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

by Faith Mortimer

  Fiona took a sip of her coffee before calmly resting it on the kitchen worktop. “No.”

  The next question wasn’t so easy, and Cassandra took her time. “What about you and Donald? You know he wants the cottage for himself. Has he ever walked round the garden and peered into the windows? You know, imagining it’s already his and telling you what he’d like to do to the place?”

  Fiona looked up, frowning, and thumped her mug back down on the counter. “No! Never! What a thing to suggest. Donald may have his heart set on Shadow Vale, but he’d never trespass on someone else’s property. How could you even think such a thing?”

  “Sorry Fiona…I was really just thinking out loud. I know Donald—”

  “No, you don’t know Donald! I do. He’s my boyfriend. My fiancé. I know what he wants and what he likes, just remember that. The nerve! Fancy suggesting something like that.”

  Cassandra realised she had overstepped the mark and instantly apologised, knowing she couldn’t ask any more questions without pissing Fiona off completely. She should have known. Fiona was possessive about Donald, and Cassandra guessed she wouldn’t have told her the truth anyway.

  Cassandra resolved to buy new door locks the next time she went into town to see Bailey. In the meantime, her door would be bolted on the inside at all times. Night or day. Idly, she wondered what talisman was needed to keep the devil at bay…desperate people did desperate things.

  ***

  Once Fiona left Shadow Vale, apathy settled on Cassandra like a dank and heavy cloak around her shoulders. It hadn’t passed her by that neither the Blackmore sisters nor Fiona asked what had become of Julian. She knew all three had been questioned by the police, who asked if they remembered seeing him. It would have sparked off interest, but even so, she considered it odd. Most villagers would have been incredibly nosy or just a little curious about the whole affair.

  The day seemed to go on forever. It was as endless as the lonely moor beyond her land, thousands of feet above the sea, and rolling away both to the left and right. The lane outside her front door was a small path hidden in the wilderness. Cassandra thought about loneliness. How intense…how deep and how ironic she had finally recovered from Susan’s death. Had Susan committed suicide because she felt she was to blame for little Natalie’s murder?

  Cassandra fancied she was finally rid of those awful nightmares of a small child dressed for bed and falling headlong down the stairs. Deep down, she knew Susan should have saved her, and Cassandra should have listened and understood everything better.

  Cassandra needed something to do; she refilled the log basket and built up the fire. It was a miserable day, with the snow still falling and a keen wind blowing down the chimney; she might as well be warm. She wanted heat—lots of it—and after putting a firelighter onto the new wood took a match to it.

  She slipped the box of matches into her trouser pocket and then turned and glanced through the back window towards the high hills behind her house. Even with the snow lying on the ground, it was easy to imagine she saw him in the distance. He was standing tall and still as he looked broodingly down at her little house lying snug in the valley. How many times had she imagined him gazing in her direction? As Cassandra moved away, she noticed her body was shaking. In panic, she felt an urgent desire to get out into the fresh air, and grabbing only her coat, she slammed the door shut behind her, making sure she turned the key. She paused for a second in the garden as the image of Julian rose up before her. There was something left undone. It niggled at her as she pulled the gate shut behind her and hurried up the lane. There was a feeling, a strong sense, he was still somewhere in Inverdarroch. Something soft tickled her nose, and she noticed thick fluffy snowflakes caught on the breeze and falling silently to the ground.

  Nearing the farm, Cassandra caught a movement in the nearest window and guessed Carol was spying on her. She wasn’t feeling up to placating the capricious young woman and would have carried on if the subject of her thoughts hadn’t slipped from the house and waylaid her in the lane.

  As Carol neared, Cassandra was instantly aware of a large black-and-blue bruise on her temple. Whatever Carol had done, the bruising looked severe enough to be painful. Images of the woman’s older brothers and uncle flitted through Cassandra’s mind, and in horror, she wondered if she had been beaten up.

  “I’m sorry,” Carol called before reaching her. “I didn’t mean to be so bad. Only it wasn’t my fault in the end, there was nothing I could—”

  “Carol what’s happened to your face? Has someone hit you?”

