On DEVIL’S BRAE
(A Psychological Thriller)
by
FAITH MORTIMER
About the author:
Faith Mortimer: born in Manchester, England and educated in Singapore, Malaya and Hampshire, England. Qualified as a Registered nurse and later changed careers to oversee a number of travel and sport related companies.
Faith is married with a family. Once the children attended University, she decided to join them in reading for a Science degree. Faith obtained an Honours Science degree in 2005 and believes the dedication and stamina needed to sit for a degree while in full-time employment, gave her the confidence to finish writing her first novel.
She has now written and published 10 novels and a volume of short stories. All are available as eBooks from your favourite online book store.
For more information about Faith and her writing please follow on Facebook. www.facebook.com/FaithMortimer.Author
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Website: www.faithmortimerauthor.com
Where Faith writes a regular blog about all manner of things!
Acknowledgements
Once again a Big Thank You to my editor Catherine and to my husband Chris for their invaluable assistance and patient support.
A very special thanks to my friends who helped research the Scottish Gaelic and particularly to
Mary Dalton who supplied the answers.
ON DEVIL’S BRAE
by
FAITH MORTIMER
Copyright © Faith Mortimer 2013
The right of Faith Mortimer to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved
No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published
by Topsails Charter, Southampton
On Devil’s Brae
Prologue Scotland, Seventeenth Century.
According to seventeenth-century folklore, it is said that a girl known locally as the Fairy Girl walked on Devil’s Brae on nights when the moon was waning. The girl had the gift of second sight.
This girl with wild, tangled hair and flashing eyes, a heather-coloured stone at her throat, would climb Devil’s Brae and enter the hill through gossamer gates—visible only to those with the ‘gift’.
One night she vanished, never to be seen again.
Three hundred years later, a party of walkers came upon a piece of land where a fissure had appeared overnight. The more intrepid of the walkers climbed down through what seemed a large rabbit hole and ended up in a tomb-like cave. Brittle human bones lay upon a stone ledge… a silver chain and dark-mauve pendant lay fragmented over the floor. A pair of iron leg manacles was attached to the wall.
It is said, this was the cave where the Fairy Girl used to dance and drum.
Chapter 1 September, 2012, Inverdarroch, Scotland
It was late autumn. Blackberries hung thick and sweet from the brambles. Large earthy mushrooms lay hidden in damp fields. Cassandra Potter, thirty-nine, was moderately overweight, possessed interesting features rather than pretty ones, wore clothes from Monsoon, and always sent charity Christmas cards three weeks before the big day. An open and friendly woman, trusting, dependable, she loved to be busy. She lived an orderly life, neat and self-contained and didn’t believe in fairies.
That morning, the air in Inverdarroch felt so light. It was a feather caressing her cheek as she walked through the woods behind her cottage. She smelt the rank, pungent odour of a fox’s lair and passed the headless remains of a hare lying beside the path. A slick of blood and guts had spilled on the grass, a buzz of bluebottles airborne above the carcass. Nature…red in tooth and claw, she mused.
Cassandra moved on, her boots and jeans brushing against bracken and bramble until she left the forest. She paused and sniffed, her breath condensing before her. Winter was on its way with bitter winds, wood smoke, and snowdrifts. She decided to make the most of the fine weather and climb the hill carpeted with springy heather, peaty water tumbling over lichen-covered rocks. She was halfway to the top when Cassandra realised she wasn’t alone. At first it was a feeling—nothing more—and she looked round, hoping to catch sight of a fellow walker. The landscape was empty, stretching for miles in every direction. Then she saw him: a dark figure standing along on the top. The English called it a tor, but Cassandra knew the Scottish locals called it a brae.
His stillness was uncanny and made Cassandra hesitate. She didn’t recognise the man; there was no dog by his side or gun in his hands. She resumed her walk, keeping to her path. If she caught up with him, she would stop and pass the time of day. Every now and then, Cassandra raised her eyes to the spot where he stood; more than ten minutes had elapsed. She felt no fear—just a mild curiosity and a growing unease. Was it someone who wanted to talk to her? Had her refuge been rumbled? A walker like her, perhaps? A neighbour she hadn’t yet met…
She knew deep down it was none of these. She pressed on, some impulse driving her upwards. At first, it was faint—barely perceptible. Cassandra thought the light around her moved. It seemed to fade and intensify as the noise increased, which she realised was a drumming. She tripped over a hillock and, after righting herself, glanced in his direction and saw he had disappeared. But where had he gone? There was no cover on the hill, or tree, or rocky outcrop.
As Cassandra looked round, she was gripped by a feeling of alarm. He must have moved down the other side. She picked up her pace until she reached the top. Turning in all directions, she could see no trace of him and felt an intangible sense of menace—violence almost. Confused, Cassandra caught her breath. Had she imagined him? Was her sojourn in the countryside fuelling her imagination? She had gone there seeking solitude, needing a place to recover from the shocks of the last few months. It had all been quite ghastly, and she felt she was sliding down a slippery slope to insanity. She told herself it was all behind her, but somehow she knew she was lying to herself.
