Murder at the Mill

by M. B. Shaw

  ‘Oh … no, thank you, dear.’ Ariadne let out a disappointed sigh. ‘If you’d just let him know, I forgot to mention yesterday, but we’ve invited Graham Feeney down for the party this year.’

  Jenna bit her tongue in irritation. Had that insignificant nugget of information really warranted yet another phone call?

  ‘Right. And do you want Marcus to do something about that, Ariadne?’

  ‘Do something? Oh no. I just thought he’d want to know. He and Billy both adored Graham when they were small boys, you see. I remember once—’

  ‘Ariadne, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m actually just in the middle of something here.’

  ‘All right, dear.’ Ariadne sounded chastened. ‘I’ll let you go.’

  ‘I’ll let Marcus know you called.’

  Jenna hung up, annoyed with herself for feeling guilty.

  ‘Who was that?’ Marcus came back downstairs with a grumpy-looking Lottie, now wearing one of her myriad Princess Elsa outfits teamed with a pair of pink bunny slippers.

  Jenna contemplated lying, but bottled it. ‘Your mother,’ she said brusquely. ‘She wanted me to let you know that Graham Feeney’s coming to the party this year.’

  ‘Oh great!’ Marcus beamed, reaching for the phone. ‘I’ll ring her back.’

  ‘No,’ Jenna said, more loudly and crossly than she’d intended.

  Marcus looked taken aback.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jenna, through gritted teeth and sounding anything but sorry. ‘But we’re late as it is.’

  ‘Late?’ Marcus frowned.

  ‘The Philmores’ dinner? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.’ You’re more interested in your bloody mother’s social arrangements than you are in ours.

  ‘Of course not,’ muttered Marcus, who had. He wished things weren’t so tense between his wife and his mother, the two women he loved most in the world and whom he considered to have a huge amount in common. Both were intelligent, thoughtful and kind. Both were utterly devoted mothers.

  And yet, increasingly, Jenna seemed to despise Ariadne, or at the very least to resent his relationship with her.

  ‘You need to change,’ she told him tersely now, focusing on putting a bow into Lottie’s hair and refusing to meet his eyes.

  It struck Marcus that perhaps she didn’t just mean his clothes.

  * * *

  Stepping out of the warm fug of the high court into the cold air of Edinburgh’s Parliament Square, Graham Feeney buttoned his cashmere overcoat and allowed himself a small smile.

  Today’s case had gone remarkably well for Graham, the younger brother of Dom’s childhood best friend, Marcus Feeney. It wasn’t a done deal yet, but it looked as if Graham’s client, a hardened fraudster and inveterate liar named Donny Truro, with considerably more money than scruples, was going to get off this time. Graham Feeney was no fan of Truro’s. A slum landlord with a sideline in loan-sharking and extortion, Donny was a thoroughly unpleasant piece of work. But everybody, even the toerags, deserved a decent defence, and the Crown Prosecution had been unforgivably sloppy with their handling of the evidence, exposing multiple chinks in their armour, which Graham had exploited mercilessly all afternoon.

  It wasn’t only the satisfaction of a job well done that was lifting Graham’s spirits. It had snowed last night, the first really deep snow of the winter, and Edinburgh looked magical beneath its blanket of sparkling white, covering the city from the iconic castle all the way down Princes Street.

  A successful barrister, Graham Feeney divided his time between his elegant flat on Northumberland Street and his townhouse in London, on the edge of Holland Park. Graham was fond of London, but his heart had always belonged to Scotland, and the imposing grey-stoned city of his birth. He felt more real here, more himself, in ways that were hard to put into words.

  Picking up a smoked sausage supper from a street vendor on the corner, warming his fingers on the steaming vinegar-soaked chips, he decided on a whim to take the bus back to his flat, instead of his usual taxi. In his early fifties, tall and slim, with close-cropped grey hair and a likable if not exactly handsome face, Graham Feeney looked like what he was: a wealthy, educated, successful man. And yet despite the six-figure flat, the expensive watch and the sharply tailored suits, he had never lost touch entirely with his roots. A grammar-school boy from Niddrie, distinctly on the wrong side of the Edinburgh tracks, Graham Feeney was every bit the self-made man. Education and hard work had rescued him, just as they had once rescued his elder brother, Marcus.

