Destroying Angel E-Book

Alanna Knight

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Rose McQuinn
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 347

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Autumn, 1897. Rose McQuinn has lost the love of her ambitious fiance, Jack Macmerry, and now it seems she is to lose her elusive deerhound as well. Hubert Staines claims his fatally ill stepdaughter is Thane's rightful owner, and Rose cannot refuse to return him. But when she arrives at the family home near Alnwick Castle in Northumberland, it soon becomes clear that Hubert has a hidden agenda. The family's tragic history unfolds, revealing dark secrets that haunt those involved and a series of suspicious deaths. And in a bizarre and unexpected climax, Rose finds herself a likely candidate as the murderer's next victim...

Leseprobe

Destroying Angel

A Rose McQuinn Mystery

ALANNA KNIGHT

To Alex Gray and Lin Anderson, my dear friends and favourite Femmes Fatales, with love.

Contents

Title PageDedicationCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENAbout the AuthorBy Alanna KnightCopyrightAdvertisement

CHAPTER ONE

I thought that danger belonged to the past and that happiness would last forever.

But I was wrong. Soon I was to lose the two most dear to me. Once again I had not heeded the harsh truth that happiness is to be counted in brief moments, too often in hours only, although fate occasionally grants a few extra days. That is all we can hope for.

That early autumn of 1897 was blissful for me due to a long and eagerly awaited visit from Pappa and Imogen Crowe, who had cause to celebrate. Orphaned, when she was sixteen she had been brought over to London by her Fenian uncle who had secretly planned to assassinate Queen Victoria. They were both arrested. Now past forty, her wrongful conviction as an Irish terrorist had been acknowledged by the British Government as a miscarriage of justice.

Recent celebrations had included a visit to my home in Solomon’s Tower where we enjoyed a succession of divine days and – for Edinburgh – divine weather. For me, every day was another awakening to joy. My fiancé Jack Macmerry, Pappa’s son-in-law elect, joined in the family celebration and so did Thane. Normally so elusive with strangers, my shy deerhound looked in cautiously, wagged his tail and permitted the newcomers to pat his head.

A merciful Fate, with a taste for irony, provided no inkling, no intuitive flash in that time of magic how close I was to losing those I held dearest.

On the day Pappa and Imogen left to continue their travels to the Highlands I was aware that Jack was unusually thoughtful, a preoccupation I put down readily enough to the stress of working as a detective inspector with the Edinburgh City Police. I smiled indulgently, recalling how I had enjoyed watching Jack with Pappa, ex-Chief Inspector Faro, as they compared notes. How I had warmed to the intimacy of those moments, which had almost persuaded me that I was doing the right thing in marrying Jack.

But I did not marry him.

When at last I recovered from the almost fatal events of the disastrous Golden Jubilee visit to his parents’ home in Peebles where we were to have been married, doubts again crept in at the prospect of legalising our life together, which we had enjoyed for three years without the benefit of a marriage ceremony.

The main reason for my reluctance to tie this particular knot was a growing certainty that with it must end my career as a Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed. There had been hints and more than hints, stern reminders, that Jack – a clever young detective with ambitions to become a chief inspector – could not be expected to tolerate a female sleuth as wife. Especially one who dabbled in domestic crimes which anxious clients considered for their own varied, and not always respectable, reasons unworthy of police investigation.

‘Most unsuitable.’

Jack had long made it plain that such a role would place in jeopardy any hopes he had of elevation to the higher ranks of the City Police. And it did not take long for me to realise that, much as he protested his love for me, I had a rival. His ambition was even stronger.

The choice was mine and it had to be made. Did I love him enough to sacrifice a promising and flourishing career? The answer was simply that I could never be just Mrs Macmerry warming her husband’s slippers by the fire. I was a Faro, after all, and my father’s daughter. Solving crimes, for good or ill, was my inheritance.

But even as I rehearsed and discarded suitable words I was in for a disagreeable surprise when Jack, following me indoors after we had waved goodbye to Pappa and Imogen, solemnly declared that we had urgent and important matters to discuss.

Once again I presumed that this was to discuss a date for our wedding and, armed with a plausible excuse to merit yet another delay, it never occurred to me that Jack might be having second thoughts himself. In fact, I could hardly believe what I was hearing as he stumbled through the words.

