Destroying Angel Read online

  ‘Observe the trees. See how still they are, drawing into themselves as a man does his coat as the storm approaches. They have sent the signal to the leaves – have you ever seen leaves so still, as if they were alerted to danger?’

  That was true, they looked as lifeless as a painted picture, frozen in time, although I would have sworn that only moments ago, they had been moving gently above our heads.

  Giving me a gentle push towards my bicycle, he said, ‘Get yourself into sheltering walls, Rose. You can warn them up there, of course, but they probably won’t believe that there will be storm, a wild destructive storm before many more hours have passed.’

  As I headed back I had more things on my mind, I must confess, than Wolf’s predicted storm. I was thinking of those five deaths and not one of them that might truly be classed as ‘natural causes’.

  Amy’s suicide, then her lover, Dave, encounters a faulty gun and her heartbroken mother falls out of the window. Dr Holt’s carriage encounters a train on the level crossing, which also accounts for the accident to Lily’s angry father.

  Collecting Thane, who gazed rather resentfully at my bicycle that had deprived him of a walk, I took him inside to see Kate who again hardly looked up from her book. Thane made no joyous attempt to interrupt her and sat down grumpily near the door.

  As I patted his head, he gave me a reproachful look, sank his head upon his paws, and with an almost human sigh, closed his eyes.

  Back in my room, I knew I must direct all my concentration and energy towards the main issue: Hubert’s blackmailer.

  At this stage I thought it extremely unlikely that therewould be any clue to link the five unfortunate deaths with the stolen photographs, but I was, after all, being paid handsomely to think positively.

  Regretting the absence of my logbook, still in Edinburgh with all its cases written up, I used instead the back pages of the sketchbook which accompanied me everywhere. It seemed extremely unlikely that I would find time to sketch rural scenes on this particular assignment.

  So I began my list of possible suspects:

  First, Lily the maid and friend of Kate, whom I had already decided was an unlikely blackmailer unless she had an accomplice. But from Mrs Robson, I knew that Lily had married a railwayman who, no doubt familiar with the main line, would have ample opportunity to post blackmailing notes from Newcastle. The couple now lived in Alnwick, information that was useless unless I could discover his surname.

  And then, as always, what was the motive? Mrs Robson said the couple had been given a substantial sum by Hubert. Had Lily’s husband decided that it wasn’t enough?

  To build further on this picture, I imagined Lily’s husband, armed with information from his wife, a former maid in the house, breaking in and stealing the photographs, simply intent on making some money out of them. Or was it possible that Lily had posed as a model in some of Hubert’s revealing photographs? If her husband had seen them, with or without Lily’s knowledge, jealous and angry, had he decided to have his revenge?

  The letter Hubert had shown me was not one of those ill-spelt pencilled notes I had encountered in two similar cases in Edinburgh, but suggested the hand of someone with cunning enough to cut out the letters from a newspaper, making it all the more impossible to identify the sender.

  And that led me to the second name on my list: Collins, who seemed certain to have ready access to the required ingredients. I could see her diligently cutting out letters and sticking them on paper.

  Was she desperate and angry that her position as Hubert’s lover was not likely to end in marriage after all? She had a lot to gain financially but also a lot to lose – Hubert, if he ever found out.

  I would need to know a great deal more about Collins than our brief acquaintance had revealed so far. All I knew was that she was unable to disguise her feelings of dislike and fear that I was trying to steal her lover.

  A ridiculous idea, but I would be wise to discover her background. How she had met Hubert, what of her family, if any, and so forth.

  Third was Wolf Rider. This I could not take seriously even though he and Hubert were distant cousins – family relationships were so often a reason for murder, where inheritance was the prize. Did Wolf, despite what he had told me, nurse secret yearnings to become lord of an English manor? Perhaps he needed money if he wished to return to Arizona or wanted to buy a home here in Britain. But since he claimed to like Scotland and seemed totally disinterested in material possessions, I could not imagine him taking such a bizarre action.

  I felt I could safely cross his name off my list.