  Marcus. After all these years, it was surprising how often Graham still thought of him. Although not so surprising today, with the invitation arriving.

  That was the real reason for Graham Feeney’s good mood. The stiff, formal card that landed on his doormat yesterday morning, inviting him to the Wetherby family’s annual Christmas Eve party, his first invitation to the Mill in well over a year.

  Not that Graham could blame the Wetherbys for that. He was the one who’d initiated the distance between them. The one who’d pulled away. And only he knew why. But the time had come to change that, to move back into the fold. Just as Graham had been pondering how he might achieve this, the invitation had arrived. Talk about serendipity!

  Every year enormous thought and effort went into the design of the invitation, the unveiling of which had become an event in itself, eagerly awaited by society-pages editors across London. This year the Wetherbys had decided to go kitsch. The card consisted of a picture of a bright green glittery Christmas tree bedecked with baubles, inside each of which was a photo of Dom and Ariadne from the early 1980s to today. There were plenty of dodgy perms and wing-tipped collars in evidence, and underneath the picture, in embossed italic script, was the message ‘Step back in time and say, “Goodbye to Grimshaw”, this Christmas Eve at the Mill!’ with the letters arranged to look like a Christmas garland.

  ‘It’s been far too long.’ Dom Wetherby’s distinctive looped handwriting sprawled over the back of the card. ‘Please come!’ And more neatly, underneath, in Ariadne’s rounder hand, ‘We all miss you.’

  They miss me, Graham thought, smiling.

  His relationship with the family went back a long, long way. Most of his life.

  Dom Wetherby had been best friends at school and university with Graham’s older brother, Marcus. When Graham was growing up, Dom had been almost like family. As an adult, Dom had even named his first child after Graham’s brother. (And what a great kid Marcus Wetherby had turned out to be, kind and steady, brilliant but unassuming, just like his namesake.)

  These days, the Wetherbys were effectively Graham Feeney’s last link to his dead brother. The Feeney parents were long deceased, there were no other siblings or cousins, and none of Marcus’s other friends had bothered to keep in touch with his younger brother. For this reason alone, Graham’s relationship with Dom Wetherby and his family had grown very precious to him over the years.

  Settling down into his seat on the bus, his newspaper-wrapped supper in his lap, Graham pulled Dom Wetherby’s latest and last Grimshaw novel, Grimshaw’s Goodbye, out of his briefcase and removed the invitation, which he’d used as an impromptu bookmark earlier. He’d already replied, of course, accepting immediately and with thanks.

  ‘I miss you all too! Can’t wait. G.’

  So what did he feel now? Excitement. Anticipation. Perhaps even a touch of adrenaline. But only a touch. Graham Feeney was a calm man, calm and measured and thoughtful.

  Yes, it had been too long. A return to the Mill meant many things, all to be pondered and savoured between now and Christmas Eve.

  What a deeply satisfying Christmas it was going to be.

  Chapter Four

  ‘So how does this work? Should I sit at the desk? Or on the sofa? I’m entirely in your hands.’

  Dom Wetherby led Iris into his study, a warm, oak-panelled room with lush wine-red velvet curtains and bookshelves crammed mostly with Grimshaw novels. Here or there, other books had
managed to work their way in. Iris clocked a couple of volumes of Renaissance poetry, as well as a complete Shakespeare and a recent Scandi noir thriller. But the bulk of the room was clearly a shrine to Dom Wetherby’s ego.

  To be fair, it was Iris who’d selected the study as the best setting for the portrait, partly because it was where Dom wrote his books and spent the majority of his time, but also because the room itself was vibrant and rich, full of texture and meaning.

  ‘I’d say the sofa,’ she said, hitching up the deep purple kaftan she’d chosen to work in (teamed with Ugg boots and cheerful red-and-white snowflake scarf) and drawing back the curtains to assess the light. ‘But it’s up to you. Wherever you’re most comfortable really. Remember, wherever you choose, you’re going to have to sit still there for hours on end.’

  Dom grimaced. ‘Never my strong suit.’