I was being told by Jack, my faithful devoted Jack, that he had met someone else. A young woman in Glasgow.

He spoke rapidly, just a little above a whisper. Obviously very embarrassed and deeply upset by this confession, I almost pitied him as he stammered that he thought he was in love with this young lady, but needed time to think it through. Would I be agreeable to a short separation, ‘a little breathing-space’ until he had made up his mind and was certain this was not just a fleeting infatuation.

Suddenly I was aware of my own reactions. Shaking, my heart beating wildly, I had never been so shocked. It was unbelievable. I blinked rapidly. Surely this was a dreadful nightmare, one from which I would awaken any moment with Jack’s arm about me. But I didn’t wake up. This was not the stuff that dreams are made of. This was real life. Truth, rejection, harsh and bitter.

Quite correctly in the circumstances, he did not stay at Solomon’s Tower that night and I lay sleepless beside his empty pillow with the certainty that the love I had taken for granted was about to be snatched from me.

The irony was that all the while I had been craftily considering a convincing escape clause, so too had Jack, but with a much stronger reason.

I was honest enough not to pretend that my heart was broken. That had happened once already when my husband, Danny McQuinn, vanished in Arizona three years ago. I had to accept that he was almost certainly dead and I would never open the door of Solomon’s Tower, as I had so often in dreams, to find him smiling, waiting to take me in his arms.

I had rebuilt my life without him and, although Jack’s rejection was a grievous blow, I had suffered worse in my life: the loss of a beloved husband and an infant son. I had survived.

I was not completely lost. I still had my career, Solomon’s Tower and Thane.

Or so I thought…

Yes, I still had Thane and any day now my beloved stepbrother, Dr Vincent Beaumarcher Laurie, junior physician to Her Majesty’s Household, would visit Solomon’s Tower, as he did whenever the Royal train was stationary for a few hours in Waverley Station on the journey to or from Balmoral Castle.

Without Jack I would devote myself to my thriving career. Jack might well scorn domestic cases, but I was relieved. True, there was a certain sameness about absconding wives or husbands, thieving servants, lost wills and frauds – all too predictable to merit more than a brief note in my logbook, where only murders justified a detailed case history.

But I certainly had no wish for murders. There I was treading – often innocently unaware – on dangerous ground. I shuddered to remember that on two of my previous investigations but for the timely intervention of Jack and Thane I would have become the killer’s next victim. I had them to thank for my deliverance.

When Vince arrived two days later, I told him that Jack and I were to separate for a while and there would be no wedding in the immediate future. I hoped to sound casual. For Jack’s sake and perhaps as a sop to my wounded pride, I preferred to take the line that this was a shared decision, especially as Vince liked Jack and should we get together again, might thereafter regard him in a poorer light.

His reaction was unexpectedly noncommittal. He merely shook his head, called Jack a fine fellow and hoped that I might not regret agreeing to such a proposal. I was relieved that he did not make as much fuss as I had feared. Indeed, he seemed more preoccupied than usual on this brief visit, and I had encountered the signs of frequent throat-clearing, suppressed sighs and uneasy glances often enough through the years to recognise that he was the bearer of unpleasant news.

It couldn’t be anything involving Olivia and the children; he had already told me at first greeting that they were in splendid health, thank you, and sent their love. Nor could this concern Pappa and Imogen, whose visit he had just missed. Her Majesty, then; could it be something to do with his court appointment? Had he fallen foul of some protocol or misdiagnosed some Royal condition?

Yes, with reassurances at the ready, I decided that would be the reason. But then he asked suddenly:

‘Where is Thane? I expected to see him.’

‘He was here just before you arrived,’ I said. ‘You know what he is like—’

Vince nodded, clearing his throat again, and glancing unhappily towards the window. Then, leaning forward, he took my hands. ‘It is really Thane I want to talk to you about. I know you have always been doubtful about his origins.’ A deep breath and his grip on my hands tightened. ‘Rose, I have to tell you. I have found his owner.’

My heart lurched. Suddenly I felt sick with apprehension. ‘After all these years,’ I gasped. ‘It’s impossible – I don’t believe it.’