  Carol stopped and felt her forehead. Her eyes looked huge in a pale freckled face, which was framed by a mass of unruly hair. She touched the bruise with one finger and shivered. “It wasn’t that, I’m sorry—”

  “Get inside, girl, before your mother takes a stick to you. You’ve caused enough trouble.” Cassandra turned round at the sound of the gravelly voice behind her and instinctively took a step towards Carol who gave a squeak of terror and ran round the side of the farmhouse.

  “What’s happened? What’s Carol done?”

  Rae appraised Cassandra standing before him with her hands bunched up into fists. “No need to worry yersel. She’s unpredictable that girl. We’ve got it sorted.” Rae held up one beefy arm to stop Cassandra following him as he quickened his pace after his sister. “Disne fret yersel.”

  Cassandra ignored his gesture and trailed behind him, almost tripping over in the snow-filled ruts of the farm lane. Something odd was going on, and what had Carol meant?

  “So your fancy man left you, then?” Mrs Campbell stood at her side door, arms crossed across her enormous bust, her mouth puckered with distaste. Cassandra felt a flare of hope flicker.

  “You saw Julian?” she gasped. “Saw his car and me and him out walking with Bailey?”

  The old crow hesitated for one second before she snorted and cackled. “Naw. I’m just repeating what the polis said. None of us saw anything. We were here inside all the time. Isn’t that right, Rae?”

  No, of course they wouldn’t have ‘seen’ anything, Cassandra thought as she watched Rae carry on walking into the barn. They were as small and closed tightly as the meanest clam. Cassandra guessed they only saw what they wanted. Years of living in the valley and God knew what in-breeding made them as narrow-minded as the wire of a tight-rope dancer. “Carol said something just now,” she began.

  “Forget what she said. She’s not right in the head half the time. Anyways, you’ll be leaving too now, no doubt. I always wondered why your sister didn’t go when she had the chance.”

  Cassandra’s face paled at the implication. What was it she was saying about Carol? Her own daughter, too. How on earth could Susan have put up with this place for all those years? Was she the keeper of a dark secret she had to hide, living up here in this insular spot?

  “What has Susan to do with this? She was an artist who chose to live in a quiet place to pursue her sculpture. She didn’t hurt anybody.”

  The old woman refused to be placated and shuddered. “She had her problems. Full of strange ideas that one. And the men she brought here over the years, quite disgusting.”

  Cassandra held her hands behind her back lest she lost control and took a swipe at Mrs Campbell. “She seemed perfectly normal to me, and as for men, she was a single woman. She could do as she liked. I’ll just take the cheese I ordered last week, if I may. I don’t want to trouble you further.”

  Mrs Campbell thrust out her bottom lip in irritation before nodding and wandering off into the house. Cassandra heard someone mutter something to her and her terse reply. “It’s well braw. Why bother going out when you can stay here in the warm?”

  Cassandra waited until she heard the shuffle of the old woman’s boots along the hall on her return. Somewhere a door banged. The woman thrust the carton into Cassandra’s hands and carried on their earlier conversation. “Huh, maybe when she was older she seemed normal. Take it from me—she was a wild one when sh
e first came here. Smoking that pot, drinking. She was even seen dancing up on the hills as naked as the day she was born and with a group of men looking on, so I’ve been told.”

  Cassandra could only gape at the woman’s accusations. Susan dancing naked under the moonlight? It sounded like her mother’s worst nightmare come true.

  “I know nothing about that, but I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  “Aye. So she said. They were a group of historians or something. But I didne believe it one for a minute.”

  “Well, if they were friends of Susan’s, then…” She let her voice trail off, knowing she would never change Mrs Campbell’s bigotry. She saw Susan as a harlot, a pothead, and probably an alcoholic, even though Cassandra had never seen any such evidence when Susan stayed in her flat.

  The old woman adopted a menacing tone. “She went and took her own life! That was a sin in itself. What dreadful thing was she running away from, eh? It was a good thing my boys stayed well clear of her and her licentious ways. She was immoral, if you want my opinion. Never set foot inside the kirk in all the years she spent here.”