  In contrast to Iris’s typically eclectic ensemble, Dom had kept things classic in a maroon cashmere sweater over an open-necked white shirt and corduroy trousers in a very dark blue. The colours suited him, bringing out his eyes and accentuating his lightly tanned skin, and although the outfit was casual, Iris suspected a lot of thought had gone into choosing it. She’d been struck by his vanity as soon as they met. It permeated everything about Dom, his voice, his manner, his physical movements, the way he carried himself.

  He’s successful and rich and famous and handsome, and he knows it. More than that, he needs everybody else to know it, Iris thought. Especially women. Dom’s ‘I’m entirely in your hands’ comment earlier had been as loaded with flirtatious undertones as everything else he said to Iris. She might have been flattered, if she weren’t so sure he was like this with every female with whom he came into contact. It was a role he played: the charmer. One of many roles, Iris suspected. This was only their first sitting, so she mustn’t expect too much. Eventually, Dom would start to shed his outer skin and reveal more of the man beneath. These things took time.

  In this regard, Dom Wetherby was no different to the other people Iris had painted over the years. Every subject was a mystery, and every portrait an unravelling. Setting up her sketchpad and pencils – she always began with sketches – Iris felt the familiar tingle of excitement and anticipation of a new commission, a new adventure. Who would Dom Wetherby turn out to be?

  ‘How about this?’ Dom asked, lounging back with his arm stretched casually along the back of the Chesterfield. Iris loved the way the battered old sofa creaked and cracked as he shifted his weight on it, the faded lines in the leather like cracks in a dry riverbed, a sharp contrast to Dom’s own glossiness and polish. ‘Too relaxed?’

  ‘No, no,’ Iris assured him. ‘I love it. Is that a pose you feel comfortable holding?’

  ‘Sure.’ He smiled wolfishly, clearly enjoying the attention. ‘Ready when you are, Maestro.’

  Iris was already at work, her pencil dancing over the paper in big freewheeling arcs, taking in both Dom and the bookshelves behind him. To the right of his head and just above, one gold photograph frame caught the light and seemed to glow, star-like, creating a sort of halo. Iris smiled, thinking how undeserved that was, but also that the room, with its layered light and different textures, was going to provide a perfect backdrop for the portrait. Although she might leave out the television that someone had incongruously stuffed in one corner, ruining the olde-worlde effect, and the blown-up version of this year’s Christmas Eve party invitation, a green sparkly monstrosity plastered with old photos of Dom and Ariadne, like cheesy ghosts of Christmases past.

  Iris had received her own invitation a couple of days ago and was still pondering the best way to decline. Noisy cocktail parties full of self-important people she didn’t know were the closest thing to hell on earth she could imagine.

  ‘Is talking allowed,’ Dom asked, ‘or does my face need to be still?’

  ‘Talking’s allowed. Encouraged, in fact.’ Iris smiled. ‘The better I get to know you, the better I’ll be able to paint you.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Dom arched an eyebrow. ‘In that case, I suppose we ought to get to know one another much better.’

  He was so flirty, it almost seemed rude not to respond in kind. But after two decades with Ian, Iris was so much out of the habit of flirting that she wasn’t sure she had it in her.

  ‘Let’s talk about you.’ Dom’s eyes locked with hers and Iris could feel her cheeks burning.

  He’s playing with me, she realised. He can tell I’m no good at this. No doubt it was his way of trying to get the upper hand, to dominate the relationship between them so that he could control the image Iris ultimately produced on canvas. As a portrait painter, she was familiar with this tactic. Subjects usually gave it up in the end.

  ‘How about something more interesting?’ she replied. ‘How’s the last Grimshaw TV show coming on? Have you seen it yet?’

  ‘I’ve seen some footage,’ said Dom, apparently quite happy to turn the subject back to himself. ‘They’re behind schedule, so filming isn’t finished yet. But what I’ve seen so far I like.’

  ‘Is it strange, seeing your characters up on screen?’

  ‘Not really,’ he preened. ‘Not anymore. I’ve been at this game a long time, you know.’

  ‘I know. Almost forty years,’ said Iris, sticking the pencil between her teeth as she stood back and frowned critically at something on her sketch.

