Destroying Angel Read online

  ‘What I would be most grateful to know is why…’ I hesitated. His physical closeness bothered me. I moved as far away as the rustic seat would allow.

  I never got to finish that question, as out of the corner of my eye I saw Collins rapidly approaching from the direction of the house.

  We both heard her footsteps and a moment later she was gazing down at us, her face scarlet, murmuring something inarticulate about Miss Kate.

  Hubert sprang to his feet. I was overcome with embarrassment, as if by sitting on that tiny seat together we had been apprehended in some indelicate situation.

  I was certain of one thing; the atmosphere she had come into was charged with emotions. Hubert’s, not mine, although I found myself blushing and stood up so hastily that I stumbled. Hubert steadied me and, excusing myself hastily, l left him to deal with Collins’ ill-suppressed anger.

  As I hurried up the path with Thane trotting at my side, they remained within earshot. I heard protests, murmurs, sharp words, denials, as I hastened towards the house.

  In my bedroom, I closed the door thankfully, with no wish for an embarrassing encounter with Collins. Seated on the bed, I considered Hubert’s extraordinary conversation. Had he seemed remotely a flirt, I would have laughed, but there was something deep and serious and even sincere in his manner. His behaviour towards me had changed in this short time to that of a man utterly captivated, which I found very difficult to understand.

  I have no illusions about my appearance. I am no beauty, just a woman in her early thirties, small with very average looks, and a cloud of unruly yellow curls – the bane of my life. Surely, I told my mirror, no man would ever pause to give me a second glance.

  Yet, looking out of the window, for a moment I allowed myself to imagine a future as lady of the manor, floating down the grand staircase in a beautiful gown with Thane at my side. Would that be a happy ending for us both…?

  Stop this! Stop this nonsense, Rose McQuinn. It isn’t you and what is more, it never could be you. Be sensible, remember your mission in life – Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed. And I suspect if you keep your eyes open there will be much in Staines to investigate.

  I was right. Dangerous matters involving life and death and, as I was to discover, much need for that discretion, too.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I met Mrs Robson in the hall. ‘Is he’, she asked, indicating Thane, ‘to go to Miss Kate? I’ll take him upstairs, Collins isn’t around,’ she added, a fact I already knew.

  As he followed her into Kate’s room, Thane’s woeful look hardly fitted his role as her beloved pet.

  Alone again, I sat by the window and, while trying to read, my thoughts drifted longingly to Edinburgh and what had been my normal daily routine. Did the situation I had found myself in at Staines, with its baffling undertones, suggest an extended stay? If so, then I was going to find the days very long indeed.

  I had not long to wait for an answer.

  Mrs Robson tapped on the door. ‘Sir would like a word, Mrs McQuinn.’

  Hubert was waiting in his study. As he told me to close the door, I hoped this was not to be a continuation of our conversation on the rustic seat. To my relief, he indicated a chair and took a seat behind his desk.

  Studying me for a moment, he seemed to come to a decision. ‘I am afraid I have not been completely truthful with you, Mrs McQuinn – Rose, may I call you?’ he added.

  My smile was all the answer he needed and, with a sigh, he went on: ‘I have to confess that when I asked you to bring Roswal to Staines I had a dual purpose in mind.’ Pausing he regarded me sternly, pointing a finger across the desk. ‘What you may even decide to call false pretences.’

  So I was to get the answer to my speculation at last.

  He smiled. ‘Of course, Kate and I are delighted by the coincidence that our long lost Roswal should have been found with you and have been adopted, as we might say, by the stepsister of my good friend Dr Vincent Laurie.’

  His speech sounded suspiciously theatrical and well-rehearsed, I thought, as he continued:

  ‘We were delighted that Roswal should have been taken such good care of by you and now at last to have him home again with us, but…’ he paused, emphasising the word, ‘but I am also taking advantage of what Vince has told me regarding his truly remarkable stepsister.’

  A frown, punctuated by a rather pained smile. ‘It may surprise you to learn that I happen to be very interested in your other role. That of Mrs McQuinn, Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed.’

  With a sigh, a heavenward glance of despair, he added softly, ‘Especially the latter,’ and, opening a drawer in his desk, he took out a wad of bank notes and pushed them across the table. ‘Especially the latter,’ he repeated. ‘I am hoping most earnestly that I can persuade you to take on a rather difficult and delicate assignment.’