‘Three years, Rose. Stranger things have happened. And I’m afraid what I have to tell you is true. Hubert Staines – you have heard of him? No? An artist, a great photographer. Family groups are all the rage just now and we met at Balmoral when he was commissioned by Her Majesty to take a series with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

‘Hubert lives in Northumberland at Alnwick and, as there is a railway station – a convenient diversion for the Royal train on visits to Alnwick Castle – he suggested that I call on him. A lovely manor house, the site of an ancient priory on the edge of the Duke of Northumberland’s estate. We got along splendidly and he showed me his collection of magnificent photographs, quite outstanding. We had much in common, and he visited us in London recently to take photographs of Olivia and the children.’

Vince paused, bit his lip and sighed. ‘Olivia has your painting of Thane in the dining room, in pride of place above the mantelpiece—’

I felt momentarily flattered as, pausing, Vince sighed. ‘I could see he was much taken by it. He kept going back for a closer look. Then he turned to me and said, “Quite extraordinary, Vince old man, but would you believe that I have – or had – a deerhound exactly like him?”

‘I explained that you were the artist. He asked where you lived and when I told him Edinburgh and of the mysterious circumstances in which you had found Thane – or rather in which Thane had found you – he questioned me closely and asked when all this happened. When I said three years ago, he looked startled. “What a strange coincidence. That is when we lost Roswal, or rather, I did. I was at Holyrood on a commission for HM, Roswal was with me and we were walking on Arthur’s Seat. There was a heavy grey mist and it was chilly too, but he had to have exercise. Usually so serene and biddable, that day he was agitated, restless. I thought the weather had upset him, but suddenly he took off, bolted like an arrow from a bow. Always obedient at home, he had never been known not to respond to a command. Not this time, alas. I whistled and called and waited, and then I searched and searched, but all in vain.”

‘Poor Hubert,’ said Vince. ‘He shook his head and looked so sad. “I have never seen him or his likeness again until—” And pausing, he pointed to the painting of Thane and said solemnly, “until this very day. I had to leave Edinburgh and there was nothing I could do, except break the news to my poor little stepdaughter. A frail, lonely child; an invalid. She was heartbroken. Roswal had always been hers from puppyhood. She is now gravely ill with consumption.”’

Pausing, remembering, Vince sighed. ‘Poor Hubert,’ he repeated, ‘he looked at me with his eyes full of tears, and whispered, “Her weeks, perhaps even days, are numbered, and all she asks and still prays for every night is that she will see Roswal again – before – before—”’

Vince left the sentence unfinished and a silence fell between us. I said nothing. I was too stunned. There was nothing in this world I could think of except – selfish and heartless as it must sound on paper – that this could not be happening to me.

Thane was mine.

I dreaded what was now expected of me and knew that I would resist it – that I would do anything, anything to keep Thane. As for Roswal, I remembered that was the name of the deerhound Sir Walter Scott had written so lovingly into his novel, The Talisman. Roswal had been the cause of considerable friction between his owner the Scottish crusader Sir Kenneth and his Royal commander, King Richard.

‘What I am going to ask you, Rose, may not be easy for you,’ Vince began hesitantly.

‘I can guess,’ I said bitterly. ‘You want me to hand him over to this Hubert Staines, that’s it, is it not?’ I cried. ‘Well, I cannot do it. What’s more, I will not! Thane is mine. Oh, Vince, please, forget this conversation. Forget you ever told me. I beg of you, don’t ask me to do this,’ I sobbed – I who so rarely shed a tear.

Vince again grasped my hands. ‘Hear me out, Rose, there’s a good girl. I told Hubert you had become devoted to Thane and he to you. How he had saved your life – Hubert already knew about Stepfather, he had heard of Chief Inspector Faro, of course, from the Royal family, and when I had told him about your activities as a lady detective, he understood how vital Thane had been to protect you—’

I wriggled from his grasp, my hands over my face, moaning in protest as he went on. ‘Rose, Hubert only asks that you take Thane to visit him in Northumberland so that Kate may see him once again in her last days on earth. Surely you cannot refuse this request,’ he added sternly.

Ignoring that, I said bitterly. ‘And when I take him away again?’ I said bitterly. ‘What then? How could I possibly do that—?’

Vince took my hands again. ‘Look into your own heart, Rose. This is a dying girl’s last wish. You will only be required to stay until – until that unhappy event then you and Thane will be at liberty to return home. There is no other obligation. Hubert has other dogs, but Roswal was Kate’s. How can you refuse?’ he repeated reproachfully.

