ON DEVIL'S BRAE (A Psychological Suspense Thriller) (Dark Minds Mystery Suspense) (13 page)

“Even so, I think it’s wonderful. No wonder I feel—” She stopped. She hardly knew him, and now was not the time to go overboard with the cosy, friendly bit. Cassandra realised she had been about to say more than she should.

Angus shot her a curious look. “No wonder you feel what?”

“Nothing. Forget it. I can’t even remember what it was I was going to say.”

There was silence between them for a few minutes, and despite the muzzy feeling in her head, Cassandra knew she hadn’t fooled him one iota. He was far too perceptive.

“How well did you know my sister?” she eventually asked after finishing their coffee. She waved the waiter away when he asked if she would like a liqueur. “It’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Angus frowned, wrinkling his forehead. “Not very well, probably because Susan was a very private person, and she was another generation.”

“Our mother had me much later on. Susan was eighteen years older than me. So did you and Susan never meet up and talk? Or go for a drink together? What did she do apart from her sculptures?”

“Not really. Not socially anyway. I don’t think Susan interacted with anyone in the village. Neither did she have many visitors—some men friends, just one or two over the years. She was here in the village long before I bought my house. We occasionally met out walking but certainly didn’t plan our hikes together.”

“It’s more or less what Elizabeth told me, yet I get the feeling you probably liked the same things,” she said with a shy smile in her eyes.

“Aye, I think we did.”

“I found a dog’s bowl and rug in the shed when I first arrived here. In her self-portrait, there’s a dog by her side. Was it the same dog?”

Angus nodded. “Goldie. Susan bought her as a puppy, and she was her constant companion for years and years. Goldie was ancient and at least fifteen years old. Unfortunately, she went out one day, rabbiting, Susan thought, and didn’t some back. She found her body up on the high hill some days later. It looked as if she’d fallen from the cairn of stones up there, because she had a nasty wound on her head, poor lassie. She was a good dog, even if she was getting too old for long walks. Goldie was always friendly and a perfect companion to Susan.”

“How sad. How long ago did she die?”

“Not too long…it was last year sometime. In the spring, if I remember. Susan was very upset. She spent hours searching for her, and at the time Susan told me she thought it strange.”

“Why?”

“Well, she’d already searched the area where she found her, two days previously. She was positive about it. Not only that, Goldie had raw patches on her hind legs, where she’d obviously gnawed at her skin. Susan didn’t make a song and dance over it, but she gave me the impression she thought Goldie had been stolen and kept tied up somewhere.”

Cassandra felt her skin crawl. “How awful! Who’d do such a thing to a little dog?”

Angus gave her a frank look. “It is, but true all the same. Who’d want to spend their time badger baiting? Or stag hunting? There are some cruel people in this world and some strange ones too. Which reminds me…don’t forget to lock up your cottage whenever you go out and at night, of course.”

She gave him a dark look. “You mean strange people who throw paint around?”

He nodded. His voice was low and full of meaning as he replied. “Aye, I do. Cassandra, please make sure you take care.”

Cassandra shivered at the serious tone in his voice. Angus immediately noticed. “Cold? I think it’s time we left. It’s getting late, and there’s sure to be a frost making the roads icy. If you’re ready?”

Angus fetched Cassandra’s coat from the rail and helped her put it on. As she felt his warm hands against her bare neck and back, she felt as if she was touched by fire.

During the ride home, Cassandra snuggled down in her seat and let her mind wander. She felt woozy and knew she had drunk far too much wine—almost a bottle, as Angus had only consumed one glassful. He seemed so level-headed, but could she trust him? Cassandra wanted to come clean and explain the other reason for being in Inverdarroch. Was it too soon to tell him about Susan and her involvement with a dead child, no matter how innocent? Was it fair to burden him with her feelings of guilt?

In the dark, she studied Angus’s profile illuminated by the light from the car’s instruments. Cassandra was confused; for the first time, she had met someone she really liked enough to care for, but she hardly knew him.

