Destroying Angel (13 page)

I was just glad that I wasn’t going with Hubert alone. I had the feeling that Wolf read my mind and was making sure that I would not be compromised.

We set off early the next morning, with Wolf’s guidance on the tide-tables. It was a beautiful, crisp, early autumn day, still sunny and warm, and we travelled in Hubert’s carriage, with Wolf driving. Thane was in the back, alongside the bulky photographic equipment and my bicycle.

Hubert was a little taken aback by my insistence that it accompany us – I thought secretly, but did not put into words, that it might come in handy for a hasty departure.

We left the carriage outside the local inn, where Hubert was to meet his reverend friend that afternoon once the good light he needed for photography had faded. Shouldering tripod and camera, he set off towards the Priory and seemed disappointed when I declined his offer to accompany him, saying that I intended to make myself useful by helping Wolf gather his herbs, which had been left in the sea-wrack by the ebb tide at the shore.

At the shoreline, Wolf kicked off his moccasins and I removed my boots, carrying them strung round my neck. I wanted to paddle, to feel the sand in my toes. I hadn’t touched the earth barefoot since my days with Danny in Arizona and I had forgotten how good it was. So exhilarating to feel free again, at one with the world of nature.

As Wolf gathered the sea-wrack he needed and I put it in a 
basket, he placed a small black bead in my hand.

‘St Cuthbert’s beads,’ he said. ‘The fossil remains of tiny sea creatures from prehistoric times. A link, so we are told, that rooted the starfish to the sea bottom. Legend says that the saint could work miracles and, during storms, his wraith could be seen among the storm clouds. There’s a poem:

‘“
On a rock by Lindisfarne,

St Cuthbert sits and toils to frame

The seaborne beads that bear his name
.”’

We sat down on a rock to eat our picnic, such humble fare from Mrs Robson scorned by Hubert, who preferred to eat in style at the inn. Looking at Wolf, another holy man, telling me the story of a saint who could work miracles, and observing the devotion in Thane’s eyes as he regarded his hero, I thought all three would probably have understood one other uncommonly well.

‘From this small island, Rose,’ Wolf concluded as he unwrapped a beef sandwich, ‘from this very place, sprang all the elements of your Christian faith in Britain.’

And suddenly it would not have seemed at all remarkable had I looked up to behold the saint striding across the sands, staff in hand to give us a smiling blessing.

This hour of benediction was to stay with me; the tranquil sunshine, the glittering silver waves gently lapping against a boat moored alongside, sheltering us from the breeze, the seabirds’ eternal cry above our heads. In harmony together and with nature. If only it could last forever and the world we had left never intrude again.

At last it was time to leave the crumbs to the sea gulls and head towards the inn to meet Hubert. As I stood up, Wolf gently dusted the sand from my skirt. 

‘Can’t have you all dishevelled,’ he smiled. Turning, my face touched his by accident and he smiled again, then kissed my cheek so gently it was almost an illusion, as if I had been touched by a feather and it wasn’t a kiss at all, just another benediction.

Upright, the wind blew my unruly mop of yellow curls over my eyes and he brushed them back with a gentle hand, a gesture that I would have firmly rejected had it come from Hubert.

Then the moment was over, just the blink of an eye, yet sealed in that place in which memories remain forever young and never grow old or stale or bitter.

He gave me a helping hand, so warm and strong, over the sand dunes, laughing as we stumbled while Thane raced ahead, leaping over the rough grass, his mouth open, joyous, almost laughing too; glad to be with the two humans who mattered most in his strange world.

At the inn, that other world, harsh and real, awaited us.

Hubert and his old friend were seated by a table in the window. The room, drably brown with a spittoon and sawdust on the floor, smelt of spilt ale and stale pipe smoke.

Wentworth Sandeman was introduced.

His appearance – unshaven, unkempt, – did not suggest a man of God and I had a feeling that Hubert had arrived just in the nick of time, since his friend’s shabby clothes, stained and dirty, gave forth an unpleasant odour of unwashed linen.

