Free Destroying Angel by Alanna Knight Page B

longing for someone to talk to, and my thoughts turned almost immediately to Wolf Rider. I headed briskly in the direction of his bothy and, a short distance away, still concealed by the path that emerged close by, I heard voices.
    I looked out cautiously and there were Wolf and the bold youth who claimed to be Mrs Robson’s nephew, in fierce discussion. I was too distant to hear the words, but Wolf seized the other’s shoulders in a threatening gesture. It looked as if I had stumbled on an ugly scene and I made a rapid retreat, glad that the exuberant Thane was not with me to rush over to his hero and reveal my presence.
    Returning to the house, my footsteps echoed hollowly on the polished floor of the hall. Where was everyone, I wondered, climbing the stairs to my bedroom alongside Kate’s. Gazing down into the silent regions below, I presumed she would be asleep and that Collins’ duties were over for the day. Perhaps she was with Hubert.
    Taking out The Tenant of Wildfell Hal l , I sat at the window, distracted by what we call in Scotland ‘the gloaming’, the magic twilight between day and nightfall. Yawning, but not tired enough to retire, I was very surprised to open my eyes in total darkness and, still clutching my book, to realise that I had been asleep for some time. Wearily I crept into bed, sighed, and slept again until a busy rooster noisily summoning his harem announced that it was morning.
    Mrs Robson was in the kitchen and greeted my entrance with the usual polite questions about whether I had slept well,was warm enough, needed more blankets, pillows, etc. Having reassured her on these vital matters, as she juggled pots and plates, scarlet-faced with the stove’s heat, over her shoulder she said, ‘Sir takes breakfast in his study; I’ve set yours in the dining room.’
    I could hardly refuse as the time was not right nor opportune to engage her in lengthy conversation about Kate’s sister Amy.
    I said, ‘I met your nephew last night.’
    She stopped, spoon in hand. ‘Cedric? So he claims, but that’s as maybe,’ she added darkly: ‘You look sharp with him, Mrs McQuinn, he’s a holy terror.’ And flourishing the spoon again, she went on, ‘Bone idle, works when the mood takes him, that is when he needs baccy money. He’s a bad lot, a devil for the girls.’ Pausing to draw breath, she said. ‘His ma, my da’s youngest cousin, told everyone she had him to a gipsy, married Romany fashion.’
    Tightening her lips, as if there was a lot more she could say on that subject, she shook her head, leaving me hoping for more, and wondering if I might somehow lead her round to the topic of Amy. But as she turned away, spooning porridge into bowls, buttering toast and dealing with a whistling kettle, a bell clanged noisily above our heads, twice to denote urgency and impatience.
    ‘That’s Sir. Oh my goodness. I’m late.’ And off she went like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.
    Left to my own devices, I ate in lonely splendour in the dining room, where hard Staines’ eyes staring down from mediocre portraits made me nervous as I planned my first day’s sleuthing on the trail of Hubert’s blackmailer.
    With clues virtually non-existent, this would certainly taskmy ingenuity, I decided, pushing my bicycle towards the path overlooking Staines, where I had met Hubert yesterday. The street bordering the village green seemed oddly deserted at this hour, where I had imagined households would be busy with the usual early morning activities: labouring husbands and sons off to work, wives and mothers hanging out the family washing.
    Where were the children? With Staines colliery closed, the village would now be too small to accommodate a school, so presumably they were sent to Alnwick for their education.
    Instead there was silence, with none of those plumes of smoke that last night cast an air of homeliness over the village. Beyond the occasional cat or dog slinking across the road, the houses had