroundings.

  I had much to be thoughtful about. Most important, I was sure that Kate did not remember Roswal, although three years is a long time in a child’s life. But then, at fourteen, grief for a beloved pet gone missing was worthy of comment; a bereavement not easily forgotten.

  But what concerned me most was that she certainly did not resemble the child dying of consumption my stepbrother had led me to expect.

  These two facts led to one logical question: What was the real reason Thane and I had been brought to Staines?

  As the situation I had just left suggested that I might be in Staines longer than I had been led to believe, I decided that Thane and I should explore the grounds and get our bearings.

  We were fortunate indeed. It was a truly beautiful morning, which bestowed a sprinkling of magic to hide the
cracks and bruises of a somewhat neglected estate.

  Following a narrow downhill path that led to a pond fed by a underground stream, and looking back, I discovered that Staines Manor stood in a commanding position above us, overlooking a tiny hamlet surrounding a green, complete with market cross and ancient church, while far to the right the rural landscape was scarred by a pithead.

  Smoke from a railway train identified this as the level crossing where we had encountered the stray cow on the approach to Alnwick.

  On the outskirts of the village, there were skeletons of roofless houses and broken walls overgrown with grass, which suggested that Staines had known more prosperous days under earlier landlords, before coal had been discovered on the land.

  Shading my eyes, from my vantage point I was sure that I could see a line of shining water mingling with the bright horizon, and the air carried the salt tang of the North Sea. Breathing deeply, I let the surroundings, silent and ancient, creep into my soul. The brooding stillness, the waiting expectancy of the hills where human sounds are quieted and the peace of ages creeps over sun-warmed earth and a scrambled quiltdown of distant fields.

  There are moments when memory remains fixed and forever indelible. And often in a troubled, uncertain future, I was to return to this brief stillness, this tiny magic oasis with Thane at my side.

  At last a shadow came over the earth, the sky filled with darkening clouds and I went in to a lunch set for four. Hubert and Collins (the nurse by designation ate at the family table) were joined by Wolf Rider, much to Thane’s delight, whose exuberant welcome was regarded somewhat sourly by Hubert.

  Mrs Robson leant over with her soup ladle and whispered sternly, ‘Sir doesn’t allow dogs into the dining room.’ A fact I realised was rather obvious since Hubert’s two Labradors remained outside having merely twitched their ears at Thane’s appearance and thereafter ignored him.

  ‘Will it be all right if he stays in the hall then?’ It was hardly my place to apologise, since it was up to the master to give the order, especially as Thane was supposedly his dog. Having overheard, Hubert nodded and Thane trotted off with Mrs Robson, after a reproachful glance in my direction.

  Hubert was aware that Wolf and I had met, and the conversation turned to Kate and her medication. I asked if the local doctor took care of her.

  He sighed. ‘Alas, no longer. We have now given up on doctors and conventional treatments. Kate had an excellent doctor at the hospital in Newcastle who was also a local resident here. When he died most tragically in a travelling accident, we decided to use more unorthodox methods.

  ‘You will find that in this house we are dedicated to herbs and vegetables, to natural food that can be grown and gathered on the estate. Wait until you have tasted Mrs Robson’s mushroom soup, a splendid example of what nature can produce for us.’

  And with a glance at Wolf, he added, ‘Mr Rider is a witch doctor, a shaman in his own native land, where we are aware that the American Indian tribes have excellent results with herbs. He has made good progress with Kate. A last resort that seems to be working,’ he added, as Collins put in rather anxiously:

  ‘There seemed little to be lost in the circumstances.’

  They both regarded Wolf who said dryly, ‘Witch doctor is not a very flattering description, but I agree with Hubert that nature’s cures have always been with us, to hand for the picking, one might say, older and more reliable than dangerous drugs invented by civilisation in search of health and longevity. We believe that as good is an antidote to evil, so too for all sickness there is a herb that can cure, and if that is not possible, then it can alleviate pain.’

  ‘You are certainly succeeding with Miss Kate,’ I said, echoing Hubert’s remarks. ‘She certainly does not look like—’ I paused, realising my lack of tact too late as Hubert moved uneasily in his chair and Collins glanced at him, biting her lip.

  ‘I thought she looked reassuringly well,’ I stammered. ‘And this might well be the explanation. Well done.’

  I beamed at Wolf Rider across the table, who bowed his head in modest acknowledgement of the compliment, while I was considering it strange indeed that Hubert Staines, with wealth and doubtless influence, should put his beloved stepdaughter’s remaining days into the hands of a shaman.

  Vegetable soup was succeeded by poached salmon, and the talk turned to estate matters. In particular, the white cattle and the possibilities of new-born calves being lifted from the herd and shipped to the wealthy Texas rancher to begin breeding a new strain.

