Murder at the Mill

by M. B. Shaw

  ‘I’m not defending him,’ said Iris. ‘Did the two of you meet?’

  ‘Not in person. No.’ Draining his deeply unsatisfying mocktail, Ian signalled to the barmaid for another. ‘We emailed and spoke on the phone. Both of us were trying to be discreet. She had her own axe to grind against Wetherby, as you know.’

  ‘Where did she first hear the plagiarism rumours about Dom and Grimshaw? Did she ever tell you the story on that?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Ian, picking desultorily from a small bowl of peanuts. ‘I believe she said she’d heard it from a lawyer. Someone “very close” to Dom. She’d seen papers or something, letters that proved it.’ He put down the nuts suddenly. ‘Oh my God. You don’t think it could be the son, do you? Marcus? He’s a lawyer. And he knew Rachel. He’d been to her place!’

  Iris could practically hear Ian’s mind working.

  ‘Isn’t he, like, the sole largest beneficiary from Dom’s estate? Oh my God! Maybe the son teamed up with the mistress. They try to blackmail the dad; Dad won’t pay, so the son bumps him off. He was there, opening presents, nice as pie. And the two of them go off for a walk and—’

  ‘And then you come along,’ Iris reminded him, ‘after Marcus has left Dom and walked back to the house alone.’

  ‘So he says,’ said Ian.

  ‘I saw him with my own eyes,’ said Iris. ‘I was in the cottage, remember? I saw them rowing. Marcus went home. The next person to see Dom was you. And the next person was poor Lorcan, God help him, fishing his father’s corpse out of the river.’

  ‘No,’ Ian said firmly. ‘Someone else saw him, after me and before Lorcan. His killer saw him, Iris. Because it wasn’t me! I didn’t kill Dom Wetherby, for Christ’s sake!’ His shouts drew hostile stares from around the bar. Iris sat reactionless. Putting his head in his hands, Ian forced himself to calm down.

  ‘Marcus went home,’ he said eventually, in the face of Iris’s silence. ‘But for how long? He could have gone out again. Picked up the argument where he left off, but then finished it this time. It’s possible, Iris. Admit it. It is possible!’

  Reaching into her purse, Iris left a twenty-pound note on the bar. Grabbing her coat off the back of the chair, she kissed Ian perfunctorily on the cheek.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ said Iris, slipping on her coat and scarf. ‘Try not to worry. I know you didn’t do it, OK?’

  ‘Wait! I should come with you,’ said Ian, belatedly showing some concern for her safety. ‘Wait, Iris! Where are you going? For pity’s sake.’

  But by the time he weaved his way through to the exit and out onto the street, Iris had already gone.

  * * *

  Jenna Wetherby pulled Iris into a bear hug, genuinely delighted to see her.

  ‘Oh my goodness, why didn’t you call?’ she berated her, dragging Iris into the kitchen and depositing her coat and scarf on an already overloaded Heal’s sofa. ‘I didn’t know you were in London. What’s going on? I barely saw you at the unveiling party. I wanted to but you were being mobbed. How’s the exhibition going?’

  It took well over five minutes for Jenna to draw breath at all. Not that Iris minded. It was wonderful to see her looking so much happier. Clearly her marriage problems with Marcus had been straightened out. Or perhaps just being away from the Mill and Ariadne and all the drama had revived her. Either way, Iris hoped she wasn’t about to undo all the good work and plunge Jenna back into the deep, dark pit of a few weeks ago. It was ironic to think that it was Jenna who had got Iris involved in the first place. Jenna who’d insisted Dom’s death must have been murder and that it was their moral responsibility to discover who did it.

  Amazing how moral responsibility fades when one’s life and marriage are at stake, thought Iris. Not that she felt bitter. Jenna still had a chance at happiness and she’d chosen to grab it. Why not? She couldn’t bring Dom back from the dead, after all. Iris had only continued trying to solve the riddle because she needed a distraction. And because she’d had nothing left to lose.

  Until Graham.

