ON DEVIL'S BRAE (A Psychological Suspense Thriller) (Dark Minds Mystery Suspense) (12 page)

Daphne always looked perfect, whilst her daughter was more natural—a tomboy even. When Cassandra was little, she was wary of her glamorous mother. If she cut her knee and needed soothing, instead of running to find her, Cassandra either sought out the housekeeper or tried to deal with the hurt herself. Daphne had little time to worry about her daughter; she either had a charity function to organise or a concert to attend. It was only when Cassandra was older, filled out in the right places, and became interested in boys that Daphne took note. It was then Cassandra realised what it was to be really cautious and stopped bringing boyfriends home. No matter how keen they were at first, after meeting Daphne Potter things soon changed.

Well, her mother was dead and buried, and Cassandra didn’t have to fear her again. If she wanted to imagine Angus and she were going out on a date, she could lose herself in her daydream. He
was
dishy!

Spying a car pull up outside, Cassandra was out in a flash, making sure she locked both the front and shed doors behind her.

When Angus noticed her walking towards his car, he got out and held the passenger door open. Cassandra flashed him a look of surprise and smiled. She couldn’t remember the last time any man was so courteous towards her.

***

During the journey, Cassandra asked Angus about the exhibition. “I’m curious why they’re showing Susan’s work. She’s no longer alive, after all.”

Angus threw her a surprised look. “You really don’t know anything about Susan the sculptress, do you?”

She shook her head.

“Susan was much admired, especially in Europe, Japan, and the States. I’m sorry I should have explained before. The Scottish Royal Society of Arts has organised this exhibition. You’ll find most of the exhibits are privately owned, often part of collections. Susan’s work was much sought after, and there are few pieces still for sale. You’ll see what I mean when we get there.”

Susan’s exhibition was in an old building off George Square, not far from the University of Edinburgh. Angus parked the car, and they walked the short distance to the venue. Cassandra felt a frisson of excitement run through her. For the first time she was going to view her sister’s finer pieces of sculpture. When Susan had stayed with her for that short time in Liverpool, Cassandra had only caught a glimpse of her art. She hoped she was going to set things right this evening.

They walked up the short flight of steps into the hall, and Cassandra realised she was holding herself stiffly, as if she was steeling herself. She glanced at Angus’s profile, and he turned and caught her eye, giving her an encouraging smile, as if he knew what she was thinking. He guessed she was undecided; she was half excited, half dreading to see Susan’s work. Viewing all of Susan’s most important pieces under one roof was going to be a shock, whatever she felt, and it was unlikely she would ever see them all together again.

In the first room there was a display of papier mâché animals. They were beautifully made, and one really caught her eye. It was a raven with a Sculpt Nouveau iron coating to make the model appear like cast iron. The blue-black of its wings seemed so lifelike, Cassandra was reminded of a pair of the large birds seen flying over the hills of Inverdarroch.

“Ravens are rare in Scotland now
”, Angus offered as she lingered. “Once upon a time there were many, but since persecution in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, there are probably about two thousand or so pairs left. We see a few back home, and having them live there is unusual, as they generally prefer the lower lands.” Cassandra asked a few questions and was impressed that Angus knew about birds. It reminded her that she knew nothing of his private life. Elizabeth had informed her that he was a composer but he never brought the subject up. Since Angus hadn’t volunteered, Cassandra hadn’t asked, but it didn’t stop her wanting to know everything about him.

They moved further into the building where the next, much larger room presented an amazing collection of animals, which were clearly created from a passion of working with glass. Cassandra wandered around with her mouth half-open. The figures—some of which were huge—were made out of shattered glass; they were, in fact, shards. The information cards near each piece revealed most were privately owned and were kept in galleries throughout the world. They were typically placed in front of historical paintings by Rubens and d’Agar. While the source paintings featured the animals in secondary roles, Susan made them the focal point.

There was one huge sculpture of an American bison, strong and muscle-bound. The identification plaque explained how Susan had seen her work.