Spooked, Cassandra turned and fled down the hill. Thick clouds were now blotting out the sun and turning the mild weather cold. Nearing the forest, she changed course, not wanting to venture through the gloomy woods. The distance was greater, but at least she was out in the open and had a clear view all around. Once she caught sight of the blue pall of smoke from the cottage fires, Cassandra slowed and regained her breath. She had been stupid; the figure must have been a trick of the light, cast by the shadows of the clouds moving over the heather. Cassandra’s imagination had run riot, and all she had to do was adjust to her new life. Okay, so she was alone, but for heaven’s sake, she was a sensible woman approaching her forties and had always been self-sufficient. She prided herself with living a well-balanced, smoothly run life.
Chapter 2 Early January, 2013, Liverpool, England
“Why ever not?” Cassandra asked with a snort of laughter. “It’s the perfect place for me to spend a few months to recuperate. I know it’s hardly a village—it’s what you’d call a hamlet, I suppose—but there are enough neighbours nearby if I get into difficulty.” She had managed to convince herself with her well-rehearsed reasoning and was now using it to reassure Cynthia and Rosemary.
“Hamlet!” Cynthia’s high-pitched voice revealed
her derision, and her look confirmed it. “I’d hardly call it a hamlet. It’s got…what? Five houses, including yours, and a dilapidated-looking pub a couple of miles away. And of course, there are your neighbours. Cassandra, you simply cannot live there on your own.”
Cassandra uncorked the second bottle of Chianti and, without asking, refilled the three women’s wine glasses. She looked from one to the other with a hint of a frown, her head slightly tilted to one side.
“Of course I can. It’s only going to be for a while until I get sorted out and decide what I really want to do.” Her voice trailed away, and both women watched their friend as she slouched down in her chair.
Rosemary touched Cassandra’s hand, indicating the full wine glass. “Some of your neighbours are a bit odd, you know.”
Cassandra sat upright. “Hey, you two! This isn’t fair. I didn’t invite you round so you could gang up on me. You’re supposed to be my friends. You know…cheer me up?”
Cynthia took a swig of wine before replying. “I do agree with Rosie for once, though. They were strange. How on earth can you imagine they’re going to be reliable?”
“You didn’t meet all of them. Angus seemed nice and trustworthy…a bit shy perhaps.”
“We met the lot at the farm. I remember a rude old bat of a mother, her three idiotic-looking sons, and, apparently, a nutty old uncle. We never met the daughter, who squinted at us through grimy net curtains whenever we passed. Just great. Oh, and let’s not forget the two sisters with the collection of plastic garden gnomes.” Cynthia laughed.
Cassandra thought about giving Cynthia her best withering look but decided against it. “They’re okay…all of them. It’s not as if I’m going to be doing a lot of entertaining while I’m there. I thought I might go over that new online photography course. It’s quite comprehensive and what with working all day, I’d never find the time. You know, I quite fancy branching out and doing more than just covering weddings.”
Stifling her laughter, Rosie frowned. “Why? You’re already the best wedding photographer around. Why would you want to train for something else? Besides, Rosie and I need you. We don’t want you going off for months, trailing all over the country or being poached by another firm.”
Cassandra sighed and glanced out of her apartment window. The sky was that usual steely grey so often seen in England. “Yes, but I think I’d like a change. Maybe I need a change of direction. I’ll still cover your weddings, of course, but I’d like to add something more to my portfolio. I have some of the skills already, and at the end of the course, I’ll still be my own boss. I can work from home and not have to rely on anyone.”
Rosie and Cynthia raised their eyebrows as they looked at one another, and Cassandra knew what they were thinking. She’s lost her bloody nerve. After losing her sister, she doesn’t want to be involved with a lot of people. She wants to go it alone.
“The extra pay would be pretty good, too. Anyway, it’s not decided. I’ve got the details, and I’m going to go over the course to see if it’s what I really want. You’re never too old to learn or retrain. It keeps your brain active.”
Cynthia locked eyes with Cassandra. “It wasn’t your fault. They said Susan did all she could. You were simply caught up in it all.”
“Yes, but even so, I haven’t got over it. I want to stay in Inverdarroch. The people there will be fine once they get used to me. I expect they mind their own business. After all, my sister lived there for long enough. She was a bit of a loner, it seems.”
“Yes, but Cassandra, she was a sculptor, an artist. They’re renowned for living solitary lives.”
“Enough! I’ve made up my mind. I’m going. I know you both think I’m a bloody idiot and I’m over-reacting and punishing myself. Well, perhaps I am. I just know I want to do this.”
A burst of heavy rain slashed against the window, and Cassandra’s attention was diverted. She wanted a refuge, a place where she could go and hide away. Everything in her familiar world seemed hostile, shitty, and dirty.
Rosie shuddered as she looked towards the downpour. “Have you thought about selling the place? You know, use it for a time while you sort yourself out but have it on the market. What have you got to lose?”
