ON DEVIL'S BRAE (A Psychological Suspense Thriller) (Dark Minds Mystery Suspense) (3 page)

“Did the solicitor tell you anything else?” Rosie persisted with her well-meaning questions.

“Not much…only that she was a sculptor and artist. I knew that, anyway, but we had so little time together.”

“Well, maybe Susan left some of her work up in Scotland. Or perhaps there’s a local exhibition about her. You know you might find more about the woman in her art, in her sculptures, or sketches. Susan’s work might tell you more than she could tell you herself.”

Cassandra’s hopes rose at her words. “Do you really think so?”

Rosie nodded, warming to her suggestion. “I’m sure you’ll find out more about her. After all, you’re her
sister
, despite your parents’ attitude. She might have wanted her own space, but that might not have included you. It’s sad she died before you had a real chance together, but you can go and find out about her. Make it a sort of pilgrimage.”

Rosie’s suggestion was all it took for Cassandra to finally make up her mind. She needed her own space too, away from life in the city, away from the accusing stares she imagined coming from all angles. She sorted out her job and persuaded a doubting Cynthia to keep an eye on her flat as she prepared to flee to the Highlands of Scotland.

She was about to start a pilgrimage, a chance to exorcise her doubts and fears.

Chapter 6 January, 2013, Inverdarroch, Scotland

So, on a chilly January day, Cassandra had finally arrived in Inverdarroch. She drove extra slowly for the last mile of her trip. She wanted to savour her arrival into the village and take time to recognise the place. Passing the first cottage, which looked shuttered against the winter’s day, she drew level with the church grounds. She glanced across the top of the stone wall surrounding the churchyard, thinking how bleak everything looked beneath the sullen sky. So far, she hadn’t seen a soul. Just as she went to change up a gear, she saw someone coming round the side of the church. Tall and dressed in dark clothes, he studied her car as she passed. She didn’t recognise his features, as his cap was pulled down over his face, but she felt his gaze pierce the windows of the car.

She carried on down the road, passing the farm and one more cottage before arriving at her destination. Cassandra shivered as she stepped from her car outside the cottage that Wednesday afternoon. As she paused to take in the scene, a weak January sun pierced an eggshell-blue sky, illuminating the stone cottage and surrounding garden. The building sat low and squat against a backdrop of hills. There was a short front door, a low roof, and one single chimney. Inside the house, Cassandra remembered the only form of heating came from the hearth in the living room, and she was thankful the barn had a good pile of seasoned logs, most of them already cut and split for burning. She was surprised there wasn’t any snow in the valley but knew the odds were for a fall any day.

She always enjoyed snow as a child, and the thought of being isolated by it came as a strange but comforting thought. She closed her eyes in pleasure: snow all around, a cupboard stocked full of food and wine, a basket of logs, and peace. Maybe she should get a dog. The countryside was glorious for walking.

Cassandra hefted her case from the boot of her car—the groceries could wait—and walked towards the little wicket gate. A sign hung from the top, advertising the name of the place: Shadow Vale. It was apt; the cottage was lying in a river valley with a high hill behind it. On reaching the front doorstep, Cassandra set the case down and scrabbled in her coat pocket to retrieve the key.

The door swung inwards, and the familiar sour reek of stale cigarettes hit her. It was late afternoon, and despite the sun, the room before her was full of shadows. Cassandra reached towards the wall and flicked on a light switch. She paused and surveyed the room. As well as the smell of cigarettes, there was a stench of neglect, of damp and ancient wood and stone. She should have taken down the curtains and washed them the last time she was there. She left the door wide open as she returned to the car to fetch the shopping bags and boxes of groceries and supplies. She had made sure she wasn’t going to run short of anything this time.