When I looked at him closely I realised that the smile, the slightly unfocussed stare, spoke of a recent over-indulgence in wine or spirits. When he stood up to shake my hand he almost fell and Hubert, with an embarrassed laugh, steadied him. 

I hoped the reverend would improve on knowing and that I’d soon overcome my first misgivings, which were not helped later by another encounter with Grace in the village.

‘He won’t be welcome back here,’ she said, having met him heading for the local inn that he had wrecked and left under a cloud – of alcohol fumes – some years earlier.

Far from the respectable clergyman as reported by Hubert, who had fallen on hard times, it seemed those hard times came not from his devotions but from a devoted adherence to the bottle.

Hubert was announcing that we were ready to leave and he would be taking Reverend Sandeman to Staines.

But I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I was enjoying my day.

‘I would like to do some sketching in the Priory.’

‘The Rainbow Arch is worth drawing,’ said Wolf enthusiastically, ‘and I still have more plants to collect.’

Hubert didn’t seem at all pleased by this decision and, regarding us both sternly for a moment, he said, ‘Then you must please yourselves. But let me remind you it is a long walk home if you miss the tide.’

He had presumably forgotten the existence of my bicycle in his carriage parked outside.

Wolf handed it down to me silently and we left them, Hubert escorting Sandeman, who was hanging heavily upon his arm and swaying quite a bit.

We parted at the Priory and I began to draw, entranced by the architecture, the arch still so imposing despite its ruinous condition. Soon I was completely absorbed in my task and lost to the world – and to Staines in particular – but at last a shadow fell across the page.

‘That is very good, Rose.’ It was Wolf. 

‘Must we go?’

‘I’m afraid so. I must drag you away if we are to get back before the tide comes in.’

At that moment I would have happily settled for being stranded on the island that had so captivated me.

‘Ride your bicycle, Rose. Thane and I will keep up with you.’

And so they did, and a pretty unusual spectacle we must have presented to the few people we passed by. A woman on a bicycle – surely a rare sight on the island – with a huge deerhound the size of a pony trotting ahead and Wolf Rider running alongside in that easy, tireless pace that I had seen Indian warriors maintain, hour after hour, day after day, in Arizona.

Supper was already on the table when we arrived back at Staines. Hubert gave us dark looks. At his side sat Reverend Sandeman, beaming, but looking remarkably untidy, a blot on the elegant surroundings. Collins seemed very subdued, and there was no sign of Kate.

Wolf produced some St Cuthbert’s beads and shells he had collected for her. Collins said she would pass them on as Kate wasn’t feeling particularly well today and had decided to have dinner in her room.

Was Kate distraught over Cedric’s death? If this was a case of first love, oh, how that hurt! And I wondered if Hubert was remotely aware of the reason for her grief? Angrily, I thought again of his trickery, that he had made up the story of her assignation and had hinted maliciously that he knew the man’s identity.

With so many questions still unanswered, so ended my one 
and only day at the seaside, while the storm brewing up on the horizon and whipping the trees into a frenzy was also the end of my calm.

I slept well that night and the next morning a letter arrived for me. It was from my stepbrother.

Hubert hovered, unable to restrain his curiosity since this was the first communication I had received during my visit. I told him that Vince was on an overnight visit to Newcastle and wondered if I could possibly meet him there. At such short notice, I was surprised that he had not sent a telegraph, until I saw the Royal seal and learnt later that it had been dropped off at Alnwick Station and delivered to Staines by special courier.

‘Why can’t he come here to see you?’ Hubert demanded.

‘I imagine it’s because he’s on Royal business, as usual.’

That seemed to placate as well as impress Hubert. As for me, Newcastle seemed impossibly far away, but Hubert, now mollified by Vince’s important role, came to the rescue.

Wolf Rider would drive me to Alnwick where I could pick up a train to Newcastle.

I murmured about the bicycle to Alnwick but he said sternly, ‘Too undignified, quite unseemly for a young lady off to meet a member of Her Majesty’s household. I am sure Vince would not approve.’

Despite the friendship Vince told me existed between the two men, I felt certain then that they were mere acquaintances bound only by the fact that both were in Her Majesty’s service. 