Cassandra shook her head. “And have dozens of people tramping all over the place? No thanks. I don’t want to face loads of strangers. No. I’ll use the time to tart the place up, get my life in order, and rethink. To me it seems like the ideal opportunity. I can always sell it in the spring. In fact, nobody buys houses in autumn and winter. Spring and summer are by far the best seasons.”
“It’s hardly going to make you a fortune,” Cynthia grumbled. “There’s no central heating, acres of adjoining heathland, an overgrown garden, and it’s miles from the nearest decent shopping centre. Not what you’d call a metropolis.”
“There’s a huge fireplace, and I saw a massive pile of logs when I looked in that sort of woodshed thingy.”
Rosie swivelled round on the sofa and hugged her knees. She was dressed in pale-green thick trousers and a cashmere turtleneck sweater. “What Cyn and I really mean is…we’re worried you’re going to be lonely and depressed tucked away in the Highlands of Scotland. You’ll be completely out of your depth. You’ve never lived in the country.”
Cynthia nodded, helping herself to half a glass of wine. “We don’t think you’re thinking this through. Don’t you think your reasons might be a bit muddled?”
Cassandra rose from her chair and wandered to the window. The rain had eased to a thin drizzle, and she watched it slide like oil down the glass. She knew Rosie and Cynthia had her best interests at heart, and everything they said made sense. All her arguments were full of holes, yet she felt compelled. Something was making her seek solitude, and she didn’t know the real reason. Was she trying to prove something?
The last few weeks and months of her life had been unbelievable. She had gone from living a—what she thought— perfectly normal existence to one where she was scurrying around feeling nervy and depressed. After her sister’s sudden death, all her confidence had disappeared in one quick blow. But she needed something to cling to. She wanted to use the time to come to terms with past events and find the strength to be the old, robust, and resilient Cassandra. She turned back and smiled at her friends.
“You know me. I’m strong, tough. I’ll be fine in a few months. You wait and see.”
Rosie and Cynthia exchanged glances.
“It could have happened to anyone,” Rosie started, stopping when Cassandra held up a hand.
“But it bloody well happened to me because of Susan. Please don’t go into that again. I can’t stand it.” Her voice rose and her face paled.
“We do understand. You’ve been demoralised, and the newspapers haven’t helped.”
“Too right they haven’t.” Cassandra felt her palms sweating, her heart racing.
“They went too far. It could have happened to anyone, but Susan—” Cynthia stopped as Cassandra raised her hands to her head and spoke through clenched teeth.
“I said, don’t say that again. I can’t bear hearing it.”
She turned away, her mind reeling. What she really wanted was time on her own to think and to grieve for her sister: the sister she had only recently met and with whom she had spent such a short time. Susan had tracked her down, and when they finally caught up with each other eight months previously, they tried hard to get along. But because of the circumstances of their separate lives and the difference in their ages, it hadn’t really worked. Susan was eighteen years older—another generation entirely. It was some time before Susan actually admitted she lived in Scotland most of the time. She was a sculptor, although Cassandra never saw any of her work because she lived miles from Cassandra’s home town of Liverpool. But what Cassandra didn’t understand was why Susan had become so involved with the Hodges family in the first place. Cassandra remembered their stilted conversations about the child, Natalie: the innocent little child with the pale-
grey eyes and mid-brown hair. The girl who’s solemn face once graced the front page of every tabloid across the nation. The child whom Susan said she had allowed to die through her own ignorance and unawareness. It wasn’t until much later that Cassandra realised why Susan felt compelled to help the child.
There was little point in saying any more to Rosie and Cynthia. They understood only too well. It could have happened to them—or anyone, for that matter. The saddest thing was it should never have happened, but it would. Again and again.
Cassandra’s thoughts drifted back to Susan’s account of the weeks leading up to Natalie’s death seven months previously. While Cassandra had no personal experience of children, after listening to Susan, she suspected there was cruelty in that miserable home. Susan described everything so clearly, it was as if Cassandra had become an unwilling part of the tragedy.
It transpired Susan was using Natalie as a model for her work. She was making a large sculpture of a group of children from different ethnic backgrounds and home environments throughout Britain. Susan said that every time she called the parents to discuss the project, she sensed something wasn’t right. The mother, Stacy, had a new infant, as well as Natalie and her little brother Darren; sometimes when Susan knocked, she was ignored, even though she was certain someone was at home.
Cassandra did her best to listen to Susan’s fears, but she had her own busy life and accompanying problems. It wasn’t her business. If only she had made it more so, perhaps she could have helped. Afterwards, Cassandra’s friends were unstinting in their support. Yet, for one fleeting moment, she wished that she was in their shoes, that it had happened to one of them, and that it was she who was sitting there offering advice and sympathy. Cassandra shook away her diabolical and uncharitable thought; she was the worst of friends and they were the best, but she was only human.
ON DEVIL'S BRAE (A Psychological Suspense Thriller) (Dark Minds Mystery Suspense) Page 1