Murder at the Mill Page 21

  ‘No idea,’ Harry said brusquely. ‘I know I wouldn’t blame them if they had. But I’m surprised they’d be considered prime suspects. Dom Wetherby had more enemies than you and me and the rest of Hazelford put together. For all I know, it was the developers whose plans for the meadows he thwarted who finally did for him. Nasty bunch they were.’

  ‘Did you know them?’

  ‘Only by name,’ said Harry. ‘Gardievski, the fella’s name was. Igor Gardievski. He was far too grand to hobnob with the likes of me, but I think Dom Wetherby knew him socially. They used to play poker together, apparently. Gardievski blew a gasket when Wetherby stopped him building his housing estate across the river from the Mill. He thought he was owed a favour and Dom stabbed him in the back. But frankly, Miss Grey, I don’t care who killed him. I just hate to see dear Ariadne going through it.’

  ‘Are the two of you very close?’ Iris asked as casually as she could, happy for the subject to be looping back to Ariadne.

  To her surprise, Harry looked her in the eye and said with blunt honesty, ‘I love her. I’ve always loved her, Miss Grey. Just as I’ve always loathed her bullying bastard of a husband. Sadly for me, the feeling isn’t mutual.’

  Iris was silent, leaning forwards and adopting what she hoped was her best sympathetic-listener pose while she waited for him to go on. It wasn’t a long wait. Clearly Harry Masters lived to talk about Ariadne Wetherby. The woman had him wrapped round her little finger.

  ‘I would say we’ve become close friends,’ Harry continued. ‘Even before all this mess. Ariadne leans on me, Miss Grey. Perhaps she’s mentioned me to you?’

  The hope in his voice was pathetic.

  ‘I’ve never really had an intimate conversation with Ariadne.’ Iris chose her words carefully, hoping to draw Harry out. ‘I would say we’re friendly, rather than friends. I spent more time with Dom. Because of the portrait,’ she clarified.

  It was almost comical how quickly Harry’s face clouded over when Dom Wetherby’s name was mentioned. As if he retained the power to wound him, even in death.

  ‘Well.’ Collecting himself, Harry forced a smile. ‘Perhaps now you and Ariadne will have more of a chance to get to know one another. You’re both artists, after all.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Iris.

  ‘And I think she could use a friend,’ Harry added. ‘Especially a female friend. Not many people know this, Miss Grey, but Ariadne Wetherby’s had a terribly difficult life. As a child, or a teenager, her father—’ Harry stopped and looked away, realising he’d gone too far. ‘Well. We won’t go into all that.’

  ‘I met her father. Clive,’ said Iris, willing him not to stop at such a crucial moment. ‘He stayed with them for Christmas. He seemed rather a sweet and harmless old boy to me.’

  ‘Hmm. Appearances can be deceptive,’ Harry muttered gruffly.

  ‘Do you know Clive?’ Iris asked, intrigued.

  ‘Not really. Look, I’ve said too much already,’ Harry murmured, somewhat anxiously. ‘It’s not my place. Ariadne told me certain things in confidence. But if the two of you were to become friends, perhaps … I don’t know. It might help her to have a woman to talk to. That’s all.’

  ‘I’d be happy to try,’ said Iris.

  They agreed a date for Iris to return for a first piano lesson, and Harry led her out into the garden. He’d decided he preferred a picture of Church Cottage from the rear over a sketched portrait, rather to Iris’s relief, as she still felt she hadn’t got a clear read on Harry Masters’ character. She realised, belatedly, that she hadn’t managed to worm an alibi out of him either for Christmas Day afternoon, but there was no way to wrench the conversation back to Dom’s murder now without it looking awkward and crass.

  Next time.

  For now, Harry’s insinuations about Ariadne’s childhood and past were more than enough food for thought. ‘As a child, or a teenager, her father—’ How had Harry planned to finish that sentence? What, exactly, was he accusing Ariadne’s father of having done? Was it really possible that frail, doddery old Clive had abused her in some way? Sexually, or physically? Or what else might Harry have meant? He’d also implied that Dom Wetherby might have hurt his wife, but Iris thought that sounded very much like wishful thinking on the piano teacher’s part. He was angry with Dom for other reasons, and besotted with his wife, so he was hardly an impartial observer.

  Even so, you never know, thought Iris. It was astonishing the things that went on behind the closed doors of other people’s marriages. Her own marriage to Ian was a case in point.