Although I had become quite accustomed to Vince’s surprise visits in Edinburgh, when the Royal train paused on its way back and forth to Balmoral and Her Majesty released him for an hour or two, a meeting in Newcastle would be an exciting new experience, an unexpected treat well worth the two changes of train involved.

Fifty years ago such a journey would not have been undertaken lightly, but the railway line linking Scotland and England had opened a new era, a boon to major cities, and Newcastle had seen a rash of Royal visits to open new institutions, launch ships, open bridges, hospitals and the like.

Vince’s brief message informed me that he was to accompany Mr Windsor on a journey from London to Newcastle, and that he hoped we could meet in the Station Hotel, where he would be staying overnight to address a learned society while Mr Windsor, having done his duty at a launch, would be paying a private visit.

After consulting Wolf’s timetables, I bicycled into Alnwick, bought Vince a late birthday gift of slippers, and sent him a telegraph care of the hotel regarding my arrival. Meanwhile, Wolf decided that I should be taken in the carriage to Morpeth, where trains were more frequent. 

And so it was that half an hour after leaving Wolf, I found myself staring out of the window at the approach to Newcastle. I watched out for the ancient castle, called the Black Gate, the great sweep of the Cathedral and Pilgrim Street – tramped many centuries ago by those on pilgrimage to St Mary’s Chapel, in Jesus Mount, the holy place that was now a crumbling ruin, tucked away in the wealthy city suburb renamed Jesmond.

I stepped off the train, and emerging from the wreath of smoke I was most impressed by the station’s cathedral-like magnificence. It had been built in celebration of Stevenson’s steam train, which replaced, with what seemed like unbelievable comfort, the long tedious journey by stage coach to York and, with several other stops at coaching inns, along the way to London.

I looked for that familiar face in vain. Vince was not there to meet me. Before uncertainty could extend into panic a gentleman, obviously a station official by his impressive
gold-encrusted
uniform, was heading rapidly in my direction. Bowing, he glanced around in some confusion. I realised his problem. I was the only lady travelling without even a maid.

‘Mrs McQuinn? You are alone.’ His eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Dr Laurie has requested that I escort you to your hotel.’

A somewhat menial task, I felt, to be imposed upon him, and quite at odds with his elegant attire.

‘Your luggage, ma’am?’

More shocks for the poor gentleman as I handed him a rather shabby leather container, which was considerably battered by its usual sojourn in my bicycle’s saddle bag. With an ill-suppressed sigh of disapproval, he took it from me. 
Obviously this was not the quality of luggage that he had expected, nor was I quite the lady of quality his duty as escort had anticipated. He led the way through the station and into the entrance of the hotel, where eager faces in reception followed our progress up well-carpeted stairs to the first floor.

At either side of the door sat two very large, solemn-faced gentlemen. Despite lacking uniforms, they had the undeniable look of guards.

One tapped on the door.

It opened and there was Vince. As always he grinned, gave a whoop of delight, seized me in his arms and swung me into the air. A breathless return to childhood and, despite my giggling protests, it was no difficult achievement for a now rather stately middle-aged man whose little sister was less than five feet tall.

He closed the door, with a word of thanks. No tip, of course, was expected by the uniformed railway official. Such a gesture would have been undignified and an insult, especially when I took in my surroundings.

This was no ordinary hotel room but a luxurious suite of rooms. Now I understood the air of excitement in the reception lobby. It was not for Dr Laurie or his guest: a door opened and Mr Windsor emerged.

I had seen photographs and there was no mistaking that this was the heir to the throne. I beheld a vast, portly,
well-corseted
figure, with uncommonly small feet. Bearded, and with a port-wine countenance redeemed by remarkably fine deep blue eyes which were already surveying me in an expression I had previously despised in humbler males elsewhere.

An expression that any woman would immediately 
recognise, to put it crudely, as a question whether or not the lady might be bed-worthy and willing. For that, according to well-founded rumour, was still Bertie’s chief concern. After all, he had little else to do with his life, as Vince subsequently explained by way of excuse, but open bridges, hospitals and institutions or launch ships.