  A gesture towards the bank notes. ‘You will find one hundred guineas there. This is in the nature of a retainer as I am not certain what your usual fee might be, but I hope this will make you feel that my little problem is worth your while – whatever the result,’ he added gloomily. ‘Should you be as successful as I hope, then I will give you the same amount again.’

  Two hundred guineas. More than the yearly wage most Edinburgh working men had to feed and clothe a family and keep a roof over their heads. My mind was already racing ahead, thinking of what I could do with such a sum, as he asked, ‘Well, will you undertake this investigation?’

  ‘Yes, of course I will,’ I stammered. Sight unseen? whispered a shocked conscience. Don’t be a fool, Rose McQuinn. First of all, find out what you’re letting yourself in for.

  Hubert looked pleased. ‘To begin at the beginning, as Vince will have told you, Her Majesty has graciously commanded my services to photograph members of the Royal family, particularly the children – my speciality.’

  Folding his hands together, he said dreamily, ‘Capturing the innocence and radiance of childhood, having them behave at their most natural. Not an easy matter, especially with young Royals who, not to put too fine a point on it, are often quite spoilt and can behave very badly indeed.’

  He paused, his frown saying more than any lengthy explanation. ‘Her Majesty has looked favourably on my efforts. Indeed, they seem to please her and she looks forward most eagerly to seeing the results after each engagement. As I expect you are aware, Her Majesty is a devoted grandmother. She has been most generous.’

  Another pause and, as Hubert took a deep breath, I remembered that Vince had hinted at a knighthood in the offing.

  ‘However, some years ago, as an apprentice in the art of photography, I had experimented in capturing some artistic images which were only for my own pleasure and not for general contemplation.’

  I guessed what was coming as he went on: ‘Alas, they fell into the hands of a thief during a break-in. He had access through the window here in my study. The photographs were kept in a locked drawer—’ Pausing he indicated the desk. ‘And they are now being used as a means of extracting sums of money for his silence.’

  Blackmail was something I had experience of in my profession. Indeed, it was the main root of several of my most successful investigations. There were a number of routine questions I had to ask, firstly: ‘Have you any idea of this thief’s identity?’

  ‘Alas, no.’

  ‘When did this break-in occur?’

  He shrugged. ‘I cannot tell you precisely what time it took place.’

  ‘Quite recently?’

  He shook his head. ‘Six months ago.’

  Rather a long time to elapse before tracking down an anonymous thief, I thought, and said, ‘Were the police alerted?’

  ‘No. Since nothing else of value had been stolen. Only the photographs.’ An uncomfortable shrug. ‘And I had good reasons for keeping silent considering their content.’

  ‘How did this intruder get it? Was the window glass broken or had the latch been forced?’

  ‘The glass was u
nbroken. As regards the latch, however, checking that windows are locked each night would normally fall into a servant’s duties. I am afraid that we are careless about that, especially in warm weather.’

  As he spoke I went over to inspect the window. It was a few feet above ground level with a tree almost touching the wall; almost an invitation to access.

  ‘The key to the locked drawer. Where was it kept?’

  ‘Here,’ he said, pointing to the desk’s long central drawer. There was a pause, then he added, ‘Well, what do you think?’

  From his information I had already decided that this was no casual burglary. Just a step away across the hall there were rooms containing many portable items of considerable value; silver, clocks, ornaments – any of which would make a thief’s daring break-in well worthwhile.

  The clues so far indicated that the thief knew precisely what he was looking for, and I doubted that he had sneaked in at night by the window. The location of the key, so readily to hand, suggested someone who was familiar with the house’s layout. The photographs, I decided, were most probably stolen during the day.

  ‘When did you discover they were missing?’

  ‘Not until I had received the first of these notes demanding payment for their return,’ he said, taking out an envelope from the desk drawer. Opening it, he thrust across the table a sheet of cheap note paper with letters cut from a newspaper. I read:

  ‘Your time has run out. Pay up or the newspapers will get the photographs.’

  ‘This is the third note,’ said Hubert. ‘I was so angry, so outraged, that I destroyed the earlier ones. Each demanded £500 and, to prove he had the stolen items, each one contained a corner of one of the photographs.’

  ‘You were able to recognise them?’

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ he said grimly. ‘They contained enough to leave no doubt of that.’

  ‘May I see the envelope please?’