  I learnt again that this was a dangerous business, for cows in calf would not hesitate to attack humans, and it was not always possible to predict when and where a calf would be dropped. The cow usually found some secret, isolated place, well away from the herd and particularly the king bull who, in common with many wild animals whose interest ceased with the mating, lacked all paternal feelings regarding his offspring.

  ‘Only Mr Rider has the remarkable gift of moving freely among the cattle,’ said Hubert. ‘They seem to trust him.’

  ‘Whether they will continue to do so when I steal their calves is a different matter,’ said Wolf. ‘The cow I am watching now is unusually large. In sheep we might expect twin lambs, and if the mother is unable to feed both, she might abandon the weaker. Unfortunately twin births are not frequent in the white cattle.’

  As our empty plates were removed and there was, regrettably from my point of view, no offer of dessert, I decided to excuse myself.

  Thane was waiting patiently in the hall and we slipped into the garden, my intention to go downhill and investigate the village. At the Saxon church, now an abandoned ruin, Rider caught up with us, his approach greeted with Thane’s usual delight.

  ‘I have to collect from the post office in Alnwick some of the more unusual herbs not readily available in this part of the country. Expensive too, but Hubert buys from a well-known and trustworthy firm in the south of England.’

  I looked around. Apart from grass and stately trees, there might have been an occasional mushroom born to blush unseen, unless one was out sharp enough in the morning dew, but nothing that I would recognise immediately as a herb like basil or thyme or wild garlic.

  As our ways parted, Wolf said, ‘I can recommend the teashop. They serve excellent cream cakes,’ he added with a grin.

  I looked at him sharply. Had he read my mind again and recognised my disappointment at the lack of a pudding after an otherwise substantial lunch?

  Suddenly he turned back and said: ‘I go to Holy Island – over there off the coast,’ he pointed to the horizon, ‘to collect sea herbs. Perhaps you would like to come with me sometime. It’s a place well worth a visit.’

  I thought I would, and said so.

  Climbing back up the hill, I found an ancient and dilapidated rustic seat, no longer very secure and doubtless installed by a late Staines overlord to keep an eye on his village far below. I sat down, acutely aware that I needed time to think, for, unless I was grievously mistaken, I had been brought here with Thane under false pretences regarding Kate’s tenuous grasp on life.

  If that was the case, then I needed most urgently to discover the truth, to return to Edinburgh, and safely return Thane to Arthur’s Seat.

  The facts made no sense. A child who was a beautiful young woman. And Thane, whom her stepfather claimed she needed to comfort her in her last earthly days, had shown as little interest in her, his former beloved owner, as she did in him.

  So what was behind it all?

  Suddenly the peaceful scene before me erupted into activity as two black Labradors rushed down the path, followed by Hubert, who greeted my appearance with the warmth and cordiality of one discovering a long-lost friend. Meanwhile his dogs seemed unaware of this other canine presence as Thane remained stolidly at my side.

  ‘Ah, here you are, my dear Mrs McQuinn. My dogs flushed you out, did they? Do you mind if I join you?’

  Even if I had objected, it would have been too late, and I made room f
or him on the seat never meant to accommodate two persons who were not on very cosy terms, especially when one was of Staines’ girth.

  He stretched out a hand, patted my arm, and smiled into my face, just inches away from his own.

  ‘Ah, my dear, how I wish that we had met when I was in Edinburgh three years ago. The day I lost Roswal.’

  Pausing to sigh deeply, he went on: ‘Just imagine, all these wasted years when we might have become—’ and, searching for a word, ‘friends.’ That choice did not please him. His hesitation, the shake of his head as he gazed deep into my eyes would have hinted even to a woman of little perception that he had more than friends in mind.

  ‘You are a truly remarkable and a very lovely woman, Mrs McQuinn.’ Suddenly he laughed. ‘Mrs McQuinn – Rose, the most beautiful of flowers. Might I call you Rose?’

  Even had I wished to do so, I could hardly say ‘no’. I remembered my painful, early days alone in Solomon’s Tower and knew I would have been extremely vulnerable had I met Hubert Staines then.

  Jack Macmerry had been just a pleasant young police constable. There was no bond between us until he saved my life and infatuation was not one of my failings. From twelve years old, my eyes had always been steadily fixed on Pappa’s Sergeant Danny McQuinn who had snatched my sister Emily and me from kidnappers. I had vowed to marry him and, against all odds, had done so.

  Even when Jack and I became lovers, I was uneasy, unwilling to commit myself to marriage, somehow sure that Danny McQuinn would one day walk back into my life.

  But a meeting with a handsome stranger on Arthur’s Seat, in search of his lost deerhound, with an invalid stepdaughter and the weight of past tragedies on his shoulders… It was a scene out of a romantic novelette indeed! And with the experience of ten years of marriage behind me, I might have reacted less conventionally than my favourite fictional heroine Jane Eyre.

  But now the situation was different. And for me, there was no better opportunity than the present for prying deeper into Hubert’s motives for bringing me to Staines.