As she walked up the path back to the cottage, a movement out of the corner of her eye made her pause and look round. At first she thought she had imagined it, and as she stared, she caught a glimpse of a shadowed face peering at her from beneath the shelter of the branches of a tree. “Hello,” she called. “Can I help you?” But there was no answer, just a faint swinging movement from where the branch had been released. Seconds later, Cassandra saw a figure moving with speed across the field. How odd, she thought. Not exactly the sort of welcome she
would have expected. Someone was curious enough to spy on her from the trees but not sufficiently inquisitive to speak to her. She shrugged, and with her car emptied, she shut the door and set about stocking the kitchen shelves.

Her sister had led a fairly spartan existence. There were a few lamps dotted around; they looked Middle Eastern and attractive, but the white plastic shades were tinged with old rust marks. Cassandra had remembered to buy new ones, their bright colours matching the scatter rugs she purchased from a store near her city flat. By ditching the original tatty, greasy, and threadbare carpets, she thought she could soon rid the cottage of its unpleasant smell.

On either side of the hearth were two armchairs. Against a far wall, there was a sofa which looked long enough to sleep on. When she first visited Inverdarroch, the suite was covered with woven throws. Cassandra binned them and planned to replace them with the new cream-coloured ones she bought in Liverpool. She had seen at first glance how all the small items needed replacing: cushions, carpets, curtains, and lampshades. The kitchen was small and outdated. The china was old and chipped; no two items matched. It had been easy to push a shopping trolley round her local Ikea and pile it high with everything she needed and not feel she was breaking the bank. She would soon have it looking like…what? Home? It was an emotive word in the circumstances.

Apart from the sofa and armchairs, there was a pine table with three chairs. Three? Why not four? There was a dresser in the kitchen, along with a fridge and cooker, and a couple of Turkish rugs adorned the kitchen floor. A small television stood on a low table to the right of the fireplace, and some wonderful large vases were scattered here and there. Cassandra knew they were made by Susan by the signature mark on the bottom. Susan had left few personal items. On the walls were sketches and two oil paintings, which, judging by the signature, were hers. Upstairs, there were two bedrooms. The larger one contained a small wardrobe and a chest of drawers which doubled as a bedside cabinet. On the landing there was a pine chest containing some serviceable-looking, if slightly whiffy, blankets. The most remarkable find Cassandra had made was in the smaller of the two bedrooms, which Susan had obviously used as her workroom.

The room was painted white, well equipped with modern light fittings on the ceiling and walls. A rack along one wall contained a collection of small sculptured items made from stone, wood, ceramics, and glass. Susan had obviously been a keen naturalist because almost all were of animals. Cassandra handled the objects in turn, recognising Scottish wildcats, red deer, pine marten, peregrine falcon, golden eagle, red squirrel, and leaping salmon. There were even samples of wild boar and moose, which Cassandra knew were being re-introduced into Scotland’s wild. These pieces were nicely executed, but further along the shelf there was a collection of other sculptured objects, which quite frankly she would never have considered displaying. She picked up one or two and turned them over in her hands, baffled by why Susan had kept them; they were almost childlike in their finish. A few were crumbling, and she decided to put them in the shed. Her sister had been a remarkable but puzzling artist.

Apart from her sculptures, Susan had obviously been a painter. Along the other walls were pictures lying upended. Cassandra dragged them out, one by one, to see what they might reveal
about her sister. They were all different: oils of scenery, flowers, a stag or two. Some were abstract: large bold explosions of colour on huge canvasses. But if she had been looking for a self-portrait, she was disappointed. The nearest she found was a photograph of a young man, standing in a punt, holding a pole and laughing at a pretty girl leaning back on a brightly coloured cushion. Scrawled on the back in biro it read: Cambridge 1968. Was this Susan? And who was the man? She squinted at the photograph and thought she recognised a very young Susan. She studied the photograph for a minute and concentrated on the other occupant in the boat. It was odd, but she thought she ought to have known who he was. Her brain felt fuzzy as she stared, but nothing became clear. Unless…unless it was her brother, but it couldn’t be, could it? Cassandra remembered very little about him, and when she did, it was only a glimpse of a man whose features she couldn’t recall. But why did the thought of Rupert cause prickles along the back of her neck? Deciding to think about it later, she resumed her unpacking.