  ‘God, don’t say that,’ said Dom. ‘That makes me sound ancient.’

  ‘You’re not happy about turning sixty?’

  ‘No!’ Dom forced a laugh. ‘I’m not. Is anyone?’

  Iris thought about Ian, and what a hard time he had accepting the ageing process. It had always struck her as odd how women were supposed to be the youth-obsessed sex. In Iris’s experience, men often struggled far more with the indignities of getting older than their wives did, although at least Dom Wetherby was able to laugh about it. Unlike Ian.

  ‘Still, I reckon I look all right for an old buffer, don’t you?’ Dom asked Iris coyly. ‘Not quite ready for my pipe and slippers yet, am I?’

  My goodness, thought Iris. For such a successful man, he needs an awful lot of reassurance. She wondered how Ariadne coped with that. It was almost endearing, the way Dom wore his insecurity on his sleeve, all the more so for being unexpected. But at the same time Iris could imagine the exhaustion involved in having to constantly prop up someone’s ego to that degree.

  ‘You’re looking good from here,’ she assured him. ‘Just sit up slightly, would you?’

  Dom did as he was asked, but then a buzzing from the desk distracted him and he turned his head, just as Iris was working on the shape of his skull.

  ‘Aaagh. Don’t move!’ she said, but it was too late. Dom had already stood up and reached for his mobile phone, vibrating like an angry bee beside an expensive box of Cuban cigars. Grabbing it sheepishly, he resumed his former position on the sofa.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Force of habit.’

  He was looking down at the text he’d just received – or perhaps it was an email. Iris never could tell one buzz from another. Iris watched him change. Not just the scowl on his face but the tensing of his shoulders and jaw and the anxious, irritated tap-tapping of his foot all indicated a marked degree of agitation.

  He’s angry, thought Iris. Angry and frightened.

  What of? I wonder.

  ‘Bad news?’ she asked, lightly.

  Dom looked up, smiling, as if the reaction Iris had just witnessed had never happened. Iris shivered. Right before her eyes, he had picked up a mask and slipped it on. And yet he wore it so well, so convincingly. It was deeply disconcerting.

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. We just got a terrific offer from a new American publisher for the Grimshaw backlist. Ha!’

  His eyes danced, daring Iris to call him on what she knew with a hundred per cent certainty to be a lie.

  Instead, Iris played along. ‘Congratulations. You must be thrilled.’ />
  The transformation she’d just seen was horribly, stomach-lurchingly familiar. As a teenager, Iris’s sister, Thea, used to don a ‘mask’ all the time. Thea could slip on a fake emotion the way that other girls slipped on a new dress. The change was instant, and seamless. Meanwhile Iris could do nothing but stand there and watch, horrified and helpless, willing her parents to see through it.

  She’s not upset! She’s not hurt! She’s not scared!

  She doesn’t give a shit. She’s fooling you!

  But it never worked. Iris, it seemed, was the only one who saw through her bipolar sister’s bullshit. Yet Iris was never believed. Instead, she was accused of jealousy, of resenting the attention lavished on her sister, day after day after day.

  Which of course she did.

  ‘I know it’s hard, Iris.’ She could hear her mum now, her tone kind but also pleading and loaded with reproach. ‘But Thea’s ill. You have to understand that.’

  ‘Iris?’ Dom Wetherby’s deep, mellifluous voice brought her back to the present with a jolt. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh yes. I’m fine,’ Iris said numbly. Picking up her sketchpad, she snapped it shut. ‘We’re done for today.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Dom sounded disappointed. ‘I’m sorry I moved. Did I throw you off?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Iris with a calm she didn’t feel, putting on her own mask. ‘It’s not that. I have what I need for now, that’s all.’

  Getting up, Dom unsettled her further by wrapping a kind, apparently paternal arm around her shoulder. ‘Sorry,’ he purred. ‘I’ll get into the swing of it, I promise. I’ll be a model sitter next time. No more phone calls.’

  ‘Really, I’m used to it,’ said Iris, gathering up her things and leaving before he could say anything else. She knew she was overreacting. But anything that reminded her of Thea and that time in her life left her feeling wounded and raw. Sittings were supposed to be about the subject revealing themselves to the artist, not the other way around.