I knew that I was trapped. It was so easy, too easy, to put myself in Kate’s shoes. But first I had one of two questions.

‘Have you met this little girl?’

‘Kate? Alas, no. She was in a Newcastle hospital on my visit – being examined by a consultant in respiratory diseases. Hubert said it was his last hope that some means might be found of prolonging her life, for cure there is none.’

‘What about her mother?’

Vince shook his head. ‘Sadly Hubert is a widower. Mary died last year, the result of an accident, I gather. He was too upset to talk about it. Mary had been married before and as there were no children to this second marriage, Hubert is absolutely devoted to Kate. It’s a sorry, tragic business, Rose. He is heartbroken at the prospect of losing her so soon after his dear wife. He has taken many photographs of them both, the very essence of family life. I’m glad he will have those at least to comfort him.’

‘What is she like?’

‘Beautiful, but so frail. Her eyes were remarkable for a child, as if she had seen all the world’s sorrows. My heart was touched too when I heard her sad history—’

I shook my head, turned away. I didn’t want to hear any more heart-rending accounts of Hubert Staines’ tragic life that would make a refusal impossible.

‘There is one other consideration,’ I said. ‘One you obviously haven’t considered. How on earth will Thane react to being removed from here and taken on a long journey down to Northumberland?’

Vince’s mocking shrug clearly indicated his reactions. ‘He made the journey to Peebles with you and Jack by train and seemed to take no ill effect from what I have been told.’

‘Yes, but this is different.’

‘How different?’

‘Because it concerns him, his past. I must know how he feels about meeting – meeting his former owners.’

‘I don’t see how you are to do that, Rose,’ he said sternly. ‘After all, he is only a dog.’

‘He has feelings,’ I said angrily. ‘Just like the rest of us.’

Vince’s despairing shrug again said clearly what he thought of that absurd idea.

‘A pity he isn’t around. The Royal train will be heading south just as soon as HM completes her visit to Holyrood. We could have arranged for a stop at Alnwick, and telegraphed Hubert to collect you there. A half hour’s journey later you could be at his home,’ he added encouragingly. ‘How would that suit you?’

I thought of the carriage waiting to take Vince back to Waverley Railway Station and shook my head. ‘I cannot possibly go back with you, even if Thane were here. I need time to prepare.’

We got through the next half hour somehow, and for the first time I wasn’t sorry when Vince’s visit ended, since my anguish at losing Thane made it difficult to resume our usual family conversations and my normal curiosity about Royal events was stunned into silence.

As the coachman outside signalled Vince’s departure time, he stared out of the window towards Arthur’s Seat.

‘What on earth has happened to Thane? He usually rushes in to greet me. Most odd,’ he added. A reproachful look suggested that I might be concealing him somewhere.

But the carriage had hardly disappeared from view when Thane appeared – from the direction of the kitchen. I realised he had been staying out of sight and I did not doubt he had heard every word of our conversation.

I told him that we were going to Alnwick.

I stroked his head. Did he remember Hubert Staines and little Kate? Of course, he couldn’t reply. I would have to wait and see – and hope. Hope that he was not and never had been the missing deerhound, Roswal.

CHAPTER TWO

Two days later all was arranged. Hubert Staines had sent a telegraph, offering to meet me with his carriage at Alnwick Station. I declined. I wanted the independence my bicycle would allow and did not want to inflict on him the possible embarrassment of accommodating it too.

Realising the anxious outcome of Thane’s future could only be prolonged by delay, we boarded the southbound train the next day. As there were several empty compartments, we were not sternly dismissed to spend the journey in the goods van, as had happened before, and we reached Alnwick with only a minor delay.

The train braked abruptly, throwing us from our seats, doors were flung open and a rush of porters dealt with a cow that had found its way onto the level crossing between a cluster of houses and the decayed workings of an unsightly colliery pithead.

Expecting a simple platform and tiny waiting room similar to others along the line, I was surprised when the train steamed into Alnwick’s ornate station, its splendid architecture equalling Edinburgh’s Waverley and in the same category, I learnt later, as Newcastle and York.

Built in 1870 to replace the original modest railway halt, its mission was to accommodate the new fashion of travelling by train – set by members of the Royal Family – and the aristocracy’s constant flow to the Duke of Northumberland’s handsome Castle which dominates the landscape.

