Murder at the Mill Page 8

  ‘Oh, I’d say she’s more than doing you justice, darling,’ Ariadne assured her husband. ‘Supper will be ready at eight. I’m up to my eyes in baking till then.’ And with that she drifted back to the kitchen, as silently as she had come in.

  ‘She’s a vision, isn’t she?’ sighed Dom, watching his wife go. ‘Hard to believe it’s been more than thirty-five years since we first met at Oxford. My old don at Christ Church, Professor Nevers, introduced us.’

  ‘Ian and I met at Oxford,’ said Iris without thinking, instantly regretting having shared such a personal detail with Dom. This was just the sort of nugget he might use to try to control their sittings, to get the upper hand over her psychologically. In reality, she needn’t have worried. Dom didn’t even acknowledge the comment. He was still obsessing over Ariadne.

  ‘You noticed the scar on her wrist just now.’ He looked at Iris, not quite accusingly, more letting her know that he knew.

  ‘Yes,’ said Iris, astonished that he’d noticed. Clearly he was more observant than she’d given him credit for.

  ‘You’re wondering if she tried to kill herself. End it all, thanks to the misery of being married to me.’ He said it so deadpan, it took Iris a moment to realise he was joking.

  ‘Your face!’ Dom laughed loudly. ‘Ah, that was priceless. Don’t worry, it was nothing like that. She had a tattoo when we first met – hideous, naff thing it was, a sort of bracelet of roses. Got it removed years ago, thank God.’

  ‘For you?’ asked Iris.

  Dom looked briefly taken aback by the question, as if he’d never considered this possibility before. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. She knew I wasn’t a fan, that’s for sure. Ariadne’s the real hero of this family, you know,’ he added, his voice once again full of affection. ‘She’s the real star. It’s her you should be painting, not me.’

  And yet it’s you who’s sitting here, getting all the attention, thought Iris. As usual.

  She wondered whether professional jealousy had played any part in the Wetherbys’ marriage, as it had so destructively in her own. If so, they’d obviously ridden out the storm.

  Increasingly, Iris feared there would be no such happy ending for her and Ian.

  At this point, she wasn’t even sure she wanted one.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, courtesy of another cheap bottle of Hazelford Stores’ finest Argentine plonk, Iris woke with a pounding headache to a bright but frozen day. Stepping outside to take the rubbish out in a pair of Snoopy pyjamas tucked into wellies, both the cold air and the dazzling winter sun made her wince. Squinting as she staggered back from the bins to the cottage, she jumped a mile when Billy Wetherby suddenly materialised from behind the hedge, practically leaping onto her doorstep.

  ‘Jesus!’ Iris gasped, clutching her chest.

  ‘Sorry.’ Billy looked genuinely apologetic. ‘Did I startle you?’

  ‘A bit,’ Iris admitted.

  There was something different about Billy today, she noticed. Something less angry. It struck Iris again how handsome he was, albeit in a sunken, watchful way. She also noticed that he was holding a wrapped box in his hand, and that he smelled of aftershave and toothpaste.

  ‘I brought a peace offering,’ he said, holding up the box with an unexpected shyness that was rather endearing.

  ‘A peace offering?’ said Iris, opening the door to let them both in to the warmth of the kitchen. ‘Were we at war?’

  ‘Well, not war exactly. But I felt as if we got off on the wrong foot when I first got back,’ Billy explained. ‘That day by the river.’

  ‘I see,’ said Iris.

  On the one hand, it was nice of Billy to make this effort. On the other, Iris couldn’t just forget the fact that the ‘wrong foot’ they’d got off on was her witnessing him trying to physically assault his mother. It would take more than a nicely wrapped box of chocolates to erase that first impression.

  Still, Iris was a firm believer that any kind gesture should be met with kindness, even if all she really wanted was for Billy to go away. He still made her nervous; plus his presence was preventing her from going back to bed with the bacon sandwich and Alka-Seltzer she so sorely needed.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked him.

  ‘Thanks.’ Billy sounded genuinely grateful. ‘That would be lovely.’

  Watching him take off his coat and sit down at the table, Iris clocked his dilated pupils for the first time and began to regret her decision to ask him in. Was he high? If so, he was holding it together remarkably well, so far. But the thought that he might melt down at any minute added another layer of tension to an already awkward situation.

  After some stilted small talk about Dom’s portrait and the art world in general, Iris brought the pot of tea over to the table and poured them both a cup in matching Emma Bridgewater cockerel mugs. As if there were some magic by which a wholesome, middle-class china tea set could make this a wholesome, middle-class encounter. Instead, a painful silence descended. Not sure what else to say or do, Iris opened Billy’s present: not a box of chocolates, as it turned out, but a polished and rather beautiful ammonite.