  ‘Marcus is still at the office,’ said Jenna, plonking both her children in front of a cartoon in the living room and cutting herself and Iris a large slice of Tesco’s Smarties caterpillar cake each. ‘Was it him you were after or me? What brings you here, in fact, if not your exhibition?’ She narrowed her eyes, then asked playfully, ‘Is it Graham? Have you come to town for a night of hot sex with everybody’s favourite lawyer? Second favourite lawyer in my case,’ she corrected herself.

  It was, finally, Iris’s cue to speak. But she found herself tongue-tied. A few weeks ago she would have come clean with Jenna, told her what she was looking for and why. And Jenna would have helped her. But now it was harder.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Marcus, bursting in and taken off guard, sounded considerably less thrilled to see Iris than his wife.

  ‘Don’t be so rude!’ Jenna chided cheerfully. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here? It’s only just gone five.’

  ‘Case meeting finished early,’ muttered Marcus.

  ‘Well, Iris just popped in to say hello en route to a night of unbridled passion with your godfather,’ teased Jenna. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘That’ll be hard,’ said Marcus dryly, before Iris could respond. ‘I spoke to him earlier and he’s still up in Edinburgh. I’d have thought Iris would have known that.’

  ‘I did,’ said Iris, equally dryly. ‘I believe Jenna was joking. I fear she imagines my life to be considerably more exciting than it actually is. The boring truth is that I’m in town on business.’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ said Marcus, turning his back to both women as he took off his coat and suit jacket and opened a bottle of wine on the counter. Iris could have sworn she saw a tiny muscle twitching at the top of his jaw, just below his left ear.

  He’s nervous.

  Pointedly getting two glasses down from the cupboard, not three, Marcus composed himself before turning to face Iris.

  ‘Well, it was nice of you to stop by, but I daresay you’ll want to be getting on. Jenna and I have a dinner tonight, you see, so I’m afraid it’s not a terrific time.’

  ‘Marcus!’ A mortified Jenna glared at her husband. ‘What on earth’s got into you? Our dinner’s not till eight thirty, for heaven’s sake. We’ve plenty of time. I’m so sorry, Iris.’

  Just then Lottie ran in wailing, conveniently breaking the tension. ‘Oscar’s been sick. It’s all on the sofa, and the iPad. It’s disgusting!’

  ‘Oh God, not again.’ Jenna raced into the living room, grabbing a J-cloth from the sink on the way.

  Alone with Marcus, Iris seized the moment.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’ She kept her voice low.

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ Marcus bristled with hostility. ‘Why can’t you just go back to your own life and leave us all alone?’

  ‘Did you remove something from your father’s study?’ Iris asked, ignoring him. ‘A photograph?’

  ‘It’s none of your damn business whether I did or didn’t!’ Marcus snapped.

  ‘Did you?’ Iris pressed him.

  ‘No.’ Marcus glared at her. ‘As it just so happens, I didn’t. Now please leave.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Iris, her heart pounding.

  ‘Frankly I don’t give a toss what you believe,’ said Marcus.

  ‘I think you took it, and I think you know exactly what picture I mean,’ Iris continued. ‘I’d be happy to ask you about it again in a minute, in front of Jenna. She’ll be back in here any second.’

  Iris watched the colour drain from Marcus’s face. He hated her in that moment, and Iris saw hatred and fear fight a brief but intense battle within him.

  Fear won.

  ‘Come into my study,’ he hissed, putting his wine glass down on the counter and leading the way up the narrow stairs. Iris followed him into a tiny room, little more than a cupboard, into which was crammed a desk, a book
shelf and an old-fashioned filing cabinet.

  ‘Close the door,’ Marcus instructed.

  Iris did. He pulled open the desk drawer and took out a photograph in a heavy gilt frame. It was the frame, the iridescent glint of gold, that Iris had captured in her portrait of Dom, an unexpected flash of light in the background. But it was the photograph inside it that interested her now. It showed Rachel Truebridge, her head thrown back, laughing. The picture had been taken at some sort of event, perhaps a TV wrap party, and was officially a group shot, although clearly the photographer’s main focus had been Rachel. There were various revellers behind her, most holding champagne flutes, the men in formal jackets and the women in cocktail dresses. Rachel herself looked radiant in a short red off-the-shoulder number, not looking at the camera directly, yet clearly aware of it, aware of the effect she was having on whoever was behind the lens.

