Murder at the Mill Page 10

  She recognised with some irritation that it was partly due to Ian’s barbed remarks about her appearance at their ill-fated lunch that she had also attempted make-up tonight, carefully following the instructions on a YouTube video for how to do a ‘smoky eye’.

  ‘We all know the basic smoky eye,’ the appallingly over-made-up girl on the video had announced cheerfully at the beginning of her spiel.

  ‘I don’t!’ Iris had yelled back at her.

  Having followed the girl’s advice to the letter, she now either looked sultry and mysterious or like a sleep-deprived raccoon, depending on one’s point of view. Thanks to the whisky, Iris was leaning towards the former assessment. She was going to a fancy party and she looked good.

  Well, she looked normal.

  She looked OK.

  Not terrible.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God! Why on earth did I ever accept?

  A commotion outside jolted her out of her self-pity and sent her rushing back to the window. Billy, looking even angrier than usual, if that were possible, in a long black overcoat and dragging a battered-looking suitcase behind him, had slammed the front door of Mill House and was heading down the side path towards the gravelled area beside the river where his filthy Citroën C3 was parked.

  A taller, lighter-haired man in a dark blue suit followed him out, looking exasperated. Man two was yelling loudly enough that Iris could hear him, which certainly meant that the reporters could too, although the high wall surrounding the garden ensured that neither he nor Billy could be seen from the lane.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Billy. Grow up! You’re not twelve.’

  The voice was very like Dom’s. Almost identical, in fact.

  That must be the other son, thought Iris. Marcus. The oldest.

  ‘Tonight isn’t about you!’ he boomed.

  A slammed car door and the start of an engine were the only response from Billy. Moments later Iris saw his car emerge onto Mill Lane and tear off to the left, away from the village, buzzing along the side of the valley like an angry bee till it disappeared from sight.

  Iris watched Marcus Wetherby run both hands through his hair and bend double. Then he stood up tall and seemed to be taking a deep breath, collecting himself, before going back into the house.

  Despite her nerves, Iris was fascinated by this little exchange. What had prompted Billy to storm off like that? She found herself wondering what Marcus Wetherby was like, and whether his relationship with his younger brother had always been so fraught. She was also cheered by the fact that apparently Billy Wetherby would not now be coming to tonight’s party. Knowing she wouldn’t be lunged at, or cornered by Dom and Ariadne’s manic, erratic middle son certainly took some of the pressure off.

  Who knew? She might even have fun.

  * * *

  Two hours later, squeezed into the drawing room of a packed Mill House like an overdressed sardine, Jenna Wetherby helped herself to another glass of mulled wine and began swaying, only slightly drunkenly, to Nat King Cole’s Christmas song. The music, at least, reminded her of America and home, of happy, tacky childhood Christmases, where the only show being put on was the neighbourhood Christmas lights, and the only competition was whose snowman was the biggest and fanciest.

  Christmas at the Mill was the exact opposite: a fevered spectacle of competitiveness and one-upmanship, but all beautifully wrapped in the sort of traditionalism that only the British could do really well.

  Everything from Ariadne’s divine country-house décor to the roaring log fires and vast mismatched vases of holly berries screamed, ‘England.’ And not just England but the sort of smug, self-satisfied, upper-middle-class Englishness that wanted everything to appear homemade and rough around the edges – so the caterers’ mince pies were delicious but deliberately stodgy, with burnt crusts, and the mulled wine was served in jam jars rather than glasses – when in fact it had been meticulously planned and contrived down to the very last detail, with no expense spared.

  ‘Any news on where Billy’s got to?’ Jenna asked Marcus, sliding over in what she thought was rather a sexy red dress and slipping an arm around his waist. It was the first time she’d seen him alone all evening. From the moment the party started, Ariadne had appropriated him, dragging him round from guest to guest like a prize pig she wanted to show off.

  ‘If there were, don’t you think I’d tell you?’ Marcus snapped back, bad-temperedly.

  ‘I don’t know. Would you?’ Jenna’s anger was quiet and controlled. ‘I guess that might have been hard as you’ve been glued to your mother’s side like a limpet for the last two hours.’