As Thane and I left the train, I had to admit that our progress along the platform created quite a stir. I was aware of curious passengers staring out of compartment windows, unable to restrain their astonishment at the sight of a young woman wheeling a bicycle along the platform accompanied by a dog the size of a Shetland pony.

Perhaps the bicycle aroused the most comment, and as we walked to the station exit, with its elegant canopy and painted seats, I was already beginning to regret opting for sturdy independence by declining Mr Staines’ handsome offer of a carriage to meet us. As well as wanting to save him the embarrassment of trying to load my bicycle into his carriage, I had rejected his offer because I had been told that Staines Manor was only two miles distant from Alnwick. ‘You cannot miss it’ (according to Vince) ‘on the Great North Road to Newcastle.’

As the train steamed out of the station, I had a glimpse of an ancient wall, a medieval tower with an archway that led into the town. New places are my delight and I was well pleased at the prospect of exploring Alnwick and, considering that what awaited our arrival in Staines was melancholy indeed, I was glad of this opportunity for temporary respite. Was it remotely possible that instead of the tiny market town I had expected, there might even be a theatre, an assembly hall for concerts and like entertainment?

I regarded my bicycle fondly. It offered freedom of movement without having to call upon the Staines’ carriage. A thoughtful contemplation of Bartholomew’s map had revealed several tempting landmarks of historical and archaeological interest that I hoped to visit. As well as Alnwick Castle there were others of note – Warkworth, Bamburgh, Dunstanburgh, some of which were ruinous – and I was glad indeed that I had packed my sketchbook.

Such were my thoughts as we headed downhill. In fact I was so involved in the prospect of these fantasy adventures that I suddenly realised I was lost.

That promised signpost to Staines had failed to appear!

I was at a crossroads, but the only sign was to ‘Gibbet Hill’. A name that might arouse feelings of melancholy and caution in the criminally minded, the sign pointed sharply back along the road we had travelled instead of directing us to Staines. Closer inspection revealed that the signpost was leaning at a rather unhappy angle as if it had been the victim of a carriage accident, or had suffered in a high wind or from a bout of malice from person or persons unknown.

Helplessly, I looked around and decided that Gibbet Hill had been well chosen for a criminal’s last sight of a bleak and barren moorland world, devoid of hope and stretching to infinity.

All signs of the handsome castle or indeed of any visible habitation on the vast horizon had vanished. The cold, grey sky’s sole occupants were a few large unidentifiable birds hovering in the manner that such creatures do when seeking their prey on Arthur’s Seat, which seemed by comparison a friendly park.

Homesickness swept over me. Why, oh why, had I started on this venture? Already I feared the worst, for this was no gentle Border village guarded by the undulating Eildon Hills. As far as I could see this was a wild and savage land; the feeling of sudden death, of treachery and ancient violence still lurked in the gaunt and stricken landscape.

Here were boulders that under some lights might take on the look of moving phantoms, and heather moors whose bleached roots could, to one possessed of even a moderately lively imagination, reassemble into a chilling likeness of human bones.

We were lost under a rapidly darkening and unforgiving sky, where isolation and despair stretched forth from every mute crag. Every now and then I imagined I caught the echoes of a twilight world, long vanished, where prehistoric monsters roamed this desolate land.

The welfare of my bicycle necessitated cautious proceeding. A punctured wheel was the last thing I needed, and as what passed for a road turned into a boulder strewn path winding uphill I dismounted and prepared to walk, with an unperturbed Thane trotting alongside.

Some distance further on, and wondering what on earth to do next, in desperation I said: ‘Where do we go from here? Come on, let’s see some of that much-vaunted canine instinct.’

Thane regarded me reproachfully for a moment from under those magisterial brows and, using the pause to sniff delicately at a clump of bracken and attend to the needs of nature, he returned to my side, sat down and waited for me to tell him what to do next.

I looked around despairingly. Soon it would be too dark to travel in safety. Nothing lay in sight by way of shelter built by human hands beyond a sheep pen in the middle of a field. Open to the four winds, it would have to suffice until daylight.

I had no fears that anyone would steal my bicycle, so I climbed over the fence, which Thane took in one leap. As we neared the stone structure, I realised this was no sheep pen but something much more ancient. A fragment of the Roman wall built by Hadrian two thousand years ago to keep the Scots at bay. He had certainly succeeded, and I was a prime example.