  ‘Why did you take this?’ Iris asked Marcus.

  ‘To protect Mum,’ he replied bluntly.

  ‘From what?’

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, come on. I’d say that was pretty clear, wouldn’t you? Dad had it up on the bookshelf in that study, in pride of place. He said it was just a shot of the Grimshaw production team at last year’s wrap party. But I mean, look at it.’ The anger in his voice was unmistakable. ‘It’s obvious why he kept it. Mum never gave it a second glance while he was alive, but after he died, with all the rumours swirling around and that bitch of a woman, his old mistress, going to the papers … I was worried she’d see it in a different light.’

  ‘So you took it?’ said Iris.

  ‘Yes. I don’t think Mum noticed. Although apparently you did.’

  ‘I need to borrow it,’ said Iris, holding out a hand. ‘Just for a day or so.’

  ‘Why?’ Marcus frowned.

  Downstairs, Jenna’s voice floated up to them. ‘Marcus? Iris?’

  ‘I’ll bring it back, I promise,’ said Iris, without answering his question.

  Marcus hesitated for a moment, then handed her the picture, watching nervously as Iris slipped it into her handbag.

  ‘Look, I have no idea why this is important, or why you think it is,’ he whispered, conscious of Jenna’s footfall coming up the stairs. ‘But Jenna already suspects me of having an affair with Rachel. If she knew I’d taken the picture – this picture, especially – she might get the wrong idea. I’d appreciate it if this stayed between us.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Iris.

  The door opened.

  ‘There you are!’ Jenna stood there smiling. ‘I wondered where you’d both got to. I hope Marcus has apologised for being such a Grinch before.’

  ‘Yes, sorry about that,’ Marcus said to Iris. ‘I’m afraid I had a bad day at work. It wasn’t you.’

  ‘Oh, no need to apologise,’ said Iris breezily. ‘To be honest, I’m not big on being dropped in on either.’

  ‘Well, sick-gate’s over, for now,’ said Jenna cheerfully. ‘Would you like to come down and have a drink?’

  ‘I actually can’t,’ said Iris, making a show of looking at her watch. ‘I have a dinner myself. It’s a work thing. Potential commission. I just wanted to say hello, as I was nearby.’

  A few minutes later Marcus stood with his arm around Jenna, watching Iris walk down the road and jump into a cab.

  ‘That was sweet of her,’ said Jenna, leaning into him. ‘To stop in like that. She’s a nice woman.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marcus. ‘Very nice.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have been so rude to her,’ said Jenna.

  ‘I know,’ said Marcus. ‘I’m sorry. But I think she’s all right. I don’t think she took it to heart.’

  He hoped he was right about that. He wasn’t sure exactly what he felt about Iris Grey. But he knew she was not a woman he wanted to make an enemy of.

  What the hell does she want with that picture?

  * * *

  Iris arrived at Bell & Mason’s offices just as they were closing. Dom’s publishers were based in a charming converted Victorian mansion, tucked away behind St Martin’s Lane, a few doors down from the Ivy. It was a part of London better known for its nightlife than for the daily grind of office work, and the bars and restaurants around Bell & Mason were already starting to fill up with early revellers by the time Iris hopped out of her cab.

  ‘Is Raymond Beatty still here?’ she asked the receptionist, briefly stating her business. Beatty was the senior publisher, and had been with Dom from the beginning, signing Grimshaw to Bell & Mason when both men had been in their twenties. ‘It’s about Dom Wetherby. I’m a family friend.’

  ‘He is here,’ the girl admitted hesitantly, ‘but I believe he’s about to head home. If you don’t have an appointment, perhaps—’

  ‘Iris?’

  Iris turned to see Raymond Beatty smiling at her broadly. A contemporary of Dom’s, it was astonishing how much older Raymond looked, with his stooped shoulders and face so blighted with liver spots he looked like a speckled Cotswold egg. Even more astonishing was that he recognised Iris and remembered her name. As far as she knew, the only time he’d ever seen her before was at the Wetherbys’ Christmas Eve party, and then they’d had the briefest of introductions.

