Destroying Angel (11 page)

Wolf shrugged. ‘Examine your conscience, Rose.’

‘What do you mean? Who could hate me that much?’ Then I saw it all; Collins putting a bowl before each of us, mine last of all, and Mrs Robson saying how Collins had risen early to help her gather the mushrooms. And I knew she had tried to kill me that night.

‘I believe you know the answer, Rose. Hubert has made it very plain – his feelings for you. And anyone in the house who heard the angry voices outside his bedroom last night could have made a shrewd guess as to what was going on.’

He smiled. ‘I have the guest room across from Hubert’s until my roof is fixed, so I got the full benefit of their argument.’

‘He has asked me to marry him.’

Wolf looked at me sharply. ‘And you have agreed?’

I shook my head.

His sigh was of relief. ‘That is good. Do you love him?’

Again I shook my head and he laughed softly. ‘You are bewildered by this proposal, are you not?’

‘I haven’t been here a week, I hardly know him!’

‘Then I would advise you to get to know him much better before you give him the answer he wants.’

‘Perhaps I never will give him the answer he wants.’

He gave me a shrewd look. ‘Then I am sure you have also assessed how much there is to gain. You are not a greedy young woman, Rose, but think of it.’ He made a wide gesture around. ‘All this would be yours and his Roswal, your Thane, would be safely yours for ever.’

Pausing, he repeated, ‘You have much to gain and you have
been far from happy. This coming to Staines was – how do you say – the last straw, was it not?’

I could only surmise that this was an inspired guess, but as I desperately needed a metaphorical shoulder to cry on, I decided to tell him about Jack, that we had been lovers and my refusal to marry him had sent him off into the arms of another woman.

Wolf heard me out, sitting on his heels in the typical manner I had seen in so many Indians in Arizona, a stance that our white hamstrings find extremely painful after a short while, and unbearable to retain for hours on end. He made no comment.

As he listened he took a stick and idly drew patterns on the ground. It jolted me back into the past, to memories of the only other man I had ever seen do that: Danny McQuinn.

When I came to the end of my story, he said, ‘You didn’t marry him because of Danny, although you now have reason to believe he is dead. Is that not so?’

I looked at him eagerly, hoping that his psychic powers might still tell me the truth. But he said nothing, merely nodded towards Thane, stroking his head.

I didn’t want to be reminded again of that first encounter and his theory. It was too ridiculous as well as too terrifying to contemplate the transmigration of a human soul into an animal.

This time our talk was ended by a whoosh of wings. I gave a scream – I still wasn’t used to the unexpected entrances of Kokopele.

Wolf leapt to his feet. ‘Ah, I think this is what I have been waiting for.’ And turning to me excitedly, he said, ‘He has news for me. Our calf has arrived. It is almost dark, we should
be safe now. Come along, Thane.’ For a moment he hesitated, about to say something and changing his mind.

This time I did the interpreting. ‘May I come with you?’

He frowned and gave me a searching look as if he was rapidly weighing up whether or not I was fit to be trusted on such a dangerous mission.

‘The fewer humans the better.’ Again that consideration. I felt suddenly naked, for it seemed to assess not only my physical reliability but to reach into my soul too.

Finally he nodded at Thane. ‘He will protect you. Promise you will move only when I tell you to – when it is absolutely safe.’

I agreed and the two of us, with our escorts of Thane and Kokopele, set off towards the fenced-off pasture.

Wolf carried no lantern this night. Presumably he was used to finding his way around in the dark, and on this occasion we were blessed by the presence of a cheerful, bright full moon. Like a lamp held by a guardian angel, speeding from cloud to cloud, to see us on our dangerous journey into that no-man’s land, the domain of the white cattle.

We had climbed two fences and reached the first copse of trees when the first rumbling sounds reached us.

Wolf held up his hand. ‘Stampede,’ he whispered.

We froze, the two of us and Thane, the falcon, our vanguard, no longer visible hovering far above.

The rumbling got louder, nearer. My heart thundered in unison as the very earth beneath our feet began to shake.

Were they coming our way?

My fear communicated itself to Wolf who took my hand, held it firmly as if I might rush off in terror.

Then suddenly all was silence around us. Not even a breath of wind. ‘Have they gone?’ I whispered.