  Fourth was Grace Sloan, the doctor’s widow. Before meeting her, I had wondered if she had borne an unknown grudge against Hubert Staines, possibly relating to her husband’s untimely death. But when we met, she was candid enough to reveal that she had been glad to be rid of Dr Holt so that she could marry again. And though she and her new husband, Peter, clearly disliked Hubert, they were both unlikely candidates for the role of blackmailer – unless they knew of the photographs and were chancing their luck. Unlikely, was my comment.

  I was left with the remaining permanent occupants of Staines Manor: Kate, whom, of course, I could dismiss – apart from being an invalid, she was also Hubert’s indulged stepdaughter, with everything she desired.

  Mrs Robson was an even more unlikely suspect. Although she perhaps had more chance of finding the incriminating photographs as she had free access to Hubert’s study for cleaning purposes, I doubted whether she would have considered them worthy of more than a brief and perhaps shocked glance. I was fairly certain it would never have entered her mind, had she even desperately needed the money, to imperil her immortal soul by challenging her master, a member of the class she venerated as so much above her.

  But there was one more suspect on my list. The ne’er-do-well Cedric, whose character Mrs Robson reluctantly admitted left much to be desired. Suppose she had mentioned the photographs in a hushed and scandalised voice, and that gave him the idea that they were worth taking a look at. He had access to the house and in Hubert’s absence he might have seized the opportunity to steal them.

  I decided that, so far, Cedric was the most likely candidate for the role of blackmailer with the best motive, a lack of moral conscience and a constant need of money.

  So I put a star against his name and closed my book without the least idea where to begin. There were no clear roads into this labyrinth. I had hoped initially that meeting Grace, the doctor’s widow, would start peeling the onion, leading to the next layer and so on. But I now realised that I had no leads to follow. Except Cedric.

  How to question him? Could I ask start by asking him to tell me about the gun incident and the death of Amy’s lover, events that had little to do with Hubert’s blackmailer? I winced away from any closer acquaintance with that knowing leer, his eyes crawling all over me like black beetles.

  I did not doubt that this was going to prove a very difficult case, and I had a shrewd idea that I was going to earn every shilling of that handsome fee, those two hundred guineas.

  I suppose I should have felt heartened that my role as Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed was the main reason Hubert had been so anxious to bring me to Staines, since Kate’s reactions to her ‘beloved lost deerhound’ indicated that she instinctively recognised that he was not her Roswal.

  And I had a certain impetus for solving this case: the sooner I apprehended Hubert’s blackmailer, the sooner Thane and I would be free to return home to Edinburgh. I resolved to start immediately.

  In that my instinct was correct, for by the next morning, when the clock had moved forward twelve hours, the scene had changed dramatically. The stage was set and, like the storm steadily approaching but still mercifully veiled, there were terrible events lying in wait.

  The first attempted murder…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The sky was still cloudless and I decided to clear my mind with a visit to Alnwick, where I was certain the lead
s in my investigation lay in wait. With luck I might find someone employed at the railway station who knew Lily and her husband and their present whereabouts.

  Locating the library would be useful. In Edinburgh, the library had always proved an invaluable source of information, and back-copies of newspapers could be relied upon to provide more graphic accounts of local events, like those accidents on the level crossing.

  I decided to leave my bicycle and have a brisk walk, which Thane would enjoy. We had accomplished most of the journey when I was hailed by Cedric.

  He had been occupying my thoughts so much as prime suspect that I felt a blush riding up from my neck which, I hoped, would not be regarded as a quite different emotion.

  Getting smartly into step alongside me, he looked down into my face and treated me to one of his atrocious leers. ‘Goin’ into the town, are we?’

  I said yes a little coolly but he was not to be put off by my somewhat obvious lack of enthusiasm for his company. ‘Goin’ to the shops?’

  In response to my non-committal shrug, he laughed. ‘Auntie’ll give ye a great list of things to bring back if she knows. She’s like that, never misses an opportunity for a body to fetch and carry for her, lazy old cow.’

  If he expected some comment, there was none, except that I hastened my steps to increase the distance between us.