  ‘Raymond.’ She smiled back. ‘I’m sorry to ambush you at work. I wondered if you had a second?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ He turned back towards the lifts, gesturing for Iris to follow. ‘Katie, send up some tea, would you? Or would you prefer a drink?’ he asked Iris. ‘As it’s after six?’

  ‘Tea’s fine,’ said Iris. The buzz from her afternoon gin and tonic had worn off, thank God. She needed to keep her wits about her.

  The receptionist watched her boss and his guest return to his office with a sinking heart. Now she’d have to stay too, probably till seven. She called catering and ordered the tray of tea, then sat down sullenly to wait.

  Forty minutes later Iris emerged, followed by a still-smiling Raymond.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,’ he told Iris, helping her on with her coat. ‘It was all such a long time ago.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Iris. ‘And you did help. Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ The old man beamed. ‘Anytime. You know, I’d like to know what happened to Dom, too,’ he added, almost as an afterthought. ‘He had his faults, but he was a good friend. Stay in touch, would you? Let me know if you find anything?’

  ‘I will,’ promised Iris.

  Outside, the streets were packed with people, but Iris felt nothing but dark and cold. She’d been planning to stay in London tonight and had booked a room at Soho House in Chiswick, but suddenly she felt an overwhelming urge to get home to Mill Cottage and go to sleep in her own bed. Home. The cottage had become home, she realised. But the thought made her sad, because she knew she couldn’t stay there for long. Especially not now.

  For the first time in weeks she thought about her doll’s house, and how calming it would be to take out all the tiny, perfect furniture and rearrange it. To create order and beauty, in this world of chaos and sadness. Such incredible sadness, for Dom and for herself.

  She’d wanted to be wrong so very badly.

  But she wasn’t wrong. She knew. The picture burning a hole in her handbag might not prove it, exactly, but it was the biggest missing piece in the puzzle. And so obvious now! Now that she knew.

  Her mobile rang, number unknown, and she answered it.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous.’ Graham’s voice was soft, soothing, full of love. ‘I’m done with my case up here. When can I see you? Are you still in London? I could come down first thing tomorrow.’

  Iris told him she was heading back to Hampshire and he agreed to meet her there.

  ‘Are you all right, my love? You sound terribly tired.’

  ‘I am tired,’ Iris admitted. ‘Is it all right if we talk tomorrow? I’m just rushing for my train.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Graham. ‘You go. I’ll see you then.�
�

  He hung up and for a moment Iris stood rooted to the spot by the entrance to the Tube, oblivious to the passengers jostling her as they swarmed in and out. Then she dialled the one number she really, really didn’t want to.

  ‘Hello?… Yes. I’d like to speak to Detective Inspector Cant, please. Tell him it’s Iris Grey.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Bizarrely, Iris slept deeply and well that night, not waking up until mid-morning to a bedroom flooded with spring sunlight. Her exhausted body had demanded rest and had taken it, almost as if it were drugged. Long after her morning coffee, her arms and legs still felt heavy and limp with sleep, but in a good way, a way that filled her with warmth and a slowly stirring energy for the day ahead. Unfortunately, her mind was a different story. Every time she thought about what she was doing – what she was about to do, what she had to do – she could practically hear her brain buzzing, her emotions stretched and taut with tension like a live electrical wire about to snap. Too anxious to eat breakfast, she forced herself to swallow a piece of dry toast at lunch, washed down with a mug of sweet tea. She went for a walk, which helped, until she saw Lorcan waving at her from an upper window at the Mill and felt choked with tears and regret for everything that poor child had been through. Everything he still had to go through.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. I can’t do it. I can’t!

  Graham’s train got in at three fifteen and he would be at Mill Cottage by four. Iris had to get a grip by then. After more mindless pacing, at two she started cleaning the larder cupboard out, desperate for any sort of task to distract her. By three she was attempting to bake cookies, searching for recipes on the Internet. The first batch were burned by three thirty, filling the kitchen with acrid and bitter black smoke. By the time Graham arrived, ecstatic to see her and bearing a stunning bouquet of spring flowers, Iris had got rid of most of the smell and was elbow-deep in flour, having started on a second round, probably unwisely.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cook.’ Walking up behind her, Graham kissed the back of her neck. Iris closed her eyes, feeling goose pimples break out all over her body.