All these activities were organised and briskly put into operation by a despairing Government to keep him in the public eye, since it was unlikely that he would ever become king. Especially as his imperial mamma, who led a much healthier and virtually cloistered life, seemed likely to outlive her eldest, reprobate son. Again according to hearsay, she had a reputation for keeping Bertie on a very tight rein where government prospects or important decisions were concerned.

Introduced as Mr Windsor, he took my hand and held it warmly, as I inclined my head graciously. The pseudonym dispensed with the necessity of a curtsey. However, as the Royal eyebrow twitched, I wondered if he found my reaction disappointing.

At my side, Vince shuffled uncomfortably, gave that suppressed cough that always declared embarrassment. He had not expected this sudden appearance from the inner chamber, lured by curiosity and, as I later learnt, the tales he had been told about me.

Young, attractive widows had long been considered the best Royal game; less dangerous than married women with irate husbands to be fended off with yet another Royal appointment, to Mamma’s extreme displeasure.

Young virgins were equally, or perhaps even more, desirable, and were chosen strictly from the classes where an unfortunate pregnancy could be dealt with by a small favour 
or a hastily arranged marriage to some Royal menial – a footman or some fellow in the kitchen servant class. All very tiresome, of course.

And at that moment it was as if I could read the Royal mind, especially knowing the reputation that had gone before him. He was anxious to put me at my ease – make a conquest, for heaven’s sake – a necessary escape from the boredom of another dreary Royal engagement at the local, rather dirty and smelly shipbuilders’ yard.

I looked sternly at Vince, hoping I was mistaken – that Mr Windsor was not under the misapprehension that Dr Laurie had brought his young stepsister as an appetiser for His Royal Highness. But as I was being interrogated, quite pleasantly and genially, regarding my journey, an almost imperceptible shake of the head from Vince indicated his innocence of such a monstrous idea, as he later confirmed with many apologies.

It so happened that he had been as surprised as I was by the intrusion, since Mr Windsor was allegedly resting, having commanded that he was not to be disturbed and banished his valet to wherever hotel servants were kept until required.

‘So you are residing with my old friend, Hubert Staines. Takes great photographs. Have you seen his ladies?’

He paused, head on side, with a wicked look in his eyes. ‘Probably not, though I fancy you would not be as easily shocked as my dear mamma. After all, the good Lord gave us bodies to be admired and give pleasure to one another.’

A suppressed cough from Vince’s direction and Mr Windsor threw back his head and laughed. A rather loud, coarse laugh, the kind one would associate with the hunting field or the gaming tables, rather than with Royalty. 

He wagged a finger at me. ‘I knew your father, Inspector Faro. We had dealings in his official capacity some years ago, y’ know.’

‘I did not know, sir.’ Pappa was most particular about observing rigid confidentially and never discussed with us cases involving any of the Royal family.

Mr Windsor grinned. ‘Is that so? He never mentioned me. Very commendable indeed. A stickler for truth and honesty. Mamma thought the world of her inspector, y’know,’ he added, as if Pappa was dead, which he most probably was long ago to Bertie.

‘Besides, you would have been too young to be interested in the goings-on of the grown-up world. Give my regards to Staines. Tell him, I haven’t forgotten the incident at the card table, on my last visit – lost quite a packet.’

He bowed to indicate that the audience was ended and I felt Vince’s hand on my arm.

‘Enjoy your visit. Staines is a very fortunate man to have such beauty ready at hand. Ah, I see I have made you blush.’

I was not blushing but I managed a bow in return and as he made an exit, the ‘Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed’ was already rapidly considering a new development.

Had I made an important discovery? Was ‘Mr Windsor’ the mystery visitor Cedric had hinted about? Was he the reason the photographs had been brought up from the dark room? Obviously it was unlikely that he would be blackmailing Hubert, but if by any chance the stolen photographs involved His Royal Highness – or one of his mistresses – the scandal that would ensue if such were to reach Her Majesty’s eyes or were made available to the general public would be highly embarrassing, to say the least. 