  She took her leave, shaking Harry’s limp, smooth hand, and headed straight to Hazelford Stores for her own copy of the Daily Fail, as Ian always used to call it. With a jolt Iris realised that it no longer automatically caused her pain to think about Ian. Was that progress? Or denial? In either case, the interview with Dom’s former mistress would be a welcome distraction. Yes, it was prurient. But Iris was barely painting these days. Solving the mystery of Dom Wetherby’s murder had become the focus of her life during this turbulent time, her reason to get up in the morning. And she wasn’t likely to earn her Miss Marple stripes by taking Harry Masters’ high road and refusing to read the Mail piece. Whoever killed Dom Wetherby must have either hated him or had something to gain by his death, or both. Hatred that deep didn’t pop up overnight. Whatever the truth turned out to be, it had its roots somewhere in the Grimshaw author’s past. Iris must wade through the lies and the dross until she uncovered it

  ‘You’ll be wanting the Mail, then?’ Jean Chivers asked Iris, retrieving a copy from the giant pile stacked beside the stockroom and handing it over before Iris had a chance to answer. ‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ Jean leaned forward conspiratorially, revealing a light bristle of chin hairs poking out from beneath her heavy make-up. ‘Poor Mrs Wetherby, still grieving, and all his fancy pieces crawling out of the woodwork. Of course, I don’t think anyone’s that surprised. He was a charmer, wasn’t he, always with a twinkle in his eye? And you know they’re saying it’s the son as did it? Billy. The stalker. Drugged and drowned his own father – can you imagine?’

  Iris replied firmly that she couldn’t. She wouldn’t have thought it possible a few weeks ago, but she was starting to feel genuinely sorry for Billy.

  Alan Chivers emerged from the stockroom, eager as ever to join in the gossip.

  ‘They’ve got police techs crawling all over the property now, looking for fingerprints and whatnot, something to link Billy with what happened,’ he announced confidently. ‘Apparently Ariadne Wetherby keeps chloroform up at the house. I mean, that’s a bit weird, isn’t it?’ Alan looked at Iris, whom he now considered a friend of sorts. ‘Who has chloroform in their house?’

  Iris could have answered this, but instead mumbled something noncommittal and left. She liked Alan and Jean, and didn’t want to get into an argument with either of them. Besides, she’d been in Hazelford long enough to know that the rumour mill would keep on turning whether she corrected the shopkeeper’s facts or not. She wanted to get home to read the article by Dom’s former flame in peace.

  Back at the cottage, she read the Mail’s two-page spread quickly at first, then again in more detail. The woman being interviewed, Caroline Clarkson, was in her late forties now and looked nothing like your typical kiss-and-tell bimbo. With her sleek blonde bob, understated make-up and professional skirt suit, Ms Clarkson actually looked a lot like a corporate, uptight version of Ariadne. Dom clearly had a type.

  She was also articulate and thoughtful in the answers she gave the reporter, stressing Dom’s charisma but how he also had a dark, depressive side. How, despite their affair, he remained devoted to his family and could never break free from the guilt he felt towards his wife. Ms Clarkson also expressed guilt and regret over their affair – although Iris couldn’t help but feel that a paid interview in a tabloid newspaper might not be the most obvious way for a mistress to make amends to a wife.

  ‘I wasn’t shocked wh
en I read that Dom had taken his own life,’ she said. ‘Saddened, obviously, but not shocked. But the idea that someone could have murdered him, and in what seems to have been such a terrible, calculating way? That, I can’t imagine. Dom had many faults, but he was a hugely likable man, with a big talent and a big heart. I will miss him for ever.’

  Iris closed the paper and closed her eyes, letting the events of the morning wash over her, like waves lapping her consciousness, until the sediment settled and the water became clear.

  What had she learned from Harry Masters today?

  That Dom had made an enemy of a powerful property developer. That could be important. Ought to be important. And yet somehow it didn’t feel as if it were, not really.

  So what was important?

  As she sat and contemplated, one word floated to the surface.

  Ariadne.

  There was more, much more, to Mrs Dom Wetherby than met the eye. If Harry Masters was right and her father had abused her, then she’d spent a lifetime concealing dark secrets. Her father’s. Her husband’s. Her son’s. And perhaps her own? She had such a gentle way about her, such a kind, soft, feminine, artistic manner. But was there someone else underneath? Another, very different Ariadne – the one that Billy was constantly alluding to, the dark side, the witch, that no one, including Iris, had been willing to believe in?