  ‘For God’s sake, give it a rest,’ hissed Marcus. ‘This is Mum’s night, not yours. It’s bad enough with Billy behaving like a teenager.’

  Jenna opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. White with fury, she turned on her heel and stalked off.

  ‘Jenna!’ Marcus called after her, to no avail.

  Fuck.

  Things had been so lovely earlier today, despite the mayhem of party planners and press. Jenna had finally stopped with the questions about his scratched face, thank God, and they’d had such a sweet session of carol singing round the nursery piano. He’d got properly carried away during ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’, giving it the full Pavarotti, and Lorcan and Lottie had both collapsed into fits of giggles changing the lyrics of ‘most highly favoured lady’ in Mary’s song to ‘most highly flavoured gravy’.

  But of course that was before Billy had spoiled everything.

  Again.

  Why did it always have to be like this?

  * * *

  While Jenna and Marcus bickered, Iris had nabbed herself a coveted spot by the fire, perched on the edge of the club fender. It was the perfect position from which to observe goings-on without being dragged into conversation herself, or worse, dragged off by Dom to be introduced to yet another ‘brilliant’ producer/actor/writer/journalist who was ‘absolutely passionate’ about art. He meant well, and Iris was grateful for the effort, but the last thing she wanted to talk about tonight was work.

  In fact, thanks to the pretty, posh and very young waitresses who seemed to be constantly refilling her champagne flute, Iris was rapidly reaching the point where talking at all would be beyond her. The pre-game whisky shots had been a mistake. Then again, who cared? No one here knew her, except for Dom Wetherby, who was clearly hammered. And it was nice to let herself go for once. Back in her ‘real’ life, Ian was the one who always got drunk at parties, forcing Iris into the unenviable role of designated driver/caretaker. Here at the Mill, she could forget all that and let her hair down doing three of her favourite things: eating, drinking and people-watching.

  Alan and Jean Chivers from Hazelford Stores, who’d recently ‘adopted’ Iris as a friend and taken it upon themselves to baptise her in the fire of village gossip, had already provided an exhaustive list of stars expected to attend tonight, presumably so that Iris could tick them off in her book like a birdwatcher. Unfortunately, most of the names meant nothing to Iris.

  ‘I don’t really watch TV, except EastEnders and Corrie,’ she told Jean apologetically. ‘Everyone I know would be too lowbrow for this crowd. And all the pop stars I’ve heard of are dead.’

  ‘They don’t call ’em “pop stars” no more,’ Alan Chivers had informed her kindly. ‘It’s “recording artists” these days. They’ll be the ones with next to no clothes on,’ he explained helpfully.

  ‘And they’ll probably be black,’ added Jean, with no hint of irony.

  So far Iris had only spotted one black, half-naked girl, talking to a gaggle of Grimshaw actors. But according to Carl Rendcombe, one of the few celebs Iris did recognise, the girl was in fact the presenter of a literary quiz on Radio 4 and boasted a first-class degree in classics from Cambridge, information that would no doubt have disappointed Alan and Jean Chivers enormously.

  Far more compelling than the celebrities, for Iris anyway, were the Wetherby family themselves.
All sorts of complicated dynamics were playing out there, as gripping as any of Iris’s beloved soap operas. Through her semi-drunken haze, Iris scanned the room for Ariadne, who wasn’t hard to find, gliding between groups of guests like a slightly stoned Christmas angel, basking in the ceaseless praise of her skills as a hostess. Which, to be fair, were impressive. Short of providing snow, which was beyond even her skills, Ariadne had created a veritable Christmas carol of cheer and warmth and Yuletide magic at the Mill. Everybody, villagers and celebrities alike, looked happy. Well, almost everybody.

  Iris recognised Marcus Wetherby as the shouty man she’d seen in the garden earlier. He still looked tense, rigid-jawed in conversation with some of his parents’ friends. He’d also clearly just had a blazing row with the gorgeous girl in red, whom Iris assumed must be his wife.