‘Yes. It’s all over,’ said Wolf sadly.

‘I’m glad of that. We’re safe to move.’

‘Yes, we’re safe. Nothing will touch us now.’ Again he sounded sad, detached, defeated somehow. But, still holding my hand, he led the way, running swiftly to the next clump of trees twenty yards further afield.

Kokopele became visible; the bird and the moon were still with us. As we took shelter, the area exuded a choking animal smell of excrement and blood. I could hardly breathe and, releasing my hand, Wolf said, ‘Wait!’

He went forward a short distance into the clearing, leaving
me with Thane, who never moved from my side. It was as if he had been doing this sort of thing all his life, a complete contrast to his extraordinary behaviour an hour or two earlier.

At last Wolf returned. I expected that he would be carrying the calf. He was empty handed.

‘It’s all over now.’

‘The calf – and its mother?’ I asked.

He shook his head, looked around vaguely. ‘I expect she’s gone – back to the herd.’

‘And left her baby?’ I said.

His eyes were bright in the moonlight. ‘Yes. Come and see. I think you have the stomach for this, Rose.’

I followed him to the patch of ground with that awful smell.

‘The calf?’

He pointed to the ground. ‘All that is left of him.’

I didn’t understand, but looking closer I could see the trampled earth and nothing to indicate that there had ever been a newborn calf. Nothing but a few bones, bits of skin – and blood. Lots and lots of blood.

Kokopele was there, inspecting or perhaps, I thought with a shudder, looking for a free supper. Whatever it was, he looked satisfied as he flew onto Wolf’s wrist and ruffled his feathers.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘We had better get out of here, fast,’ was the grim reply. ‘Make no noise.’

Breathlessly, we reached the first clump of trees. We were about to move towards the still-distant fence and safety when Wolf held up his hand. ‘We wait.’

‘Tell me what happened. That stampede – did they kill the calf?’

Wolf shrugged. ‘It was probably born dead, and the stampede is their usual way of disposing of their dead, beat them back into the earth from which they came, until no trace of them remains. More efficient and tidier than many human methods.’

‘What of the cow – the mother?’

‘She will have gone back with them.’ He sighed. ‘Hubert will be disappointed. He had set his heart, and I suspect his pocket too, on a calf for his rich rancher in Texas.’

‘Surely there will be other calves?’

‘Ah, there’s the problem. There hasn’t been a newborn for a couple of years and that really troubles Hubert. You see, there are a dozen cows but only one bull.’

‘Only one male?’

He shook his head. ‘Only one bull, Rose. One king bull who alone serves all the cows. And if there are no calves then the indication is that the king bull is either old or is sterile.’

We moved on across the pasture. ‘You understand? No one can go close enough to inspect the cattle, but it looks as if Hubert’s hopes are in vain and we will have to get another young bull from the original Chillingham herd. And that will not be easy.’

Suddenly there was a noise, the sound of hooves, and out of the dim light, a solitary white shape hurtling towards us.

I knew instinctively, before Wolf shouted out, that this was the cow, returned to search for her lost calf.

For us, there was no place to shelter. We were trapped in the open.

Wolf threw me to the ground, threw himself on top of me.
‘Don’t move. Play dead. Our only chance.’

But something was happening. The cow had come to a slithering stop, her impetus dislodging chunks of earth and throwing them into our faces. I looked up, trying not to cough.

Thane? What of Thane?

He was standing a few feet away from the cow, facing her. Her head was lowered, pawing the ground, snorting, her horns glistening, ready to charge.

Thane, oh dear God, she’ll gore him to death
.

And then that miracle happened again. She raised her head, considered him, her tiny eyes gleaming. Another snort, less angry this time, and then a final flourish of horns and, turning slowly, she raced back the way she had come.

Wordless, we rushed forward, and with Thane at our heels we leapt the fence. Once we were safely on the solid ground of Staines again, I put my arms around Thane’s neck and hugged him, very near to tears. What is the appropriate thing to say or do for an animal that has just saved your life?

Wolf watched us. Enigmatically. For he alone knew the answers that were beyond me.

After I gave Thane a final hug, we left him somewhat unwillingly in the stables. Walking towards the house I asked: ‘What will happen now about the calf?’

