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Authors: Alanna Knight
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him far longer than Collins, would provide some answers.
‘Our needs are modest,’ Hubert had hinted. Did this indicate that he shared, in common with many wealthy men, a tendency to be mean about paying servants and employees?
If so, his decision to pay me a substantial sum as a private investigator took on a new aspect and should be regarded with extreme caution.
There was a lot more I wanted to know about members of the Staines family, alive and dead, and my thoughts drifted towards Kate’s mother, whose photograph in its silver frame occupied her bedside table.
And who better to supply some information regarding the late Mrs Staines than Mrs Robson, who seemed disposed to be friendly, I thought, as I drifted into the kitchen.
Sipping the cup of tea she offered, I remarked casually that having been at Staines for many years she must have known Kate’s mother very well.
‘Indeed. A charming lady she was, too,’ she sighed. ‘We all miss her.’
I said how sad it was for Kate to have been orphaned so young, and, trying to phrase it delicately, asked how she had died.
Mrs Robson’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Has no one told you about her?’
There had scarcely been time for that, I thought, as she continued: ‘Madam was a bit older than Sir but fit as a fiddle, in her prime as you might say. Her first husband had left her very well off.’ she added confidentially. ‘A Durham colliery owner with a posh big house and pots of money.’
Pausing to sigh, she went on: ‘Sir was her first cousin, and a struggling photographer, the last of a fine old family who had been here since the year dot. They’d fallen on hard times when the coal ran out at the Staines pit, and in those days taking photographs wasn’t considered a worthwhile occupation, until the Queen’s interest changed all that.’
Another pause for breath and to refill the teapot. ‘A real love match. Would you fancy a piece of fruit loaf – or a scone? I make good scones—’
She beamed on me and gave a romantic sigh, and in order to prolong the subject I yielded to the lure of a tempting snack.
‘Miss Kate was eleven when they married, but there were hopes of an heir. Sir was desperate for a son, poor man, the son who would have solved all his problems, but after a few false alarms nothing happened.’
Laying aside her cup with an air of resignation, she returned to her darning. A pile of men’s socks. Was this another indication that her master was a little on the mean side? Her sigh as she threaded the needle might have been taken as dismissal and a sign that the conversation was at an end. But not for me. Not yet.
‘You were saying,’ I reminded her with a sad smile. ‘About how Mrs Staines died.’
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ Another sigh. ‘A tragic accident. We could hardly believe it. Such a simple thing. You know yon big bay window in the sitting room, overlooking the garden?’
I nodded, and she went on. ‘Well, it was a stormy day – we get awful storms up here sometimes, take the full force of the gales. That night there was a shrieking wind rattling the panes. It woke Kate and Madam went to see what was wrong. In the sitting room someone had left the window open. The wind had caught it and as she leant forward to seize the latch, she lost her balance – and – that was that!’
She shook her head. ‘Poor lady, fell out head first, down onto the terrace. Broke her neck. Poor Sir, he was distraught, poor little Kate screaming for her mam. An awful business, Mrs McQuinn – none of us could take it in.’
Did that terrible moment still haunt the room, their cries, their anguish, linger in the air, clinging to the very stones? Was that why I had felt so uneasy?
‘A terrible time, terrible. Poor Sir was beside himself with remorse, looking round the house, as men will, for someone to blame. Fortunately it had nothing to do with me, but we had a maid, a young lass just a couple of years younger than Kate is
‘Our needs are modest,’ Hubert had hinted. Did this indicate that he shared, in common with many wealthy men, a tendency to be mean about paying servants and employees?
If so, his decision to pay me a substantial sum as a private investigator took on a new aspect and should be regarded with extreme caution.
There was a lot more I wanted to know about members of the Staines family, alive and dead, and my thoughts drifted towards Kate’s mother, whose photograph in its silver frame occupied her bedside table.
And who better to supply some information regarding the late Mrs Staines than Mrs Robson, who seemed disposed to be friendly, I thought, as I drifted into the kitchen.
Sipping the cup of tea she offered, I remarked casually that having been at Staines for many years she must have known Kate’s mother very well.
‘Indeed. A charming lady she was, too,’ she sighed. ‘We all miss her.’
I said how sad it was for Kate to have been orphaned so young, and, trying to phrase it delicately, asked how she had died.
Mrs Robson’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Has no one told you about her?’
There had scarcely been time for that, I thought, as she continued: ‘Madam was a bit older than Sir but fit as a fiddle, in her prime as you might say. Her first husband had left her very well off.’ she added confidentially. ‘A Durham colliery owner with a posh big house and pots of money.’
Pausing to sigh, she went on: ‘Sir was her first cousin, and a struggling photographer, the last of a fine old family who had been here since the year dot. They’d fallen on hard times when the coal ran out at the Staines pit, and in those days taking photographs wasn’t considered a worthwhile occupation, until the Queen’s interest changed all that.’
Another pause for breath and to refill the teapot. ‘A real love match. Would you fancy a piece of fruit loaf – or a scone? I make good scones—’
She beamed on me and gave a romantic sigh, and in order to prolong the subject I yielded to the lure of a tempting snack.
‘Miss Kate was eleven when they married, but there were hopes of an heir. Sir was desperate for a son, poor man, the son who would have solved all his problems, but after a few false alarms nothing happened.’
Laying aside her cup with an air of resignation, she returned to her darning. A pile of men’s socks. Was this another indication that her master was a little on the mean side? Her sigh as she threaded the needle might have been taken as dismissal and a sign that the conversation was at an end. But not for me. Not yet.
‘You were saying,’ I reminded her with a sad smile. ‘About how Mrs Staines died.’
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ Another sigh. ‘A tragic accident. We could hardly believe it. Such a simple thing. You know yon big bay window in the sitting room, overlooking the garden?’
I nodded, and she went on. ‘Well, it was a stormy day – we get awful storms up here sometimes, take the full force of the gales. That night there was a shrieking wind rattling the panes. It woke Kate and Madam went to see what was wrong. In the sitting room someone had left the window open. The wind had caught it and as she leant forward to seize the latch, she lost her balance – and – that was that!’
She shook her head. ‘Poor lady, fell out head first, down onto the terrace. Broke her neck. Poor Sir, he was distraught, poor little Kate screaming for her mam. An awful business, Mrs McQuinn – none of us could take it in.’
Did that terrible moment still haunt the room, their cries, their anguish, linger in the air, clinging to the very stones? Was that why I had felt so uneasy?
‘A terrible time, terrible. Poor Sir was beside himself with remorse, looking round the house, as men will, for someone to blame. Fortunately it had nothing to do with me, but we had a maid, a young lass just a couple of years younger than Kate is
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