Out of Sight Read online

  Out of Sight

  Rebecca Duval

  Copyright © 2020 Rebecca Duval

  First published in 2020 by Valley Heart Books

  The moral right of Rebecca Duval to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Rebecca Duval.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by: Deranged Doctor Designs

  For my fellow survivors

  ‘What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?’

  Lord Byron, 1812

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  ~Prologue~

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  Forty Four

  Forty Five

  Forty Six

  Forty Seven

  Forty Eight

  Forty Nine

  Fifty

  Epilogue

  ~The End~

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Content warnings

  ~Prologue~

  The acrid stench of petrol polluted the air.

  Why couldn’t she have stayed away? He’d warned her. He’d tried to show her what kind of man she was getting involved with, the risk she was taking, but she hadn’t listened. No one had.

  Well, now it was too late. For her, for him, for any of them.

  He struck the match and held it up to his face. He’d been to hell. He’d spent the past five years there, consumed by the fiery pits of his own hatred and regret.

  Now they would all burn. He tossed the match to the ground. And this wretched place would be their pyre.

  ~Three months earlier~

  One

  “Your destination is on the right.”

  Isla peered through the mud-splattered windscreen of her Fiesta, but all she could see was trees.

  “Okay, now you’re just blatantly lying to me.” She switched off the satnav and brought the car to a standstill at the side of the narrow country road.

  Where the hell was she?

  She’d used the postcode that Len had given her, so the castle should have been right there...but it wasn’t. The sky rumbled ominously, and a single fat droplet of rain exploded against her window.

  Great, just what she needed.

  Isla grabbed her brown leather satchel and navy blue blazer from the passenger seat, and stepped out of the car, just as the heavens opened. She squealed, lifting her blazer over her head to create a makeshift canopy.

  It had to be here somewhere. She started walking along the narrow verge, peering between the gnarled tree trunks for any sign of a building beyond. The rain bounced up off the ground, soaking her bare legs and making her regret her choice of outfit. But this was her lucky dress...not that it seemed to be working today.

  Then Isla saw it. Just around the bend in the road, set back among the trees, a set of elaborate wrought-iron gates hung between two stone posts. The black gates had been forged into a pattern of roses and thorns, and one of the gateposts had worn lettering carved into the stone, but it wasn’t until she was standing right in front of it that Isla could make it out:

  ‘Rosehill Hall’.

  She’d made it. But how was she supposed to get in?

  Isla pushed against the heavy gates - lightly at first, and then more forcefully - but they were locked. She tilted her head back, getting a face full of rain. There went her mascara. The gates were at least eight feet high. Isla dubiously eyed the gold-tipped spears at the top. No way was she climbing over.

  A blackbird swooped from a nearby tree and landed atop the gatepost beside her. Isla turned towards it and spotted the intercom nestled among the ivy.

  She ran back to her car, where she apologised to her navigation system and turned the heater on full blast. She pulled the Fiesta up in front of the imposing gates and lowered her window to press the intercom. Rain lashed into the car, soaking the inside of the door, and her lap.

  “Hello?”

  “Isla Belmont for Mr MacRae.” She had to raise her voice over the rumble of thunder in the distance, and for a moment she worried that the person at the other end of the line hadn’t heard, but with a sudden clang of metal, the gates swung open before her.

  Trees canopied the driveway, their bare, gnarled branches stretching towards each other.

  Isla slowed the car to a crawl, gravel crunching beneath her tyres as she followed the dim, winding path up towards the castle.

  A building reared up to her left, and for a split second, Isla thought she’d arrived before she realised her mistake. The house was impressive, but it was no castle. It was probably the old gatehouse or groundskeeper’s cottage.

  Just as she thought she might be lost, after all, the line of trees on either side of the car came to an abrupt end, and an ornate stone fountain loomed ahead, the driveway curling around it.

  Without the shelter of the branches, the rain pelted the windshield and even on the fastest setting, the wipers couldn’t clear it quickly enough. She squinted between the frantic wiper blades, as she navigated carefully around the moss-covered fountain.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the heavy grey sky, and Rosehill came into view.

  Isla's jaw dropped.

  Rosehill Hall stood three storeys high- not including the tower rising up from the middle, like something out of a fairytale...or horror story. Flanked by overgrown lawns, and as grey as the sky above it, it was a formidable sight.

  “It’s haunted, you know.”

  Those had been Tim’s words yesterday. But he was only trying to unnerve her. They both knew he was jealous that Len had chosen Isla over him for the job.

  Besides, there was no such thing as ghosts.