Suddenly at my side, Thane growled low in his throat, and across the field I saw moving towards us in the gloaming the pale ghosts of cattle. Then I realised what I was seeing: the legendary Chillingham white cattle, a few miles off their terrain perhaps. The original cattle, they were well-established long before the Romans invaded, and their survival from prehistoric times was said to be due to the fact that no one had ever been able to domesticate them. From what I had read and heard from Pappa, who had had a narrow escape from being gored to death on one of his Border cases, they were highly dangerous to humans.

Such facts were hardly reassuring, since there was nothing between us but the length of a field, down which they were making a fairly rapid and steady progress.

Thane looked at me and then at the wall, as if to say, ‘Take shelter.’

I needed no second bidding, but clambered over fully realising that the remains of an ancient wall would not offer much defence.

And what of Thane?

Thane had not moved. He stood his ground. The cattle drew nearer. Now only a few yards separated us from them. Although smaller than our domestic cattle, their horns were long and sharp. Above the beating of my own heart, I heard their angry snorts, pawing the ground, heads lowered…

Was this how it was to end?

First Thane, gored and killed – and then – and then—

Dear God, please…

I looked at Thane. The cattle looked at Thane. And then as one, they bowed their heads and, turning slowly, retreated back the way they had come.

I found myself breathing again. It was over. The incident closed before that prayer had time to reach heaven, Thane jumped the wall, wagged his tail and lay down beside me, a sigh indicating: Don’t worry, you’re safe now.

And I realised this phenomenon was not something new and strange. It had happened before and I had observed Thane’s effect on all four-legged things. Cows, sheep and horses ignored him completely, dogs and cats merely walked on past him.

As if he were invisible to them. Perhaps he was.

Now, although we were out of danger, the cattle gone, the present indication was that we would be spending the night in the fragmentary remains of what had once been a bathhouse abandoned by the Roman legion.

At least it wasn’t raining and the wall with its sunken floor was reasonably sheltered. I had often slept under the stars in the Arizona desert during my pioneering days with Danny McQuinn. And it was cold there, too, when the temperature dropped considerably during the night. I did not expect much in the way of a comfortable lodging, but wrapped in my woollen cape I must have slept, for when I opened my eyes the sky was flooded with moonlight.

But where was Thane?

Panic seized me. I stood up, called him, and then realised that I had the bleak and barren landscape all to myself. I was completely alone.

Alone, that is, apart from a large bird of prey hovering close. Dangerously close, in fact. About six feet above my head.

The moonlight touched its wings and left no doubt of what it had in mind. I was marked down for supper.

‘Shoo!’ I screamed, waving my arms.

The bird continued to hover.

Seizing my cape, waving it wildly, I screamed again.

Suddenly, I saw a peep of light on the horizon and a bullseye lantern came swinging across the moorland. It was being carried in a hurry by a tall man with Thane dancing around him.

As they approached, in the moment before I recognised my rescuer, I realised that I was witnessing something extraordinary.

I had never imagined a deerhound dancing with joy. But that was exactly what Thane was doing.

‘Mrs McQuinn!’

The lantern was anchored and the man came over the wall.

CHAPTER THREE

He was no stranger.

We had met once before under terrifying and sinister circumstances during my first months in Edinburgh. This was Chief Wolf Rider, a Sioux Indian from the Wild West Circus, now transformed into a semblance of an English gamekeeper by a garb that suggested an Aztec high priest in fancy dress costume.

Smiling, he helped me over the wall, looked down at Thane, and nodded solemnly. ‘So the deerhound has stayed with you, protecting you from danger.’

I ignored that enigmatic introduction. ‘His name is Thane.’

Three years ago no one believed he existed. Thane was then very good at keeping himself to himself and only deigning to appear to me.

A deerhound! On Arthur’s Seat! A figment of my imagination, they said, all except Sergeant Jack Macmerry.

Now everything was happening at once. The bird of prey swooped down, I threw up my hand to protect my head and yelled out, but the peregrine falcon settled happily on Wolf Rider’s gloved fist and shook out his feathers.

‘Kokopele is quite tame. He helped me find you. Pleasant change to tracking down his prey,’ he said.