  ‘Thinks a lot of hersel’ does Auntie, being with the gentry all these years, shaken the hand of Royalty in her time. Visitors they aren’t allowed to talk about too.’

  I felt mildly interested and he went on. ‘Guests of the lord and master.’ He put his finger to his lips and looked round with an elaborate air of secrecy. ‘Shh – not supposed to talk about that. Very proper is Auntie, knows her place and the side her bread’s buttered on, if ye get my meaning.’ And with a mock shudder, he added, ‘She’d skin me alive if I telt anyone—’

  His skin was saved by a shrill whistle, his name hoarsely shouted as a lad about his own age emerged from a cottage and approached us. ‘Comin’ to the pub for a jar, Ceddy?’

  ‘Right by me, Jock.’ Cedric grinned and with a mock bow added, ‘If ye’ll excuse me, that is.’

  I nodded coldly, and as he left me I heard his friend remark: ‘Is she not coming too?’

  He sounded disappointed and Cedric’s answer was indistinct, but it was greeted with a roar of laughter, as his friend thumped him on the shoulder. ‘You don’t say. Thought ye’d got yersel’ a right classy fancy woman.’

  I hurried on, cutting across a rough path where the towers of Alnwick Castle were visible above the trees, when Thane suddenly sat down.

  ‘Come along, Thane.’

  He did not move. I looked at him. Such behaviour was odd, since he loved a walk and distance never bothered him.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ I said rather impatiently, ‘It’s not far now.’

  He was staring straight ahead. Then he turned slowly, shivered, and regarded me with that imploring look, almost human in its intensity, that I knew so well.

  Something was wrong. But there was nothing in sight, just that well-worn path across scrubland leading into the town. ‘What is it?’ I asked, touching his head.

  He remained quite still. And then I saw it, what I took to be a milestone just yards away. I went for a closer look. The stone was to commemorate a battle if the crossed swords were any indication, but only a few letters of the inscription remained, the rest having been worn away long since by wind and weather.

  ‘Is that it, Thane?’ I asked softly.

  He shivered, stood up, and shook himself.

  ‘I didn’t realise you could read.’ I walked on a few steps, expecting him to follow, but when I turned and said, ‘Come on, everything is all right,’ he remained stubbornly unmoving, as if rooted to the spot, a living statue.

  What was I to do? I didn’t feel like continuing, nor could I do so and leave him here. Besides, I knew Thane well enough not to disregard his warnings, and as danger had seemed obvious, I turned back.

  There was no sign of Cedric and his friend and the road was almost empty apart from an old gentleman, perched on a large stone and smoking a pipe.

  He was reading, and at closer quarters he had the look of a scholar. Saluting me gravely, he gave me good-day and pointed at Thane, who had raced ahead.

  ‘A fine hound you have there, miss. Gave me quite a shock when I saw him. Lovely old chap, aren’t you, let’s have a look at you,’ he said holding out his hand to Thane, who, always polite, with a swift look in my direction, allowed his head to be patted.

  The old gentleman smiled. ‘You gave me quite a turn, old chap,’ he repeated and to me: ‘Don’t see many deerhounds these days, miss. Thought I was seeing a ghost.’

  ‘A ghost?’

  ‘Indeed, yes.’ Seeing my frown, he went on: ‘Stranger in these parts, are you?’ I nodded and he smiled. ‘Then you won’t have heard the old legend. Place hereabouts, all this area,’ he gestured with his pipe, ‘was where the English defeated the Scottish army long ago at the Battle of Alnwick. Year 1093 it was. The Scottish King Malcolm, the son of Duncan and the defeater of Macbeth, was slain and his devoted hound, who had followed him into battle, leapt upon the armoured English knight and tore out his throat. The soldiers tried to catch him but he was too quick for them, just disappeared, vanished.’

  He paused and added, ‘Never seen again, but some say his ghost haunts this road, baying at the moon, mourning his lost master.’

  ‘Have you ever seen it?’

