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?
Clutching the pictures in her hand, young Cassandra rushed off to speak to her parents. She found her father in his study. As soon as he finished his phone call, she thrust the photographs on the desk before him. Reginald Potter flinched as he looked down and fiddled with his watch strap. After a few seconds, he gathered them together in a pile, barely glancing at his daughter as he stood up and ushered her towards the door. “I haven’t time now, Cassandra. I suggest you go and ask your mother.”
Bemused, Cassandra stared as the door was shut in her face. Blinking back her tears, she wandered through to the drawing room in search of her mother.
“But who is she, Mummy? Why do I feel I know her? Is she a relative?”
Daphne Potter glanced up at her daughter with a cold look, hardly meeting her eyes. Between thin, tight lips, Cassandra heard her say those four astonishing words. “She’s your sister.”
Startled, Cassandra mouthed an O. “What do you mean?” she gasped
Her mother finished arranging the flowers in the vase and stood back to admire her display before continuing. “You had to know sometime, I suppose. Daddy and I always meant to tell you, but time drifted by, and we’re always so busy. We were waiting until you were old enough to understand.”
Cassandra hopped off the chair she was sitting on and went to stand nearer her mother. She smelt the familiar scent of her cloying perfume hanging in the air around her. “Understand what?”
Daphne Potter waved a hand in Cassandra’s direction and gave a short sneering laugh. “Her name’s Susan. At least that’s what she was named at her christening. I have no idea if she changed it.”
Cassandra felt as if she had been slapped round the head and hugged the photographs to her. She was afraid to comment. She and her mother never shared secrets. Her mother was a stranger to her. Frigid and distant.
“Susan is eighteen years older than you and left home when she was seventeen.” Cassandra peered into her mother’s unemotional, expressionless face, seeing only the heavily made-up eyes and lips, the tightly permed hair. Cassandra was thirteen, so that meant Susan was thirty-one. Goodness, she was old. She couldn’t imagine having an adult sister. Susan would never have been one with whom to share childish secrets, or bring home friends of her own she could moon over. She felt cheated. Susan. It was hardly a romantic name, either. Whatever would her friends at school think?
Cassandra’s mother and father had always seemed so much older than her friends’ parents, and for the first time, Cassandra really understood why. Apart from Rupert, her long-departed brother, she had an older sister too! Eighteen years was a huge gap between sisters. Why had they waited so long to have another child? A chilling thought struck her. Was she an accident? An unwanted baby and her parents being Christian people would never have…done the unmentionable. The answer was simpler and staring her in the face. Cassandra’s mother, Daphne Potter, had never liked children. In fact, if Cassandra had been braver, she would have said her mother hated children. Was that why her brother had gone to Thailand? He was older than Susan and a young man when he left home. If only she could remember.
Cassandra panicked as she thought about what she had missed during her childhood. She realised there were gaps in the family photograph albums, spaces where dabs of glue still adhered in four corners of a page from a missing snapshot; odds and ends which turned up infrequently in the garden and garage; odd dolls’ arms and legs and a rusting girl’s bicycle forgotten behind piled-up tea chests stored in the large garden shed. She knew they didn’t belong to her. Occasionally, her parents would mutter some remark about a time or place from the past, followed by a black look and a drawn-out silence of which Cassandra thought she was the cause. If she had known, she would have seen the clues.
Confused and with an ache in her throat, Cassandra croaked, “Why did my sister leave home, and why didn’t she come back? In fact, why did Rupert go away as well?”
Daphne’s mouth screwed up even more as she hissed out those fateful words. “She was a dropout and a difficult child from the moment she was born. Out all night, drinking, smoking, sex, and…those drugs. She caused so much awful misery to Daddy and me and Rupert with all her terrible lies. When she finally left home, it was a relief. Rupert left because…because he wanted to travel. It was as simple as that. He fell in love with the Far East and never returned.”
For some inexplicable reason, Cassandra wasn’t so worried about her brother. Because he was such an older, shadowy figure and had left when she was young, she accepted it. But discovering a sister was entirely different as far as she was concerned. She thought her mother mi
ght have been exaggerating and persisted with her questions. “But…but don’t you ever keep in touch? Do you hear from her, ever?”