  Cassandra didn’t want to hear one word more. She bid her good day and rushed from the yard. Pushing the packet of cheese into her coat pocket, she turned into the lane and walked as fast as she could away from the woman’s accusing eyes and scurrilous tongue. Damn! Damn! Damn! How dare she say such things, especially when Susan was dead and unable to defend herself?

  Feeling sick and tired from the previous twenty-four hours, she blinked back tears full of shame and guilt and self-pity. Had Susan been just as their mother had said? But so what? Surely she hadn’t hurt anyone with her distinctive ways and odd quirks. And was she really so shameful anyway? Mrs Campbell was an insulting and slanderous old bitch.

  But as Cassandra got herself under control, she also thought about what she had said about Julian. Cassandra was certain that when Mrs Campbell wavered in her speech, she knew someone at the farm had seen Julian that day. But if so, who, and why were they lying? Cassandra gave a start as she recalled Carol’s words … she was sorry and didn’t mean to be so bad. Only, it wasn’t my fault in the end, there was nothing I could … Cassandra felt like she was in the middle of some horror film and hadn’t a bloody clue what was going on, least of all Carol and her ramblings. On top of everything, Cassandra couldn’t explain her fears, and there was an overriding anxiety nobody was going to believe her anyway.

  Cassandra sniffed and looked up at the gloomy sky, her eyes travelling down until they rested on the brae above the village and the snow flurries blowing off the heather. She imagined she saw the figure again. Apart from the one time when he brandished the sword, he was always too far away to make out any details. All Cassandra recalled was that he was tall, carried a threatening air about him, and was always absolutely still. But there was something vaguely familiar too. Could it have been one of the Campbell brothers or the uncle? But had she ever seen one of them away from their beloved farm? She didn’t think so. Angus was tall and dark and hiked the hills…Donald too…he was forever out and about these days. Her dark thoughts turned to other possible suspects. What about the women? Mrs Campbell, despite being an absolute horror, was far too fat and old. The Blackmore sisters: dotty Lorna was too slight a figure, but her sister was large and strong. No, she seemed too kind and caring a person to want to cause harm to anyone. Carol was average height and her odd manner, was forever alternating from one emotion to another, and of course there was useless, ineffectual Fiona, hopelessly in love with the sycophantic, handsome, and energetic Donald.

  But what would possess any of them to suddenly abandon their normal lives and lurk around on the hill in all weathers or creep around her cottage? What purpose would any of those hellish events that Cassandra had experienced serve? It had to be some stranger.

  Cassandra vowed to be firmer with herself, get a grip and to always lock and chain all her doors and never venture out after dark.

  She shivered and walked on, not even noticing where her feet were taking her. She hated the thought of going home to an empty house, and despite the raw, biting wind hitting her in the face, she turned towards the moor, hoping to cleanse her mind of the foetid smell and sensation of fear. As she climbed, she held onto the hood of her coat to keep it over her frozen ears and cheeks. She thought she heard a call followed by a whistle, and holding herself stiffly against the freezing wind, she turned back and gazed at the village nestling in the valley. By now the snow was falling thick and fast. In the dim light, she didn’t see Angus on the road below and waving at her.

  She carried on, knowing somehow she must confront this awful sensation of dread, and violence was somewhere out there. Even though she felt this foreboding, she needed to face her own devil, and then she could leave the village for ever. Images flashed through her mind: some familiar while some were just wispy traces. She recognised a white-faced Susan, her immaculately turned-out mother and taciturn father. The silent, brooding villagers from Inverdarroch flitted past, including a misty figure of Uncle Archie and Lorna’s young son. She even imagined a likeness of her brother passing before her eyes. Cassandra trudged uphill, and with each step she took, she told herself everything was going to be all right. During the recent months, she had put up with and survived everything that had been thrown at her. No more.