  And then there was Dom Wetherby, grinning from ear to ear, utterly in his element as the evening’s centre of attention. In a dark suit with a blue Turnbull & Asser shirt and a deep purple Italian silk tie, Dom looked unusually formal tonight and about as handsome as a man could at his age. Right now he was chatting with a rotund giant of a man who would have made a perfect office-party Father Christmas and whom Iris eventually recognised as the legendary literary agent Chris Wheeler. They were joined by Raymond Beatty, whom Ariadne had introduced Iris to earlier, Dom’s elderly but still great fun publisher at Bell & Mason. Despite looking as if he were a sneeze away from the morgue, Raymond had immediately regaled Iris with a hilariously blue joke that somehow seemed even ruder, and funnier, coming from such a frail and sweet old man. All three men were talking animatedly, apparently about the latest and last Grimshaw, if the snatched fragments of conversation floating across to Iris were anything to go by. But Iris noticed that Dom was only half listening, and that his gaze was repeatedly drawn to both the door – he’s waiting for somebody. Billy? – and his wife, who’d just been drawn aside by the former parish council chairman Harry Masters.

  Harry and Ariadne were huddled on a window seat in the back corner of the room. Iris surreptitiously edged closer, hoping to overhear their conversation, but it was difficult. Harry was speaking quickly and in hushed, urgent tones. At one point he placed his hand on Ariadne’s forearm and gripped it tightly, making her look up. Whether she was shocked or angry or just surprised, Iris couldn’t tell.

  ‘… won’t come back. Not tonight,’ Iris heard Harry whisper.

  ‘What if he does?’ There was an unmistakable note of fear in Ariadne’s voice.

  Infuriatingly, Harry’s reply was muffled. Iris heard the word ‘smile’ and two emphatic ‘listen’s. Then he stood up, his joints visibly stiff and arthritic with age, aware of Dom watching them. He made a point of kissing Ariadne on the cheek, presumably to irritate Dom, and Iris noticed his stubby pianist’s fingers lightly stroke the back of her head before he shuffled off into the throng.

  A firm tap on the back of Iris’s shoulder made her jump. She spun round guiltily to find herself face to face with a man she’d never met before. He was older, in his mid-fifties, Iris guessed, and handsome in a distinguished, nerdy way. Like a newsreader.

  ‘You must be Iris.’

  His grey eyes danced when he smiled, and a deeply grooved fan of lines spread out from each corner, making him look simultaneously older and more attractive. Combined with his thin lips, strong jaw and nose and slightly crooked teeth, he reminded Iris of a more everyday version of Liam Neeson.

  ‘Ariadne described you perfectly. I’m Graham Feeney, an old friend of the family.’

  He extended a hand that was more like a bear’s paw. Iris shook it, her own hand looking like a child’s in his.

  ‘Hello.’ Her voice sounded croaky. This must be the friend of Dom’s Ariadne had mentioned to her, the day she came over to un-invite Iris to Christmas lunch. Of course Ariadne had failed to mention quite how good-looking he was.

  ‘I gather you’re doing Dom’s portrait,’ said Graham. ‘He’s a fascinating man.’

  ‘He is,’ agreed Iris, wishing she could remember any salient detail about Graham Feeney’s life with which to prolong the conversation, before deciding that Ariadne probably hadn’t told her any.

  ‘Charming but complicated,’ said Graham.

  ‘I agree,’ Iris croaked. ‘Although I’m curious as to why you think so.’

  ‘Ah well. We go back a long way, Dom and me. He was terrific friends with my older brother, back in the day. So I suppose you could say I’ve seen him evolve.’ Graham smiled again and Iris was embarrassed to feel herself blushing. For heaven’s sake, woman, get a grip. You’re not fifteen.

  ‘I’d love to see it. Your painting,’ Graham added. ‘I don’t suppose it’s here, is it?’

  ‘Oh … no.’ Iris shook her head, her blush deepening. ‘It’s at home. No one’s seen it yet. It’s very much a work in progress.’

  ‘Like Dom,’ Graham observed.

  ‘Like all of us,’ Iris countered, horrified by how much she was enjoying talking to this man she didn’t know from Adam. Without noticing, she’d started twisting her wedding ring round her finger, like a talisman to ward off wicked spirits. Wickedly attractive spirits.

  ‘Can I get you another drink?’ Graham asked, his gaze lingering just a little too long on Iris’s slender legs, before slowly moving back upwards to her smoky eyes.