  What if Billy had been right all along?

  Dom Wetherby had had a dark side, after all, beneath the warmth and light and bonhomie. Iris had seen it when she painted him, and his mistress had seen it when they made love. Was it that much of a stretch to imagine that Dom’s wife might be the same? What if all Ariadne’s softness and forgiveness and calm were a mask, hiding a very different side to her nature? A side formed, perhaps, by childhood abuse?

  Or was the abuse story a red herring, a tall tale Ariadne had spun to Harry Masters to justify … what? Her anger towards her husband? Towards men in general? Iris believed Harry Masters when he claimed the two of them were just friends, that there was never any attraction on Ariadne’s side. But she also believed him when he said he loved her. The thought crystallised shockingly then in Iris’s mind: Harry Masters would kill for Ariadne Wetherby. He’d do anything she asked of him.

  Iris opened her eyes and checked herself. She had no evidence – none – to think that Ariadne Wetherby was involved in Dom’s death. And yet the very fact that Ariadne cultivated friends like Harry – loyal, devoted, fanatical and not remotely her equal – implied that there was, at a minimum, a missing piece in her marriage.

  That missing piece was the next piece in the puzzle.

  The next clue for Iris to follow.

  I need to get close to Ariadne.

  * * *

  Graham Feeney was in his favourite greasy-spoon café in an alley behind the Edinburgh High Court when he got the call.

  ‘Can you talk?’ Marcus’s voice was brittle with tension, so much so that Graham felt his own stomach lurching.

  ‘Of course. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I need your help. I think Billy needs a lawyer and I … It can’t be me.’

  ‘OK. Calm down,’ said Graham. ‘Take a breath and tell me what’s happened.’

  For the next eight minutes straight Marcus kept talking, the words tumbling out one after another as he unleashed his list of grievances against both the press and the police.

  ‘They sent a bloody inept female liaison officer to the house to interview Lorcan. Lorcan! No one cleared it with Mum first or even asked her; they just showed up this morning and started grilling him about the stupid Houdini game we used to play with Dad.’

  ‘Houdini game?’

  Marcus explained. Graham frowned. What a breathtakingly irresponsible game to play with young children, and how typical of Dom to come up with something like that. For all his many strengths, there had always been an element of the overgrown child about Dom, an impish, Peter Pan side to him that Graham had never liked. He kept his thoughts to himself this morning, however, and let Marcus go on.

  ‘Billy told the police about the game last week and how Lorcan and the rest of us used to play it. I mean, can you credit it? As if our stupid childhood pranks had anything to do with Dad’s death.’

  Graham noticed that Marcus still couldn’t bring himself to use the word ‘murder’.

  ‘Why did Billy mention it?’ asked Graham.

  ‘Good question,’ Marcus said bitterly. ‘I think it was his idea of a joke – let’s throw the moronic police an obviously false lead – but it’s not bloody funny. Poor Lorc was already cut up enough about Dad and finding the body. Now he’s going to worry that it might have been his fault. Lorcan can’t separate the past from the present the way the rest of us can. He remembers playing that game with Dad and he remembers Dad being dead. Once he hears adults connecting those dots, he does the same. He’s so traumatised, Graham.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Graham said seriously. Billy clearly had a lot to answer for.

  ‘Luckily, a local couple were out flying their model aeroplane on Christmas afternoon and saw Lorc playing with his torch and his boat, for almost two hours, so he has an “alibi”.’ He injected the word with as much disdain as possible. ‘As if Lorcan would hurt a fly. Meanwhile Mum’s in pieces, Lorc’s still a wreck from the whole interview thing, and the cretin in charge, Cant, is leaking stuff to the press like a sodding sieve. Not to mention the fact that he’s clearly after Billy. They brought him in under caution the other day because his prints and Dad’s were all over Mum’s sculpting shed. I mean, all our prints must be in there, for God’s sake. And in the meantime, the bastard who actually did this to Dad is still out there, probably laughing his head off.’ His voice broke. Graham could hear that he was fighting back tears.

  ‘Anyway, the long and the short of it is, we need you. Is there any way you can come back down?’

  Graham took a moment to process everything Marcus had just told him. Eventually he said, ‘All right. Look, I can’t come down before the funeral. I have a trial finishing up here and I can’t just cut and run.’