Cassandra carried her suitcase of clothes and toiletries into the larger bedroom. There was ample space in the chest and wardrobe for her things. The bed was a small double, and the mattress looked clean and reasonably new. There was only a trace of cigarette smells. She made up the bed with linen she had brought with her and cracked open the window an inch for airing. Outside, there was a small copse of mixed trees; the nearest almost touched the windowsill, while to the left, her land meandered uphill until it became heath. It looked wild and untamed, beautiful yet austere.

Being an old cottage, the biggest drawback was the bathroom, which was downstairs. On her first visit, Cassandra had been dismayed by the tiny room containing a toilet, washbasin, and shower cubicle. There was hardly room to swing the proverbial cat. Then she remembered it was only
her
toothbrush that would be in the pine wall cupboard. Cassandra had no partner to share the space. She had never been married, and at thirty-nine, she had almost given up hoping. Besides, she didn’t have the patience to put up with a man and his ways at her time of life.

Cassandra paused and considered her lot. A thirty-nine-year-old spinster, slightly overweight—well, a size sixteen—no boyfriend, no lover, and fighting like mad to ward off depression. Would her sister have thought her pathetic? As she went through Susan’s things, she mused on how she was at least honest with herself. The sculptures of animals and paintings showed Susan viewed the world as a beautiful place and worth copying in her own way. Cassandra saw her older sister as a patient person, but not someone who would put up with anything she thought trivial. So, what would Susan have made of her sister now? Would she have been surprised that she was feeling guilty and shouldering part of the burden which Susan had believed was her own?

She glanced at her watch and realised it was getting late. She hadn’t yet made up the fire downstairs, and despite being wrapped up in her sheepskin body warmer, the cold was penetrating through to her bones. She ran down the stairs, passed through the kitchen, and unbolted the back door. It was still light, and there was no need for a torch to guide her along the outside path, but it would be completely dark within the hour. The barn-cum-woodshed was solidly built of stone and was dry inside. Cassandra felt along the wall for the light switch, before moving towards the pile of logs and kindling. She found a basket and filled it with wood. Having a living fire for company would bring her comfort as well as warmth. She found a dog’s food bowl on a shelf, which left her wondering how long ago Susan had owned a dog and what became of it. There was a tartan blanket next to the bowl, and when Cassandra opened it out she found it still covered in dog hair. So Susan hadn’t lived entirely alone in Inverdarroch. She never mentioned owning a dog, but then Susan hadn’t told her anything about her life there.

She shivered as she sat in front of the fire, warming her hands as the flames flared up in the grate. Feeling the chill leave her fingers, she got up and filled the kettle. Tea and chocolate biscuits would be welcome.

Much later, Cassandra did a lot of thinking on the first night of her protracted stay at Shadow Vale. It was a cathartic cleansing of the past few months and their horrors. While eating her makeshift supper of sausages, eggs, and tomatoes, her thoughts turned again to Susan and how her disappearance had made such a change in her life.

Chapter 7 1984, Larchfield House, Liverpool

When Cassandra first learnt she had a sister, it had come as an enormous shock. Apart from a much older brother, whom Cassandra had forgotten because he had moved to Thailand when she was too young to have known him, she had always considered she was the only daughter. Being young and lacking in confidence, she wondered if she had been a ghastly child. Or was it because she so boring and uninteresting they packed her off to boarding school as soon as she was ten years old. School had been only marginally better than the long dreary weeks spent at home during the school holidays. If she was invited back to stay with a friend, Cassandra leapt at the opportunity. A few weeks away from the family home were wonderful. And she got to meet her friends’ brothers and sisters. Being the only child in her own home, siblings fascinated Cassandra, especially boys. How she dreamed of having brothers or sisters to share those long monotonous, mind-numbing days back at Larchfield. Which was why when she discovered the grainy photographs of Susan in the back of a leather-bound book, she had felt so many mixed emotions. Cassandra knew about an older brother because she vaguely remembered him, but a sister?