‘Hubert will insist that I find him a new young bull without, of course, telling me how I am expected to achieve this minor miracle.’

At my expression, he laughed. ‘Now I am exaggerating. There are guardians of the famous Chillingham herd and with their help and experience as well as, I imagine, a purse from Hubert, a young bull will be extracted and brought to Staines.
I doubt whether he will be left to challenge the king bull as would happen in the wild. Someone will just get rid of the old one, efficiently, with a rifle,’ he added bleakly.

‘Poor thing. How sad.’

‘But very efficient. Hubert will not tolerate delays, and with the new king bull he’ll want to see some brave new calves for America.’

‘And that is where you come in?’

‘Yes. Once again.’ He didn’t sound very enthusiastic at the prospect.

We had now reached the front door, where Hubert was waiting. We followed him inside.

‘The calf?’

‘No calf, Hubert. I’m sorry,’ said Wolf.

‘What happened?’ he asked shortly.

‘Born dead,’ was Wolf’s reply, sparing him the details.

‘Damn, oh damn. I had such plans. I had the next few weeks all worked out. A dairy cow from the village to feed it, and once it was strong enough—’

He left the rest unsaid. Wolf filled in the details later. The calf would have been sent with the dairy cow as its surrogate mother on the long hazardous sea voyage across the Atlantic and thence across land to Texas.

My imagination failed to provide a happy ending for the poor wee creature. A mad scheme, and the likelihood of its survival across America from east to west seemed beyond reasonable hope.

Now we both looked at Hubert, this man who expected the whole world to turn according to his bidding, and that included the birth of a white calf.

And, as if aware of my presence for the first time, he turned 
and said, ‘You shouldn’t have allowed Rose to go with you. It’s far too dangerous.’

‘I asked to go.’

He looked at me, shook his head as if I had said something quite idiotic. ‘I think you should go to bed now, Rose. It’s very late,’ he added sternly, as if I was a little girl who had disobeyed him and stayed up long past her bedtime.

I was certain I would never fall asleep with the day’s terrible images pursuing each other relentlessly across my mind, but welcome oblivion descended at last.

Which was just as well. When I awoke again it was to discover that I had not been the only one whose life had been in danger.

The Destroying Angel had claimed its first victim.

The kitchen was in uproar.

Mrs Robson was in tears. Wolf and Collins were there, the former trying to comfort her. There was no sign of Hubert, who was closeted in his study with the doctor, as the story was pieced together.

Cedric had staggered into the kitchen and collapsed in the housekeeper’s bedroom at four that morning, being violently sick and screaming in agony. Mrs Robson rushed to alert Hubert, who had been somewhat difficult to rouse. I guessed that was because he had been drowning his disappointment over the dead calf and all those dollars invested in it.

He could have allotted the task of going to Alnwick for the doctor to Wolf, but had manfully ridden off himself.

By the time they returned, it was already too late. Cedric was dead. 

The doctor took one look, a quick examination. ‘Poisoned mushrooms, most likely.’

This raised a storm of indignation from Mrs Robson, who informed him indignantly that they were picked only yesterday morning and made into soup immediately.

‘Excellent soup, Mrs Robson,’ Hubert nodded vigorously. ‘And we’re all still alive and well, doctor. Everyone enjoyed it,’ he added in happy reminiscence.

I exchanged a glance with Wolf, who shook his head, and I refrained from mentioning that far from enjoying Mrs Robson’s soup, I had had an almost fatal encounter.

Hubert’s reassurances, however, did not deter the doctor, who read us a stern lecture on the dangers of picking mushrooms for amateurs lacking scientific knowledge and then irresponsibly turning them into soup.

Mrs Robson, despite her distress, was outraged. She pointed out that she had been picking mushrooms since she was a child of twelve and had never poisoned anyone yet. She knew what she was doing all right, she added scathingly.

I listened, unimpressed. I could have told them the whole shattering truth about my own experience.

I had not a moment’s doubt that Cedric had been murdered.

But why?

Well, I was to find out the answer to that in time.

And by whom? That was still part of a larger, complex and dangerous puzzle. It swept aside all reason for interviewing Lily Craid’s railwayman husband, now an unlikely suspect.

What I still did not realise was how far I was into the labyrinth, or that I had unwittingly passed the point of no return.