  As Isla got closer to the castle, the flaws became more obvious. The paint on the grand door was peeling, the steps up to it crooked and crumbling. Some of the mullioned windows were lined with cracks, and in places, it looked like the ivy had burrowed through.

  A movement in one of the upstairs windows caught her eye, and Isla got the sudden sense of being watched, even though she knew that was impossible.

  A sudden clap of thunder made her jump, and she swore aloud in the empty car.

  First day nerves, that’s all, she told herself. Isla brought the car to a standstill beneath one of the ground floor windows an
d took a deep steadying breath.

  This was a big contract, and Len was relying on her to make a success of it. She still didn’t know why he’d chosen her over his own son, but she did know that if she messed up then Tim’s jealousy would be the least of her worries.

  Isla ran from the car to the door, and lifted the heavy brass knocker, dropping it against the wood. The sound echoed through the empty grounds, bouncing back off the trees. Beneath the sleeves of her damp blazer, the hairs raised on her arms. She heard footsteps, quick and surefooted, then the door was wrenched open by a tall, broad figure with fair hair buzzed close to his scalp.

  Isla’s mouth fell open in surprise. He wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Then his blue eyes widened at the sight of her, dripping wet on the doorstep, and she realised her mistake.

  “Oh! You’re soaked! Come in, quickly!”

  The guy, who definitely wasn’t Mr MacRae, stepped to one side and ushered her into a huge entrance hall.

  A grand staircase swept up towards the first floor, splitting in two and doubling back on itself up to the gallery above. The heels of Isla’s shoes clicked against the faded parquet floor, the sound echoing around the darkened archways either side of her, that led to who-knows-where. Beneath one, she caught a glimpse of a magnificent fireplace, that once upon a time would have provided a warm welcome to any callers stepping in from the cold, but without a fire burning in its grate it looked as stark and uninviting as the rest of the space.

  The door closed behind her with a dull thud, plummeting the hallway into gloom.

  “You must be Isla?” the guy said, holding out a hand. “I’m Ryder. Nice to meet you.” He had a Southern accent, not quite RP but certainly closer than Isla’s own faintly Geordie twang. He looked about her age, with a broad smile, and neat white teeth. He was wearing a white t-shirt and black jeans with trainers. His arms were covered with tattoos, and one of his ears was pierced.

  He might have sounded like a butler, but he did not look like one.

  Isla swiped one hand against her dress - not that it was any drier afterwards - and shook his hand.

  “P-pleased to meet you too,” she said, her teeth chattering slightly. It might not have been raining inside the castle, but it was every bit as cold.

  “Oh god, you must be freezing. Here- let me take your jacket"

  She peeled off her blazer and he graciously draped it over his arm, as though it wasn’t absolutely sodden.

  “Can I get you anything?” He frowned. “A towel maybe?”

  Isla touched a hand self-consciously to her hair, which she’d blow-dried especially. It now lay flat against her head.

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  Ryder disappeared through one of the archways, leaving Isla alone in the empty hallway. She cast a nervous glance around, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Somewhere further into the castle she heard footsteps, and her pulse quickened.

  The elusive Mr MacRae? Isla held her breath. But it was only Ryder - back with a fluffy white towel, that he held out to her.

  “Oh, thank you.” Isla took it gratefully, even though she wasn’t quite sure where to start drying herself off. In the end, she settled for squeezing the water from the ends of her hair, darkened by the rain from blonde to mousy brown, and then draped the towel awkwardly around her shoulders like a shawl.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Ryder asked.

  She wouldn’t say no to a hot bath and a glass of wine right now, but Isla doubted either of those things were on offer. She shook her head.

  Ryder smiled. “In that case, shall we begin?” He gestured towards one of the archways to her left.

  The surprise must have shown on her face because he hesitated. “Something wrong?”

  “Oh, no...it’s just that I understood I’d be working for a Mr MacRae…”

  A look of understanding flitted across Ryder’s boyish features. “He’s not...available right now, but he’ll meet you later.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Isla struggled to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  She’d spent the entire drive out to Rosehill Hall psyching herself up to finally meet their new client, and instead, she was getting what? His butler? Was he really a butler? She wondered. Did people really have butlers?

  For all Isla knew, this guy could be Mr MacRae’s wayward son and heir. She hardly knew anything about the guy, aside from his name, the fact that he was blind, and that he required the services of an appraiser- to catalogue and value his entire estate.

  When Len had shown her the enquiry, Isla could hardly believe it was real. They’d done small estate appraisals before, but Parsons & Co was an antique dealership first and foremost, they’d never had a contract this size before. An entire castle of treasures to explore? It had seemed almost too good to be true. Standing inside Rosehill now, Isla wondered if she’d been right. A shiver snaked down her spine.