  ‘All three were posted in Newcastle,’ said Hubert, anticipating my next question. Regarding the postage stamp, I thought cynically that the Queen would not be impressed by the contents relating to her favourite photographer.

  While I was unsure what the term ‘artistic images’ meant, if, as I suspected, Hubert was referring to naked or indecently clad females, then Her Majesty would most certainly be shocked and outraged. Prudish in nature, she had commanded that grand pianos were to have their curvaceous legs packed in covers, and if the contents of such photographs became known, then Hubert would also be sent packing. No knighthood there, alas.

  With any criminal activities, whether murder or mayhem, the first place for questions is within the family circle, the servants and close friends.

  ‘Had you any unexpected visitors at that time?’

  Hubert was silent, thoughtful, making me wonder if he had someone in mind.

  At last he sighed, shook his head. No trail there.

  ‘I have to ask you this again. Please be quite frank about it. Have you any suspicions about who this person might be?’

  Hubert bit his lip, looked unhappy. ‘The only stranger to the household, if he may be so called, is Wolf Rider. He knows the house well, comes and goes as he pleases.’ His glance was loaded with reluctance, his manner implying that he would like to say more but could not conjure up the right words.

  If that was so and he suspected Wolf Rider, why then had he kept him in his employ? Then I remembered Wolf’s extraordinary story of their kinship through Miranda Staines, and I wondered if this might be of some significance as Hubert went on:

  ‘I want you to track down as soon as possible whoever stole the photographs and retrieve them. I shall be most grateful to you, Rose.’

  It was I who would be grateful, I thought, considering the fee I would be receiving should this investigation be successful.

  He must have observed my wry smile as he added with a lofty gesture, ‘The clue, of course, lies in the fact that all the letters have a Newcastle postmark.’ And frowning, as if in afterthought, he added casually: ‘In the absence of a doctor for Kate, Rider also makes frequent trips to Newcastle Central Station to pick up supplies of herbs.’

  Ah, I thought, an indirect accusation. I asked, ‘How many people are acquainted with your, er, present problem?’

  He shook his head, said firmly, ‘No one. I have not confided this unhappy business to anyone – except you now, Rose.’

  Not even Collins? Well, well. I thought that was highly unlikely considering the intimacy of their relationship.

  ‘I find it difficult to remain calm in these circumstances. Matters are hard enough to bear with a young girl so ill upstairs, without these added complications,’ he added in a note of appeal.

  I could sympathise but, as I left him, I felt helpless, wondering where and how to begin.

  Little was revealed in the letter he had received. I had reached one conclusion, however. I believed the thief must be either the blackmailer himself or an individual being paid to steal to order. The Newcastle postmark I dismissed as a deliberate attempt to mask the blackmailer’s identity. Such matters are fairly common. I knew from similar situations in Edinburgh that blackmailers rarely use the postbox at the end of their own street, cunningly prepared to invest in a train journey and the safety offered by some anonymous area.

  As evidence it was a waste of time, and I was fairly sure my search lay closer to home and could be safely narrowed down to the village of Staines, if not the actual household.

  I considered the grim message again, and longed for Jack Macmerry and his access to the relatively new science of fingerprinting. But Jack had gone from my life. At least I now had a case to solve that would engage all my efforts and ease the melancholy of his desertion and the possible loss of Thane.

  I had to admit Thane was showing precious little interest in his ‘beloved owner’ Miss Kate, and none at all in her stepfather, whose final words to me had been:

  ‘I am sure it is not necessary for me to say that I have made you my sole confidant. I am in your hands and I am relying entirely on your discretion.’

  At the door I turned and smiled reassuringly. ‘Discretion Guaranteed, sir. Part of the contract.’

  ‘One more thing, Rose. You are not to call me “sir”.’

  ‘Mr Staines, then. You are employing me—’

  ‘No! Hubert – Hubert, I insist, if we are to be friends. I could never think of myself as your employer,’ his voice softened as he murmured, ‘dear Rose.’ So saying, he made a sudden move from the desk and I took instant flight.

  As I ran upstairs, I wished I could confide in someone – and that someone was Wolf Rider.

  Hubert’s silent eagerness to cast suspicion on him seemed idiotic. At that time I could not imagine Wolf stealing incriminating photographs or using them to blackmail his distant cousin.

  From the little I knew of him, such an idea seemed utterly out of character.

  And I thought then, right or wrong, that Wolf Rider was the one man I would trust.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  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.’

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nbsp; 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?