Cassandra watched Daphne touch her tight curls with one blood-red manicured hand, her fingers covered in sparkling rings. Mummy was always impeccably turned out. She was the perfect lady about the house and town. “No. Never and we’re happy with that.”
Cassandra’s heart contracted. “And you’ve never tried to find her?”
There was a pause, and she stole a look at her mother’s forbidding face. “No. We did hear some time ago that she was a sculptor of some sort. Apparently, she had an exhibition in London, but we never made contact. Besides, she knew where we lived, and she didn’t bother getting in touch with us.”
Cassandra moved away from her mother and reached out to touch the petals of a pale-yellow rose. “A sculptor? Do you think Susan might like to know me?”
Daphne gave her daughter an impatient look. “I doubt it, darling. Why would she bother?”
Cassandra recoiled as if from a blow. She wanted to know. She didn’t want to ask questions or appear too interested, but the need was great. “What did she do? What trouble did she cause? What was she like?”
“Apart from what I’ve already told you, I find it distressing to remember, and I certainly don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Daphne refused to make eye contact, her upper body rigid and unyielding. “It’s enough you know about her now. She looked a bit like you. Same mid-brown hair.” This was all she would concede and took a step away. Cassandra knew that she was about to end the conversation.
“But please, Mummy! What did she do that was really so wrong?”
Daphne folded her arms across her chest, lightly rubbing her elbows. She licked her lips. “Must I repeat myself? She caused trouble by making up a lot of dreadful stories and telling outrageous lies. Susan was wayward and unstable from the time she could talk. She was never quiet or agreeable, always attention-seeking and causing trouble. She was a most unpleasant child.”
Cassandra couldn’t stop herself, and the question was out of her mouth before she realised. “So why did you have me if Susan was so bad? Couldn’t I have turned out the same?” As soon as she had uttered the words, she knew she was letting herself in for disappointment. Her mother could so easily say she was.
Her mother took just a fraction too long in replying, and Cassandra guessed the answer before Daphne uttered it. “You came along unplanned. We were surprised, but we were pleased to have you, of course.”
Cassandra felt numb, and she had to force herself to carry on. “Did you ever find out where Susan lives now?”
Daphne’s brow puckered and her delicate nostrils flared. “No. Definitely not, and we don’t intend looking.”
Cassandra stared down at the floor before rubbing her eyes. “Why are you still so angry with Susan?” she eventually whispered.
Her mother cleared her throat while fiddling with her pearl necklace. “Because she hurt me and…and Daddy. She broke up the family with her lies. She left her home and family after being expelled from school twice, and losing a child is not something a parent can forgive or forget. Even with a ghastly child such as Susan. Now I’ve said all I’m going to say, and I don’t want this brought up again. And certainly do not involve your father. He won’t appreciate having this matter brought to his attention.”
Cassandra’s shoulders dropped; as she watched her mother sweep out of the room, she was mesmerised by her high heels tapping over the polished floorboards. She wandered over to the window and with unseeing eyes looked outside. As she focused, she saw that the garden was immaculate. Tall trees lined either side of the long swathe of deep-emerald grass, which was cut to a height of two and a half inches precisely. The flowerbeds were weed-free and bursting with specimen shrubs and plants. The gravelled drive on the left led to a handsome pair of wooden gates and fencing. Everything was perfect and nothing out of place. Disorder simply wasn’t allowed.
Inside, order was repeated: polished wood, expensive Persian and Turkish rugs and drapes, all matching and in perfect harmony. But it wasn’t a comfortable home. Cassandra was never allowed to leave a book unattended on the settee or forget to take her outdoor shoes off. She might have soiled the carpets, heaven forbid! Apart from her own room, she was never allowed to relax. She wished she had visited one of her friends for the holidays, but she had gone too many times in the past and knew she was in danger of outstaying her welcome. And there was no point in asking Mother if she could invite anyone back there. Daphne Potter always came up with a reason for the inconvenience. They were having the builders and decorators in; Daddy had some important deadlines to meet and needed the tranquillity of an ordered house—children were too noisy and distracting for him; Mother was too busy organising the annual fête. Cassandra had heard it all, over the years.