Such were my thoughts as Mr Windsor, his curiosity about Vince’s visitor satisfied, disappeared to continue his afternoon rest. However, I was delighted to be alone with Vince, to have a little time together, as we had a mere hour before the local train left for Morpeth where Wolf had promised to meet me with the carriage.

Vince did not know about Wolf Rider and was only mildly interested when I told him of our earlier meeting in Edinburgh and the strange coincidence that had brought us together again at Staines. I left it at that. Explanations would take too much time, time that was so precious and so fleeting in all our brief meetings.

‘You’re looking very well. So good of you to come all this way, Rose,’ he added, hugging me again. ‘Olivia sends her love and says I am to persuade you to come to London for a holiday and meet the children.’

All three of them, strangers to me, and growing fast as children do, I thought sadly. Promising to take up Olivia’s offer, I wondered why he was with Mr Windsor but I knew better than to ask. As a junior physician to the Royal Household, the Queen seemed to rely on him to accompany, with vast quantities of remedial medicines, any members of her vast family should they be suffering from the mildest of indispositions.

Doubtless aware of my curiosity, Vince volunteered that Mr Windsor had been plagued recently by bouts of indigestion and other disorders of the stomach. A fact that did not surprise me, considering his vast girth and reputed appetite for food, wine and spirits.

‘So I am here to have the powders at the ready after meals, and to make sure that he takes them regularly. Not a bad life, 
really,’ he added with a grin, ‘considering the life I would have had as a family doctor back home in Edinburgh. All thanks to Stepfather’s good influence.’

‘And to your own abilities, Vince,’ I added sternly.

Vince shook his head. ‘Inspector Faro just happened to have Her Majesty’s ear on a case at the right time,’ he insisted. ‘What of you, Rose? Hear anything from Jack?’

I told him no, and I suspected he was sorry that Jack Macmerry and I had parted, but still had hopes that we might yet marry after all.

‘And your dog – Thane? Is he happy to be back with his rightful owners again?’

I made this as easy as possible. ‘He seems to have forgotten them, thinks he belongs to me now.’

Vince nodded, not terribly interested. ‘And how is Hubert?’

I said, ‘He is very well. Sent his best wishes, and hoped you would be able to look in at Staines.’

Vince gave me a rueful smile. ‘Alas, we are heading in the wrong direction. But there might be a last minute change of plans – one can never tell with Mr Windsor – there have been hints of a lightning visit to the Northumberlands at Alnwick. But it would be brief indeed, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to escape my duties. Tell me,’ he added anxiously, ‘how is the little girl – Kate?’

‘The little girl, as you described her to me, Vince, is seventeen years old, a lovely young lady, who looks surprisingly healthy, in fact.’

This did not have the dramatic response I expected. Vince merely shook his head sadly. ‘Poor Hubert. One can understand considering his tragic history – losing his wife and so forth. He is just being over-protective and still thinks of her 
as a little daughter. Besides, that glowing look, a fine complexion, is often a symptom of consumption.’

This was indeed a new slant on Hubert and Kate. He carried on, patting his rather tight waistcoat ruefully, ‘When we reach middle-age, we tend to regard the young as children by comparison. Anyway, it is reassuring to hear your verdict on her present condition.’

I couldn’t let it go at that, but I hadn’t the heart to tell him that he had been misinformed by Hubert regarding the true reason for taking Thane to Staines. Should I tell him about the blackmailer?

At that moment I felt an urgent necessity to confide my fears, and Vince was closest to me. I knew from his situation with the Royals that he was also the soul of discretion, and no secret confided in him would ever be whispered to anyone.

But Vince no doubt had responsibilities enough and I did not want to add to them worries about my welfare. So I decided to tell him about the stolen photographs and Hubert’s blackmailer, sparing him the details of Collins’ attempt to poison me and Cedric’s death.

He listened carefully, fingertips folded together, saying nothing, for all the world a physician in his consulting rooms. At the end he said, ‘There might be an even stronger reason for their recovery. When our friend back there’, he nodded towards the door through which Mr Windsor had disappeared, ‘talked about Hubert’s ladies, he obviously had seen some photographs and now I wonder – did he perhaps experiment with the camera himself on his visits to Staines?’