Free Destroying Angel by Alanna Knight Page A

fancy sitting at one end of a vast dining-table under the solemn countenances of bygone Staines in their gilt frames.
    ‘Very well, I will inform Mrs Robson,’ said Collins, holding open the door. I wasn’t prepared to leave just yet, as if under supervision.
    Taking Thane over to Kate, who patted his head dutifully, I pointed to the photograph on the bedside table. ‘Your mother was quite beautiful, wasn’t she? You must miss her.’
    Kate jerked upright in her chair. ‘That’s not Mamma,’ her voice quivered, and sudden tears welled up in her eyes.
    I was aware of Collins’ touch on my shoulder. ‘That is Miss Kate’s sister,’ she whispered, and as Kate began to sob noisily I was bundled out of the room. Outside the door, she said: ‘Amy was her older sister. She – died – and Kate can’t bear to talk about it. Surely you understand that,’ and emphasising ‘that’ she slipped inside again and slammed the door behind her.
    Left in total embarrassment, I could hear their murmured voices, Kate protesting, Collins consoling.
    What on earth was going on? A sister no one had mentioned; where did she fit into this untidy scheme of things?
     
    As I walked Thane towards his night’s lodgings, considering why Mrs Robson, so eager to impart the Staines’ family history, hadn’t mentioned Amy, I decided to give the unhappy subject an airing when I returned my supper tray later that evening.
    At the stables a man leant against one of the stalls. Little more than a boy, with black curls tumbling across his forehead, the cigarette dangling from his lips seemed inappropriate, a defiant gesture against the grown-up world.
    He watched us approach with a mocking bow and an insolent gaze that stripped me naked. ‘Ye must be the new woman.’
    I said nothing, concentrating on Thane as the boy patted his head. ‘You’re a good dog, aren’t ye?’
    Thane wagged his tail politely but made no further overtures of friendliness.
    The boy turned his attention to me. A bold glance from large, dark eyes suggested that he might be a gipsy.
    ‘Me auntie mentioned ye – I looked in to see her just now.’
    ‘Mrs Robson?’ I questioned.
    ‘Aye, that’s her.’
    ‘Do you work here?’
    He grinned. ‘On and off, like. On and off. Give Mr Rider a helping hand when required. Ye can put yer dog ower there,’ he pointed to one of the stalls. ‘There’s food and water for him, and fresh straw.’
    I thanked him and received again that suggestive leer as he bowed and said, ‘I’m away then. Be seeing you if ye’re to be staying for a while.’
    I watched him stroll away, the cigarette smoke trailing after him. He even walked with an insolent air and seemed a very inappropriate nephew for Mrs Robson. If he came to Staines ‘on and off’, was he a suitable contender for my list of possible suspects as Hubert’s thief and blackmailer?
     
    I returned to the house, wishing I could have had Thane’s company. I was so used to having him in Edinburgh where he had become more of a domestic pet – happy at my fireside – than a wild deerhound whose home was on Arthur’s Seat.
    My hopes that another interview with Mrs Robson would reveal more about Amy as well as her nephew were thwarted. She was wearing her bonnet as she delivered my supper tray – steak pie and Scotch trifle – indicating that she was in a rush to leave. Later, returning it to the empty kitchen, I decided to have a walk in the gardens and take full advantage of a late summer evening.
    The air was calm, very still with storm clouds building up in the west. Thunderheads, too, threatened the future and an end to this tranquil season. But there was with no hint as yet of autumn in the lush green leaves above my head as I sat ona wall overlooking the village, its chimneys wreathed in smoke, huddled far from the brooding disused colliery, a blot on an otherwise charming rural landscape.
    Suddenly I was overwhelmed by a sense of isolation and loneliness, a