The powerful car ate up the miles towards home. Cassandra felt a pulse beginning in her temple, a gentle throbbing. And all the time she heard her mother’s voice saying over and over again, “Cassandra doesn’t keep her boyfriends for long. Who wants to be seen with a plain Jane?”

And Cassandra knew she wouldn’t be inviting Angus in for a nightcap when they arrived home in case he refused. It was something she couldn’t bear.

Chapter 17 January 2013, Inverdarroch

Darkness had overtaken the horizon and fluttered down the valley. An owl screeched and somewhere further deep in the forest, the jarring bark of a dog fox ripped through the stillness of the night. Cassandra jerked awake, switched on her bedside light, and groaned. Her clock showed it was only three o’clock! Surely, it was the witching hour.

An excess of wine was too much for her bladder. She groped for her dressing-gown and got up. The room was spinning round, she had a thumping headache, and she cursed as she staggered from her bed. She found her sheepskin slippers and wiggled her toes into them. It was freezing cold that morning. But what was it that had woken her from a deep, wine-induced sleep? Cassandra pulled the gown tighter and began down the stairs. Near the bottom she stopped, swayed slightly, and sniffed the air. What was that awful smell?

Downstairs, everything looked the same as when she had gone to bed. But the smell was still there and, if anything, stronger. Cassandra opened her door and peered outside. Round the side of the house, coming from the direction of the shed she saw a black pall of smoke. Was it a fire of some sort? Panicked, still half-drunk and sleepy, Cassandra was confused. She knew she locked the shed behind her after bringing in a basketful of logs. The building contained nothing but wood, some oddments of furniture, and the crumbling sculptures she tossed out and…paint. Paint! That was what she could smell. From somewhere, Cassandra remembered reading paint burnt so well because paint molecules were hydrocarbon-based, making them very flammable. Paint also contained methanol! Oh dear God! What the hell should she do? There was no one within shouting distance and no fire brigade for miles. She considered getting a bucket and water, but the buckets were in the shed! She didn’t know what to do.

She stopped and thought;
stop panicking, wait a minute
. The fire was confined to the shed. As long as she didn’t open the door too far allowing oxygen in, she might be able to contain it. Apart from the pungent black smoke, she couldn’t see a tell-tale flicker of flames or hear anything either. Praying it was only a small fire, Cassandra crept to the shed door. She opened it a smidgeon and looked inside. She couldn’t see anything in the dark, so she flicked on the light. There was the woodpile, untouched, and the collection of junk in the corner. What the devil? On the floor was the paint tin, smoke belching from it, scraps of material hanging out over its edge. Cassandra grabbed the nearest pail and ran back indoors to the kitchen sink. With a full bucket, she dashed back into the shed and threw it onto the tin, hoping she wouldn’t cause another chemical reaction and create more problems. Nothing happened: no leaping flames, no explosions. The smoke wavered and billowed towards the open door. Cassandra rushed back for more water, cursing as she went…again and again until she was satisfied the fire was out.

Nearing collapse and coughing from the acrid fumes, she approached the paint tin. The material items she realised were the jeans and top she had used for cleaning up the splattered paint earlier. As the immediate danger was over, she smelt traces of another underlying odour. It reminded her of oil. Cassandra poked around in the melted fabric and discovered a small rusty tin lying underneath. She took an involuntary step backwards. It was linseed oil!

But…but she was sure it hadn’t been there before. She recalled seeing linseed oil in the shed earlier, but it had been in a plastic bottle. Glancing towards the workbench, she could see it was still sitting there. Maybe the fire
wasn’t
an accident. How could she have overlooked the tin? Cassandra’s legs shook and threatened to buckle beneath her. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Bloody hell! Who would have done this to her? Throwing paint was an act of malicious vandalism, but this was far more serious. It could have been lethal. She could have been killed! The wood was as dry as dust and would have caught at once. It would have spread to the cottage, and she wouldn’t have been able to get out. That was if she hadn’t been overcome by smoke beforehand.