  ‘No.’ Marcus sounded deflated. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘But that’s only a week away,’ Graham reminded him. ‘It’s really not long. And after that I’d be happy to represent Billy, if that’s what he wants. Although bear in mind he hasn’t been charged yet, Marcus. Things may not be as dire as you think. Having said that, it would be helpful if someone could get him to stop playing silly buggers with the police between now and your father’s funeral. From what you describe, he’s not helping himself.’

  ‘Since when does my brother ever help himself?’ Marcus sighed heavily. ‘Mum’s absolutely panicked that he’s going to do something stupid at the wake in front of all the press. Our family does seem to have an uncanny knack for turning a tragedy into a farce.’

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ said Graham. ‘Once the funeral’s over, things will calm down. The police will realise soon enough that Billy’s innocent and with a bit of luck they’ll find whoever did it. Have faith.’

  Marcus gave an empty laugh.

  ‘Thanks, Graham. I’m sorry to dump on you. It’s just Jenna and I are … Well, things are not great. I feel as if it’s all on me to sort everything out, but I have to work and—’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Graham interrupted. ‘I’m happy to help. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.’

  He hung up and an image of Iris Grey’s delicate, doll-like face floated into his mind.

  Iris had been in touch twice in the last couple of days, filling him in on her meeting with Harry Masters and what the piano teacher had told her about Ariadne, all very interesting developments. Graham found he loved to listen to her voice, to hear her quick mind working and her artist’s eye seeing beneath people’s façades.

  Has she seen through mine? Graham wondered nervously. At some point, she was bound to realise that he was nowhere close to good enough for her. Not yet, though. Not yet. There’s still time.
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  In one week he would see her again.

  Was it wrong to be looking forward to Dom’s funeral?

  Probably. Gulping down the last of his tea, Graham left the café, happier than he had any right to be.

  Chapter Seventeen

  St Anne’s Church in Hazelford was one of the most exquisite baroque churches in the whole of the south of England. Although not a grand edifice like Winchester Cathedral, St Anne’s nevertheless boasted some of the most intricately carved stonework and elaborate tombs and side chapels of any village church in the country. Built on the banks of the Itchen, surrounded by model-village-perfect almshouse cottages and set against a backdrop of idyllic rolling Hampshire countryside, even in the depths of winter Hazelford’s church rose up from the frozen earth like a beacon of beauty and peace.

  It’s a nice place to be buried, thought Jenna, following a stony-faced Marcus through the enormous throng of media lining Mill Lane as they made their way inside. Her father-in-law’s funeral was always going to be a big event. The Grimshaw books and TV adaptations had made Dom a household name and something akin to a national treasure. But the fact that Dom had been murdered, and that the case remained unsolved, had turned today’s service from a sideshow into a full-blown circus. Someone had drugged Dom Wetherby and drowned him in the grounds of his idyllic estate. It was a case worthy of the great detective Gerry Grimshaw, whose final television outing – Grimshaw’s Goodbye – had been postponed from New Year’s Day following Dom’s death, and was now being shown this Sunday night. Naturally, it was predicted to pull in record audiences, with Carl Rendcombe, the actor who played the great detective, being hounded day and night by the media to spill the beans about the plot.

  Inside, the church was packed like a rush-hour Tube train. Mourners from all the different pieces of Dom’s life – family friends, school friends, university friends, literary friends, TV friends, local friends – jostled for space among the polished elm pews. Jenna recognised many of them from the Christmas Eve drinks party, including Rendcombe. Next to him stood Dom’s agent, the portly Chris Wheeler, looking sombre in his heavy three-piece suit. John Pilcher, the TV producer who’d taken over the Grimshaw franchise from Rachel Truebridge, had opted for a considerably more casual ensemble of drainpipe jeans and a thick black sweater. Rachel was there too, somewhat to Jenna’s surprise given how little love had been lost between them on Christmas Eve. In a dull sludge-coloured dress and wearing next to no make-up, she looked far from her usual glamorous best. Unlike Iris Grey, who somehow seemed to be glowing in a burgundy skirt and jacket teamed with flat riding boots, squeezed into the third row next to a dapper Graham Feeney. I must catch up with her properly later, thought Jenna, as the organist struck up a lugubrious rendition of ‘Jerusalem’, Dom’s favourite hymn. She and Iris had spoken briefly outside, before the service, but Jenna was too scared of Marcus overhearing them to ask anything meaningful about Dom’s murder, such as how the useless police were getting on or what, if anything, Iris had discovered since they last spoke.