“Animals are difficult to understand, and we cannot always communicate with them. The animals made in glass open up a new reality, very different from ours. The animals and the audience of the art are as if they are performing on a kind of theatrical stage; it’s as if the different levels have become indistinct. It’s a clash of realities which should make us think about the uncertainties of life.”

For some reason the beauty before Cassandra made her want to sit down and cry. She had never appreciated art like that before, and because they were her sister’s creations, it made everything seem all the more moving.

They toured the rest of the rooms; the last but one was dedicated to unique clay animal sculptures. The cards next to each sculpture said most were Raku-fired, thereby explaining the rich but natural-looking crackle glaze. Cassandra said it appeared as if her sister aimed to get under the skin of the animal, giving each piece its own personality.

“They’re sad as well as beautiful because so many of these animals are highly endangered.”

Angus agreed and stood close to her. Cassandra could feel empathy radiating from him. “Yes, exactly. By depicting them, Susan has sought to enlighten us to their beauty, humour, and tenderness.”

All too soon they came to the last gallery, and Cassandra was surprised to find it hung with Susan’s paintings. “I knew she did paint from time to time from what people have told me, but I didn’t expect to find a whole room of pictures in different mediums,” she said, her eyes wide with wonder.

The paintings were varied, from delicate watercolours, acrylics, pastels, to huge bold splashes of colour. She suddenly paused and held her breath. Right at the back of the room, having a wall to itself, was one lone painting.

Mesmerised, Cassandra forgot the rest and walked slowly towards it. Even from a distance, she knew it was her sister. Only this was a much younger Susan than the one she had known for that brief period back in Liverpool. Like the photograph back in Inverdarroch, she saw a woman wearing a loose-fitting white dress, her bare legs proudly displaying slim calves and feet. She was seated sideways and facing backwards on a pine chair, knees slightly apart, one arm flung across the back of the chair, the other hanging loose, and a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her mouth was curved upwards in a half smile, and her eyes held a dreamy expression as if she was sharing a secret with the viewer.

A self-portrait of her sister, an ethereal vision in oils, smiling unpretentiously from the canvas. She recalled her mother’s harsh words spoken so long ago. “She was a waster and a difficult child from the moment she was born. A troublemaker and a liar. Susan caused so much awful misery to Daddy and me. It was a relief when she finally left home.”

Cassandra looked and looked, drinking Susan’s smiling, compassionate eyes into her own. Her face was unlined; she was younger than in the photograph, and she could see by her mouth that her manner had been generous and kind. Susan’s hands were long and thin, like her limbs, and her nails short and clean. At her feet lay a dog—a golden cocker spaniel—and Cassandra wondered if she had found the answer to one of her earlier questions. As she stared, she felt she could almost hear Susan speak to her, breathe in her air, raise a hand in greeting. The portrait looked so true to life. Cassandra leaned forward as if to catch Susan’s breath with her own, to inhale her unique woman smell and to keep Susan with her for ever. Cassandra found she had a lump in her throat, and tears were spilling down her cheeks. Oh, Susan! If only we had found each other sooner.

Susan was beautiful back then, and as she stared, Cassandra recalled the appalling story Susan told her just before she left to return to Scotland: why she left home all those long years ago and why she never returned. Finally, on meeting Cassandra again, it revived those painful memories, and Natalie’s death was just one more hurt, one more pain she couldn’t bring herself to bear.

As Cassandra felt Angus’s warm and comforting arm slide across her shoulders and he murmured, “Mo guradh milis”, all she wanted to whisper was, “Too late, too late.”

***

Later, recovered from her tearful scene, Cassandra smiled in embarrassment. Angus had been patient and uttered words of reassurance while she snivelled into her soggy tissue. Once she had finished and scrubbed her face clean in the ladies, he asked gently if she would like to meet the director of the exhibition.

“I took the liberty of telephoning and explaining who you were and that you might visit today,” he said.