She hated it: the rules and regulations, subtle and almost sinister in their administration. Breakfast at seven-thirty, luncheon at twelve-thirty, afternoon tea at four, supper at seven (two courses only)—it was called dinner when they had guests and at least four courses were served. She loathed the sterility of the dining room: the long table with the snowy linen and eye-watering polished cut glass; the silver serving dishes with the finicky lids, which scared the life out of her, as she was terrified of dropping them. All served by the housekeeper or housemaid and under the watchful eye of Mother. The Lady of the House never lifted a finger to dust or vacuum the floors. The nearest Daphne Potter came to manual work was to lift a trug in the garden or push a shopping trolley around the supermarket.
Cassandra wasn’t surprised Susan and her brother had left. Theirs was not a home where young children could get messy and dirty or run riot in the garden. There was little love from either parent. No wonder Susan had been expelled from school. Cassandra knew how Susan must have wanted to rebel, and if she hadn’t been such a coward, she might have followed in her footsteps.
Chapter 8 January 2013, Inverdarroch
Cassandra finished her supper, and thinking of her late mother’s obsession and compulsive desire for order, dumped her dirty plate in the kitchen sink before climbing the stairs to her cold and lonely bed. It was a tiny hint of rebellion, but even though it was too little, too late, it gave Cassandra a crumb of satisfaction.
Sometime in the night, she woke with a start. It was strange, but for the first time in years, she dreamt of her older brother. She tried to capture what the dream had been about but failed to evoke any memories. It left her feeling disturbed and somehow, apprehensive. What was it about him that made her feel so vulnerable? Cassandra lay in the complete darkness, straining to hear through the silence, and then she heard it. It seemed to come from a long way off; at first it was muffled and faint before building to a regular tempo, a drumming which reverberated all around the glen.
After lying awake for an hour or more she finally drifted off into a deep sleep and finally woke around six thirty. When she first opened her eyes and stretched her long legs beneath her duvet, she couldn’t remember where she was. Living in a city, she was used to the permanent rumble of traffic outside her bedroom window. But she was met by a silence, which was so complete it was almost tangible. She rolled over and fumbled for the switch on her bedside lamp. She was shocked by her misty breath before her; she knew it was cold in those parts, but she wasn’t prepared for that.
Braving the temperature, she thrust her feet into her sheepskin slippers and wrapped her dressing-gown round her. She was tempted to stay in bed, but the cold made her desperate for the bathroom. She clattered down the stairs, casting a baleful eye at the cold hearth in passing. Perhaps if she invested in a wood-burning stove, she would have been able to keep the fire going all night. But that would mean spending money, she mused, as she perched on the freezing-cold toilet seat. And would I want the expenditure if I’m only going to stay here for a few months to tart the place up and sell it in the summer? Hmm. All the same, it would have made the place more ple
asant.
Cassandra showered and dressed, pulled back the bedroom curtains and gasped. Stretching in front of her was mile after mile of sparkling snow. She was quite unprepared for the beauty of the virginal scene, where every flaw in the earth was corrected and made perfect. Tiny icicles hung from the roof and the nearest tree; if she opened her window, she could have reached out and touched them. Even the cobwebs moving gently in a breeze were frosted. As the sun rose higher, the whole valley seemed dazzled by the coating of frosted icing. It was so bright, Cassandra had to squint. It was achingly beautiful.
Breakfast over, Cassandra found her thickest pair of socks and her walking boots. She had to see how deep the snow was and if the road was passable. It was also a good time to go to the farm and place her order for milk. On her previous visits to Inverdarroch, she had taken supplies with her. But on the last trip she had made the dubious acquaintance of the family living at Lochend farm when Elizabeth Blackmore introduced them. Cassandra had described them to her own friends as ‘quaint and hard-living Highland folk’. Cynthia said they were louts.
She had lied when she told Cynthia and Rosie she thought her neighbours were fine. The farm folk were as Cynthia had intimated: a bloody rough-looking lot. But so what? It wasn’t as if she wanted to make them her bosom pals; all she needed was a pint of milk a day, some eggs, a little cheese occasionally, and maybe some logs if she ran out.
She was glad of her cosy boots as she left her doorstep. The snow wasn’t very deep, and already it was melting in the sun; but by golly, it was cold. Cassandra walked up the path towards the gate, which was open. She paused. She could have sworn she had latched it the night before after fetching the last of her things in from the car. Perhaps the latch was faulty.
ON DEVIL'S BRAE (A Psychological Suspense Thriller) (Dark Minds Mystery Suspense) Page 3