  ‘Why not?’ She handed him her glass.

  Perhaps tonight’s party was not going to be such an ordeal after all.

  * * *

  After a walk outside to let the freezing air help clear her head, Jenna Wetherby made her way over to the ‘puddings station’ and helped herself to a shot-glass-sized mini Christmas pudding, topped with a sinful smudge of brandy butter. A few feet away from her, lounging against the impressive Bechstein grand piano that Dom had bought at auction at Christie’s at great expense for Mill House’s drawing room but then never allowed anyone to play, were Dom and Ariadne’s artist tenant, Iris Grey, and Graham Feeney, flirting heavily.

  Graham was Marcus’s unofficial godfather, and Jenna had grown familiar with his ‘story’ over the years, although she’d only met him in person a handful of times. A successful barrister from Edinburgh, Graham was the younger brother of Dom’s best friend from college, Marcus Feeney. Marcus had been a depressive who’d tragically taken his own life the year after he and Dom left Oxford. Jenna’s Marcus had been named after him.

  Graham Feeney had remained close to the Wetherby family after his brother’s death and for many years afterwards, although recently that relationship seemed to have started to drift, for reasons no one in the family quite understood. There had been no argument, no falling-out that any of the Wetherbys could think of. And yet something had clearly shifted in Graham, prompting him to stop calling and visiting the way that he used to.

  Jenna remembered how delighted Ariadne had been when, out of the blue, Graham accepted the invitation to this year’s Christmas party. Marcus also seemed pleased. He was fond of Graham, and felt sad about the distance that had inexplicably grown between his godfather and his parents. Marcus’s own theory was that it might have had something to do with Billy’s conviction. Graham had attended the court case, but it was shortly after that that his visits and calls began petering out. Whatever his reasons, Marcus was happy he’d had a change of heart, more so than Jenna, who’d always found Graham Feeney to be rather a cold fish. He seemed to have warmed up tonight, however, and looked positively animated chatting with Iris Grey. If Iris’s body language was anything to go by, the feeling appeared to be mutual. Jenna noticed lots of arm-touching and leaning in, no doubt fuelled by Dom’s champagne and Ariadne’s positively lethal mulled wine.

  Iris was very short, and looked tiny standing next to Graham, who was well over six foot tall, like a pantomime Jack to Graham’s giant. She was extremely pretty, with enormous striking eyes, high cheekbones and a lithe figure that Jenna knew from experience was irresistible to a certain type of man. Ariadne had told Jenna that Ir
is was in her forties, but she looked much younger, as small and vulnerable as a child.

  Jenna thought back to the other night’s argument and the raised voices she and Marcus had heard drifting through Ariadne and Dom’s bedroom wall. Iris’s name had been mentioned more than once.

  Was it possible that Dom was smitten with his new portrait artist? Jenna wondered. If so, he clearly had some competition in Graham Feeney. Although Graham only had tonight to woo the fair lady, whereas Dom had the advantage of repeated exposure: all those long, intimate sessions on the study couch. All that uninterrupted gazing at one another.

  I’m being silly, thought Jenna, although her father-in-law was certainly capable of an affair. Then again, the psychologist in her knew that that applied to pretty much everyone. Including Marcus.

  Marcus. All at once the dark thoughts came flooding back. His unkindness to her tonight. The scratch on his face. The lies.

  A dark shadow at the window suddenly caught Jenna’s eye, distracting her for a moment from her brooding thoughts.

  Was that a man’s face, pressed against the glass?

  ‘Billy?’ Jenna mouthed, setting down her pudding glass and moving towards the shadow, walking at first but then quickening her pace to a run. But by the time she got to the window, whoever it was had gone.

  * * *

  Graham sipped his drink and watched Iris’s sexily retreating back in those adorable black boots as she nipped to the loo.

  Talk about unexpected! To meet someone, fall for someone, tonight of all nights. The irony wasn’t lost on Graham, although perhaps it was dulled a little by the copious amounts of alcohol roaring through his veins.

  Dom had prepped him about Iris when he arrived in Hazelford last night. ‘Got an artist coming to the party, Iris Grey. She’s been living in the cottage, doing my portrait. She’s bloody good.’