  He shook his head, grinned. ‘Not I. Not until this evening, miss,’ he chuckled. ‘Thought I’d have a fine tale to tell my grandbairns when I got home. My daughter, of course, would scold me and say I’d been at the brandy again.’ He paused. ‘Where do you live, miss. Have you far to go?’

  ‘Just to Staines.’

  He frowned, ‘Oh, that’s where the pit was. Knew it well once upon a time. Worked down there as a young lad, before my lungs gave out and I had to seek more congenial employment. Never liked the pit – too many accidents.’ He grinned. ‘Teaching was vastly preferable – and safer.’

  He stood up with a groan and an arthritic creak. ‘Good to talk to you and meet this old chap,’ he said giving Thane a final pat. ‘I’ll bid you both goodnight.’ And looking up at the sky he pointed in the direction of Alnwick. ‘See you get home before the rain, I fancy we’re in for a storm.’

  I watched him go and quickened my steps, Thane trotting eagerly by my side. Now his reluctance had an eerie explanation. Did he see that other ghostly hound? Was that battle still taking place in some other segment of the circle of time to which Thane – and Wolf, I suspected – had access? Access that was denied to most other mortals, myself included?

  Or, another uneasy thought struck me. Was Thane reliving his own past? This ‘creature of heaven’ – according to Sir Walter Scott’s description – where had he come from that day three years ago when I met him on Arthur’s Seat? His coat shiny, so groomed, well fed and clean, he was certainly no stray. That was one mystery still unsolved, especially as his behaviour each passing day clearly indicated that he was not Roswal, Hubert Staines’ missing deerhound.

  When we reached the back door, Mrs Robson was taking the washing off the line outside the kitchen. As we exchanged greetings, I remembered Cedric’s remarks about a mysterious visitor no one was allowed to talk about.

  Did I have another suspect to add to my list, this person or persons unknown, that not even Hubert had been prepared to discuss? Was that the vital piece of information, the missing piece of the puzzle? And if so, why he was reluctant to confide in me?

  Wolf’s predicted storm blew up two hours later, out of that hitherto cloudless sky. The earth took on a strange stillness; the distant hills had a dazed look too, as if all life held its breath. In the garden, the trees stood starkly against a sky wiped clean of all colour, their burden of leaves shivering gently although there was as yet no wind, like spinsters whispering an improper story.r />
  A blackbird asserting his territorial rights and sparrows going about their business of noisily pursuing domestic matters were suddenly watchful. In human terms they would have been described as peering apprehensively over their shoulders, alert to danger. Somewhere a solitary robin gave voice, an eerie sound piercing the silence.

  Near at hand I heard Mrs Robson in the corridors busy checking shutters and closing the first rattling windows. A moment’s respite to batten down hatches and then the gales began, great swooping winds, so strong it seemed impossible that such noisy elements should remain invisible. In some ruthless pursuit, they gathered momentum and violence, penetrating every nook and cranny, howling down chimneys and along corridors, an army of trapped demons.

  Rain followed, crashing waves of water, hurling themselves against wall and window. Mrs Robson looked into my room and said, ‘Just wanted to make sure you’re all right. We’re in for a right storm, so stay away from the window. There’ll be lightning as like as not. Not scared of thunder, are you?’

  I said no, that I rather enjoyed storms, at which Mrs Robson looked worried. Obviously she regarded taking pleasure in storms as very odd indeed. She shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t if you lived in the country, lass.’

  I did not add that I had witnessed tornados in Arizona that would make an English storm look like a mountain mist as she went on: ‘In towns it’s different. High buildings to protect you, but here the elements can do so much damage. Like that earth tremor when the colliery workings collapsed.’ And she repeated the story of how there had been an outcry when the colliery was closed.

  ‘Sir’s father wouldn’t give permission to keep it open. He was right, too, and just in time. The seam ran right under us here and he’d have lost the house too.’

  As she bustled off to check the other rooms, I was aware that darkness had come early, riding on the storm. Heavy black clouds were billowing across the horizon, like some monstrous fleet of ships in full sail. The trees and bushes in the garden below were no longer still; they were now swaying to a wild dance, their leaves shiny, bright emerald in the gloom.