But who had it in for her? Cassandra shook her head as she thought hard. It was completely baffling and nothing to do with Natalie’s death. Susan was the one involved, not Cassandra, and besides, Susan’s connection had only been circumstantial. Even if this was the case, they would have to be a complete crank to do something like this. And they would have to know where Susan once lived. Didn’t they know she had passed away? No. The whole idea was absurd.

Or it was one of the locals, and the damage
was
aimed at her. And if she was jumping to conclusions, which of the villagers wanted her dead? Donald wanted her cottage…but enough to
kill
her for it? The Blackmore sisters were in their late fifties or sixties; they were pleasant with no axe to grind. The family from the farm? So Mrs Campbell was a miserable old bat from hell,
but come off it, Cassandra!
Or one of her three sons? No way. They might be stupid and ignorant, but they were wrapped up in their work! Then there was Angus. They had spent a nice afternoon and evening together. They were comfortable in each other’s company, and he seemed kind and caring. She fancied him, for goodness sake!

Get a grip, girl.
This was an accident. It was plain and simple. This was
not
an attack on a single woman. This was the twenty-first century, even there, in remote Scotland. There was no sign of an intruder and no footprints in the dirt outside. She looked down at the floor and saw nothing in the dust. She was finding threats in everything she looked at. She must have missed the old tin of linseed. It was rusty and battered, so she would have ignored it. Maybe it self-ignited. It was possible; Cassandra knew certain things kept in a partially confined space (such as a pile of oil-soaked rags left out in an uncovered container) could oxidise leading to a build-up of heat and thus ignition. Was this a valid explanation? And she was tipsy the night before. She remembered staggering into the house with the basketful of logs before going to bed. She could easily have done something stupid and forgotten about it.

Even so, Cassandra was so shaken, she knew she would never sleep again that night. Perhaps she should get a dog. If she had one, then surely it would give her advance notice of anyone creeping around her place. After checking the fire was really out, she turned off the light, locked the door, and tried the handle twice, making sure it really was locked. She must have forgotten. She let things prey too much on her mind. It was about time she knuckled down, stopped being pathetic, and rid herself of stupid thoughts.

Cassandra went back indoors, built up the fire in the hearth, and made a cup of hot chocolate. Dawn couldn’t come early enough. She felt isolated, and for the first time thought about ringing Rosie or Cynthia or even Julian. But what would she say? And would they believe her. What was there to tell? She was an idiot and had left some ancient unstable paint out, which somehow caught fire. But what about the linseed oil? Had she somehow knocked it into the paint tin and not noticed?

She curled up on the settee, a cushion beneath her head, and snuggled under one of her new cosy throws. Like many people, she imagined all manner of things occurring in her life, but were there more during these last few months? Was she suffering from more stress than she first imagined? Her jumbled thoughts led her once again to the Hodges family, specifically Stacy’s reaction after the death of her daughter.

Chapter 18 Summer 2012, Liverpool

Susan meant to visit Stacy so many times and offer her condolences, but something always prevented her. Perhaps she knew deep down what the woman’s reaction would have been. It was one late afternoon, when she made up her mind and told Cassandra what she planned to do.

Cassandra listened, feeling her heart sinking towards her shoes, as she realised Susan’s proposal was perhaps not the cleverest. If the mother was anything like Susan described, she wouldn’t appreciate her visit. With a feeling of deep foreboding, Cassandra knew she had to accompany her sister.

“Oh great! That would be wonderful. Stacy’s a difficult woman sometimes, and I don’t know how she’ll take my visit,” Susan replied with relief written all over her face.

Cassandra remembered how she felt the day Susan knocked on the door of the Hodges household.

“You!” she growled.

Stacy stood before them; sleepless nights and days of mourning had helped shed whatever surplus fat she carried before, leaving her bone-thin and gaunt, her eyes red-rimmed, and her hair lank around her shoulders.