  She would sell the cottage to Donald, taking the few pieces of Susan away with her. In facing her devil, she believed she would find Julian. Unlike the police and Angus, Cassandra suspected Julian was still out there, even though his car had disappeared. Cassandra wouldn’t rest until she found him.

  Chapter 29 On Devil’s Brae.

  As she walked, the falling snow turned from soft tiny flakes to fat cotton wool balls, which drifted and formed a moving veil. The hills above and around Cassandra became obscured from view. In the valley behind she could hear activity: a barking dog and the tractor on the Campbell farm. She wasn’t put off by a little snow, because the forecast earlier in the week was for snow flurries and nothing more than an inch or two in the Highlands. All this would no doubt melt and disappear as quickly as it arrived.

  The raw wind began to whine. At first it was a soft whistle of a few notes, before becoming more of a growl. The wind picked up the snow, and it hit her in the face, stinging and biting against her soft flesh. Cassandra was at the summit and knew that if she really wanted, she could find shelter in among the rocks. There were a few hollows scraped in the ground which were almost caves. But she had no time for resting; she was determined to retrace her and Julian’s footsteps. She was sure the police must have missed something vital, and she was dogged enough to prove them wrong.

  She set off down the track on the other side of the hill, eyes fixed on the ground, searching for something which would help her. After an hour and a half, she had walked further than the two policemen and still found nothing. She was cold and thought she would have to give up and go home. As she turned round, her boot caught in a hidden tuft of grass, and she tumbled over, falling on something hard and lumpy. Cursing she sat up and looked to see what caused her fall. With a triumphant smile, she picked it up and turned it over in her hands, laughing when she realised it was her pocket digital camera. She hadn’t missed it because Julian had borrowed it for the latter part of their walk. It was important because it held shot after shot of Julian, Bailey, and herself taken only the day before. At least she could prove Julian had been with her, and she wasn’t some barmy woman wasting valuable police time. Surely, if she showed this to the police, there would be grounds for conducting a more thorough search for Julian? She would show Angus too.

  Thoughts of Angus sent her spirits plummeting. She was confused. She loved and wanted to trust him, but there were so many things which didn’t add up. And why hadn’t he bothered contacting her today, either? Perhaps she would do better to forget her crazy ideas of love and being by his side. It was all a pipe dream, anyway. Despite the scorching looks which passed between th
em, Cassandra knew nothing of what Angus really thought, and she had to remember someone in the village probably hated her. What was galling was she couldn’t offer any explanation, apologise, or make anything right. Why? Because she had no idea who he was or what the bloody hell he wanted from her. But she knew for certain that when she heard the distant drumming on the hills, her blood turned to ice. She was convinced: everything that had happened was the work of the watcher on the hill.

  Feeling she was getting somewhere, Cassandra walked back up to the summit and decided to explore the stone cairn area before the snow became too deep. She suspected the police hadn’t really checked the area out. How could they have? The area was vast, and a person could easily have slipped over and fallen into a cleft between the rocks. While Cassandra climbed, she noticed the falling snow dwindling to little more than sleet, and as the wind died down among the rocks, the temperature rose.

  Cassandra began inspecting every foot of the ground where she and Julian had last walked together that afternoon. She realised the cairn was a lot bigger than she originally thought, and here and there were fractures in the rocks resulting in a couple of fissures. She thought the area might have been formed by ancient volcanic activity and the fissures by more recent low-magnitude earthquakes; the British Isles were full of them.

  Snow began to fall again, thick and fast, and as Cassandra turned to retrace her footsteps, she heard a scraping sound. She froze and slowly turned her head.

  He stood about three hundred yards from her, a spectre of death, alone on his brae. Devil’s Brae. The wind began to whine and tear down the valley towards the hamlet. Cassandra imagined it with an evil intent of its own, attacking her cottage, whistling down her chimney to invade her refuge. However, since her intruder, she knew it was no safe haven. She saw the whole scene before her—a drama waiting to unfold. Had he seen her? As she stood poised, ready to run, the figure uttered a cry, and she knew it was no spectre. He was a living being: flesh and blood, like her, although in this instance, it was he who wielded the sword.