That touched another memory. Kokopele was the mythical flute-bearer of the Navajo Indians.

I shuddered as Rider went on: ‘It is your deerhound you have to thank for keeping the white cattle at bay,’ and, looking over his shoulder, ‘but we would be wise to get out of this field immediately.’

‘Where are we?’

‘On Staines’ estate, but this part is the cattle’s territory and they are notoriously suspicious of strangers – and quite unpredictable. Follow me.’

We made our way rapidly across the field to where my bicycle reclined gracefully against a fence. The sight of Chief Wolf Rider, without his Dakota Ghost Dancers from the Wild West Circus at Queen’s Park, was completely out of context in these surroundings and awakened bitter memories of my return to Edinburgh.

Rider had come to Solomon’s Tower to identify the body of one of his troupe. Riding on the hill, Wild Elk’s horse had thrown him. Badly injured, he had crawled to the nearest habitation – my barn – and had died there.

Wolf Rider was a shaman and came to carry out certain Sioux rites before the young man could be buried. He told me that Wild Elk believed he was being stalked on the hill by a large dog, and he presumed that this animal had spooked his horse.

I looked at Wolf, walking ahead with Thane at his side. Meeting him again aroused painful memories that I shuddered to recall. I remembered his extraordinary and uncanny explanation that Wild Elk had killed an innocent white man who wore a Christian cross and, in accordance with Sioux beliefs, the dead man’s spirit had entered an animal to seek revenge.

Danny wore a crucifix and Thane, a mysterious deerhound who lived on the hill, had chosen to befriend me. A coincidence, I told myself, refusing to be reconciled to such a terrifying idea, especially as I was clinging to the certainty that Danny still lived and that one day we would be blissfully reunited.

Now as I watched the man and the deerhound, there was none of Thane’s usual shyness and caution with strangers. It was as if I was witnessing the reunion of old comrades, both possessors of that extra-sensory perception, well beyond my range, or indeed beyond the range of most humans.

I guessed I was observing a phenomenon. Rider and Thane inhabited a world bordering on the supernatural. A world of instinctive intuition of which I had only touched the fringes. It was as though their bond had been forged many lifetimes ago, many ages past.

Suddenly I was back in the present, surrounded by the menace of dark moorland, the feeling of danger in the air, despite the softening effect of the moonlight. Shivering, aware of being cold and hungry and that I had not yet slept properly, a blessed apparition appeared fifty yards away.

A small estate cottage, known as a ‘bothy’ in Scotland.

Wolf pointed to the smoke rising from the chimney. ‘This is where I live. There is food and a warm fire.’

His hand on Thane’s shoulder, we covered the short distance rapidly. Opening the door he ushered me inside, set down the lantern and attended to the fire. Then, placing two bowls on the table, he said: ‘Hot soup, this will soon warm you. And I have meat for Thane.’

The soup was delicious. It tasted of herbs and I decided I must have the recipe.

Watching with satisfaction as I tackled a second helping, he leant back in his chair and smiled. ‘It has been a long time, Mrs McQuinn.’

‘Indeed it has. And please call me Rose.’

‘That will be my pleasure.’ He grinned, briefly. ‘There are moments in life, like my brief time in Edinburgh, that will always remain with me.’

I was surprised that he hadn’t enquired what I was doing in the middle of nowhere. ‘You didn’t seem surprised to see me.’

‘No. I was expecting you again – sometime. I knew we should meet again.’ And before I could think of a suitable reply, he asked, ‘What brings you to Staines?’

‘A brief visit.’ I wasn’t prepared to give my reasons and added: ‘What on earth are you doing in Northumberland? As I recall, you said in Edinburgh that you were going in search of your roots – your Scottish grandmother.’

‘That is exactly what I did. And I found her – not in Scotland, but here in Staines.’

‘Really!’

‘She was the young wife of Hubert’s grandfather, made wealthy by the coal on his land. A difficult man by all accounts, and as Miranda had a spirit of adventure, she became bored with rural life and went on a fashionable safari with rich friends to hunt buffalo in Arizona. However, they became the hunted instead. All were slain but the lovely Miranda, who was taken captive and kept alive by the chief. She had a child by him and never returned to Staines.’

‘So you are distant cousins. What an extraordinary coincidence.’

And as I said the words, I recalled my practical father’s scorn of coincidences.

