Destroying Angel (3 page)

And so we went to meet Hubert Staines.

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. 

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.

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.