  Ryder cleared his throat gently, and Isla realised she’d been staring at him. She felt what little heat she had left in her body rising to her face.

  “Do you live here too?” she blurted.

  “No, but I’m here most of the time. I’m Eth- Mr MacRae’s assistant.”

  Of course. That made more sense. Not that he looked any more like an assistant than he did a butler. He looked like a bodyguard. The thought popped into Isla’s head unbidden, but she pushed it aside.

  “Shall we?” He gestured to a set of double doors ahead.

  “Oh, yes of course.”

  Isla was thrown. She still didn’t really know who she was working for, and there was something about the castle itself that set her on edge, but even so, in a place this size, who knew what she might find between its crumbling walls? It was like a dream come true.

  In the distance a door slammed, making Isla jump. Or a nightmare, a voice in her head whispered.

  She hurried behind Ryder as he pushed against the heavy door. Inside, he flicked a switch on the wall.

  “This is as good a place to start as any.”

  After the gloom of the hall, it took a minute for Isla’s eyes to adjust.

  Old-fashioned sconce lights lined three of the walls, and the remaining wall was taken up entirely by huge floor-to-ceiling windows, and a set of glass doors leading out onto a moss-covered terrace. Rain thrummed against the panes, and branches scratched at the glass, throwing patterns up the wall beside her.

  The domed ceiling, with its cobwebbed chandelier, made the space feel even bigger than it was, and Isla realised with awe that she was standing in an honest-to-god ballroom. Or at least, she assumed that’s what it had been, once upon a time. Now it was nothing more than a jumble of faded furniture peeking out from beneath dust sheets.

  Her heart sank a little. Rosehill wasn’t just in need of some TLC, it had been allowed to fall completely into ruin. Isla could feel her hopes of uncovering something special floating away on the dust motes swirling around her. Still, it was more of a chance than she’d have behind the counter back at the shop. Things could have been worse.

  The lights flickered ominously.

  Ryder caught her eye. “Don’t worry, they do that sometimes when the weather is bad. The entire place needs rewiring.”

  “Right.” Isla glanced uneasily out of the window at the raging storm.

  “If you need a desk, there’s one in the study, across the hall. There’s a fire in there too, if you need to warm up.”

  Isla already felt like she needed to warm up, an icy chill crept over her as she surveyed the wreckage before her.

  Ryder gave her directions to the kitchen and the bathroom, both of which she promptly forgot the minute he finished talking, she was so busy gaping around at the ruins of the elegant space and wondering how it had ended up that way.

  “Was there anything else you wanted to ask?”

  What had happened here? Had Len made a terrible mistake sending her? Was this place haunted? Questions crowded Isla’s mind, but she shook her head.
/>   “No, I think I’ve got it, thanks.”

  “Well, I’ll be in the study, if you need anything.” Ryder closed the door behind him with a resounding thud, leaving Isla alone with her unspoken questions, among the wasted remains of a stranger’s life.

  Two

  This was what she’d wanted, Isla reminded herself. The chance to prove herself, to make Len proud.

  But when the lights began to flicker and the shadows crept closer, she couldn’t help but think of the cosy backroom at Parsons & Co, where the radiators hummed and the kettle was always on.

  True, working in the shop meant listening to Tim’s impromptu lectures on art history, and tolerating his endless half-jokey jibes, but listening to branches scrape against the window beside her wasn’t much of an improvement.

  Isla suppressed a shiver and pulled her phone from her bag, but the signal was patchy at best- the bar at the top of her screen flickered pitifully. She presumed the chances of Rosehill having Wi-Fi were pretty much zero. Research would have to wait until she was back in the land of the living.

  Sitting there, it hardly seemed possible that the bustling streets of Edinburgh she’d left behind this morning still existed just thirty miles away. Isla felt as though she was at the other end of the earth, or in a different space and time altogether.

  The first thing she uncovered from beneath the dust sheets was a Chippendale sofa, with ball and claw legs and faded pale green upholstery. She dragged it into the lamplight to photograph, her breath forming puffs of vapour in the air. With cold, unwilling fingers she jotted down a brief description and a very rough estimated value in her notebook.

  Next up was an elaborate mahogany grandfather clock, frozen in time at a quarter past three. She opened the casing at the front to photograph the still pendulum and was hit by a blast of dead air and a sudden sense of foreboding.

  All this stuff had clearly been abandoned long ago, so why was she only assessing and cataloguing it now? If Mr MacRae wanted to sell off his belongings, he’d have done well to have them valued before allowing them to fall into disrepair. Unless he’d been ill. The thought popped unbidden into her mind. And maybe now he was getting his affairs in order? The idea was sobering.