‘Always be suspicious of coincidences,’ was his maxim.

For Pappa, everything had to have a purpose, and that was the philosophy in which I had been raised. There was another question looming:

‘How did you meet Mr Staines?’

He shrugged. ‘By chance, in London. The circus was closing and I was desperately in need of funds. What little I had would not last very long if I wished to return to Scotland. Then, at the end of the last show, Hubert Staines had been taking photographs and said he was impressed by the way I handled animals – I had taken over the lion taming act.’

With an apologetic grin, he added: ‘Leo the Man-eater and I were great friends. He was very old and lacked teeth. We understood each other. He was a good actor and when asked to do so he could look impressively fierce, with his tail lashing furiously. He had a roar that shook the rafters and had small children screaming in terror when it looked as if he might leap out of the cage.’

And smiling at the memory, he shook his head. ‘But he was more akin to a good dog than a king of the jungle.’ Then, regarding my puzzled expression, he laughed. ‘I can see you are wondering why a rich man like Mr Staines wanted a lion tamer. Is that not so?’

It was indeed, and he went on: ‘His family had acquired a collection of animals and birds from their days as big-game hunters. Most of their trophies are now stuffed in menacing attitudes, on exhibition in the gun room. Staines followed the family tradition and learnt that art, said it was useful for a photographer. But he longed to do something that had never been done before.’

Pausing, he shook his head and gave me a quizzical smile.

‘A man who likes a challenge. You will no doubt have recognised his connection with our remarkable grandmother. He wishes to capture a beast from the famous Chillingham white cattle, whose territory you have just invaded, and to breed a domestic strain. I understand that a wealthy white rancher in America has offered him a considerable amount of money and what he offered me was the last temptation.’

‘To do what exactly?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘To work on his estate and to extract a new-born calf from the cattle to send to Texas.’

‘Surely that will be very difficult – and from what you’ve told me of the cattle, very dangerous.’

Again that dismissive shrug. ‘True, but I will receive enough money to return to Arizona – or to remain in Britain. I have grown rather fond of Scotland,’ he added wistfully. ‘It wasn’t until I came to Staines that we found out we were related. Quite a coincidence.’

That word again, I thought.

‘I will take you to meet him in the morning.’

‘Why not now?’ I asked.

‘He had to go to Newcastle unexpectedly. A change in the weather, by which outdoor photography is dictated. He said he was expecting a visitor from Scotland, but did not mention a name, only that this person was bringing back a dog that belonged to him—’

I bristled at that assumption as he went on. ‘I think it would be best if you stayed here tonight. You are tired and need rest; I am sure it has all been a rather trying experience. Hubert is notoriously absent-minded, except where his passion for photography is concerned. Mrs Robson, the housekeeper, did not mention this morning that she was expecting a visitor. There will be nothing prepared for you.’

He smiled. ‘You shall have my bed. I shall sleep in here—’ And cutting short my protests, he said, ‘Sleeping under a roof is a fairly new experience. I have spent most of my life in a teepee or under the sky. A bed of the kind provided with blankets and pillows of soft down is still a novelty.’

A slight pause then without the least embarrassment, he added: ‘But you must be comfortable before you retire. There is a water closet at the side of the cottage – you may have noticed it.’

When I returned, perhaps aware of my doubtful acceptance of his hospitality – here I was spending the night in a cottage with a man I had met only once, but instinctively trusted – he bowed, opening the door to the bedroom.

‘Take Thane with you, he will be company if you wake during the night,’ he said, handing me my valise.

I had decided to send my small travelling trunk in advance, leaving my hands free. I need both for bicycling, but I had an excellent roomy saddle bag for my valise, very practical and by courtesy of Jack.

Jack, I thought, with a sudden shaft of pain. Is he lying in bed in Glasgow in the arms of his new love? Such imaginings are the circuit to despair. A full moon glowed in through a window that lacked curtains or shutters. Its light streamed across the room, exploring corners, like an eager watchful face.

I believed I would never sleep, though Thane settled down on the floor, unperturbed and soon snoring gently. At last I closed my eyes, and opened them again to find the moon had been replaced by bright sunlight.

It was morning, and Thane had gone. I opened the door, but there was no sign of him or of Wolf Rider. They had not been long absent, for there was a basin of warm water and a towel in readiness for my morning ablutions.