Cassandra flashed him a wan smile. “Thank you, but if you don’t mind I really don’t want to. Not today…it’s been too full of surprises one way and another.”

“Of course, I quite understand. Anyway, here’s his card. I’m sure if you want to drive up and see him or telephone, he’ll be only too happy to answer any questions you have.”

Seeing Cassandra looked pale and was obviously ready to leave, Angus suggested they stop at a pub he knew on their way home. “The food there’s excellent. They serve large portions of good old-fashioned home cooking. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, especially after a long cold day. ” He held her elbow as they crossed the road, and once more, Cassandra was reminded of how old-fashioned he was at times.

The Drovers Inn was about twenty minutes from Inverdarroch. Cassandra was heartened to see it was a proper old coaching inn dating from the 1700s. She could imagine it back in those times: wet and weary travellers staggering up to the front door for refuge on a cold night. There must have been a fantastic view during the day, but that night, inside the snug bar, she found a distinct and friendly welcome, rustic wooden tables, stone floors and hearty food, exactly as Angus had described. “The inn was once used by the Highland drovers who used to drive their cattle down the side of the Loch to the markets in the south,” he told her as they waited for their order.

Cassandra was entranced, especially by the reception hall where she found herself face to face with a fully grown, stuffed grizzly bear. Caught up with the atmosphere of the place, she ordered haggis, neeps, and tatties, followed by Clootie dumpling if she found room afterwards! Angus laughed at her newfound appetite and scanned the wine list for a suitable accompaniment.

Whilst they ate, they talked. Cassandra found she had lots of questions to ask, and as they had spent some time in each other’s company, she no longer felt she was imposing. Apart from asking about Susan, she wanted to know everything about her gorgeous companion too. As he was the driver, Angus was careful about the amount of wine he drank, Cassandra noticed. He took his time over one glass but kept Cassandra’s full.

It was easy for Cassandra to devour him with her eyes every time she looked over the rim of her glass. She couldn’t help gazing at him, slowly scanning every inch of his face. By the end of an hour, she thought she knew every line and blemish on his skin and found herself wishing she could kiss each and every part of him, too. Whenever their eyes met, she felt her cheeks begin to flame, and the air between them seemed to crackle.

Cassandra knew she must stop undressing him with her eyes, or he would know for certain how deep her feelings were. In a panic, she looked round the busy room thinking about what to talk about next.

“I’m not even sure I know for certain what you do for a living…if anything,” she suddenly blurted.

“That’s easy. I’m a composer.”

So what Elizabeth had told her was correct. “Of music?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What type?”

“Well, anything I’m asked to compose, but mainly classical.”

It explained the opera pictures Angus had hanging in his cottage. Cassandra finished her third glass of wine and smiled when Angus offered her some more. She couldn’t help thinking she was acting like a schoolgirl
. Get a grip!

As he told her more about his work, she settled back in her chair, listening and daydreaming. The wine was having its effect: her limbs felt relaxed and detached.

“Thank you for this evening, Angus. In fact, thank you for making my day come right. After this morning’s shock, it’s been lovely—everything. Seeing Susan’s work and bringing me to this amazing pub and food…and the red wine’s not bad either. But I’d better not have any more after this,” she said, laughing and feeling completely at ease in his company. “What an amazing job you have. I’ve never met a composer before. You must be jolly clever, being able to string all those notes together and arrange for a whole orchestra, too. Wow!”

He grinned, and she thought he looked quite raffish under the inn’s lighting as he took a sip of wine.

“Not really. It’s something I’ve always loved doing, and I’m not bad at it. I first learnt to play the violin and piano, and thankfully, I have a good ear. When I was small, my mother encouraged me to write down and play my own compositions. She also told me not to overdo the pieces because even if your work is not perfect, if you write and overwrite, you can easily lose the first flush of ingenuity. Look, the bottle’s nearly empty. It would be a shame to waste it, and I can’t drink as I’m driving.” He indicated the last drops of wine and topped up her glass.