  ‘I love fossils,’ Billy announced, watching Iris turn the ancient creature over in her delicate painter’s hands. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about them much,’ Iris admitted. ‘Although it’s certainly a beautiful object.’

  ‘I find there’s something so calming and peaceful about them,’ Billy mused, sounding more stoned by the minute.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Iris, who was struggling to muster up any similarly profound feelings for a long-dead snail, but not wanting to seem ungrateful.

  ‘When I’m rich, once I get my inheritance money from Dad, I’m going to start a serious collection,’ said Billy, warming to his theme. ‘I saw a beautiful set of trilobites on eBay the other day, but they’re not cheap. Thirty thousand pounds. I’d get ten of those if I could. I’d never waste money on stupid things like cars and clothes the way my parents do. They’re so shallow sometimes. It makes me sick.’

  Iris listened silently. His entitlement was breathtaking. He simply assumed he would inherit a large sum from Dom one day, despite their strained relationship and the fact that he’d done nothing whatsoever to deserve it. He also seemed to see no irony in criticising his father’s career and spending habits, while at the same time planning how he, Billy, would spend his share in the fortune that Dom had made.

  Unable to think of any polite response to this, Iris changed the subject. ‘How are the preparations going? Up at the house?’ she asked. ‘Your mother’s done an incredible job decorating the place. It looks like a film set.’

  ‘Fake, you mean?’ Billy couldn’t help himself. ‘Yes. She’s good at that, my mother: the art of artifice.’

  His eyes had become even bigger and he’d started to tap his leg in a distinctly manic fashion.

  He’s definitely taken something, thought Iris. Why did I let him in?

  ‘Have you always had a difficult relationship?’ she heard herself asking, opening up the very can of worms that she’d hoped to avoid, but finding her curiosity was suddenly overwhelming

  Billy gave a snort. ‘You could say that.’ He picked at a hanging thread on Iris’s tablecloth, winding it round his finger till the tip turned red, then purple and finally almost blue. ‘Let’s just say that my mother is not who she pretends to be,’ he said cryptically, avoiding Iris’s gaze.

  ‘No? Who is she, then?’ Iris asked.

  Billy’s head jerked up. ‘A witch!’ he shouted, banging his fist on the table. Iris couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. ‘She’s a wicked, wicked witch. And I hope she rots in hell.’

  OK. Not joking.

  Despite her growing anxiety, Iris remained fascinated. ‘If you hate her so much, why did you move back home?’

  Billy shrugged. ‘To punish her? I don’t know. The truth is, Iris…’ He rolled her name around his tongue in a way that
made the hairs on Iris’s forearms stand on end. ‘I didn’t have too many other options. I’m flat broke, thanks to my tight-fisted father. And, you know, it’s a nice house.’

  ‘It’s an incredible house,’ Iris agreed.

  ‘And all the better now you’re here.’

  Before Iris could stop him, Billy lunged across the table and kissed her. Strong, sinewy hands gripped the back of her head as his lips found hers, grinding against her in a violent, unwanted rhythm.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ After the initial shock, Iris found her voice and strength at last. Ducking out of his grip, she scraped her chair back and jumped up from the table as if she’d been stung.

  ‘What does it look like?’ Billy said angrily, also standing. ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Iris looked at him, incredulous.

  ‘Stuck here alone, day after day. No husband. No boyfriend. I mean, you must miss it.’

  ‘Miss what? Being lunged at?’ Iris said furiously. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Sex,’ Billy said bluntly. Clearly whatever he’d taken had made him wildly disinhibited. ‘You’re not that old.’

  If she were less shocked, Iris might have laughed. Clearly Dom Wetherby’s charm gene had not been passed to his son. Not this son, anyway.

  ‘I think you’d better leave.’

  ‘Fine.’ Billy picked up his coat, his face assuming its familiar aspect of victimhood and bitterness. ‘No doubt I’ll see you around.’

  He feels wronged, Iris thought, in disbelief. He actually blames me for rejecting him.

  Storming out of Iris’s cottage, the first person Billy saw was his father, trudging over the frost-hardened ground, apparently on his way there himself.

  ‘Good luck,’ Billy barked at Dom.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Dom.

  ‘Only that you’ve no chance of thawing the ice maiden,’ Billy grunted, stomping off.

  ‘Thawing the what? What are you talking about? Billy? Billy!’ Dom called after him, but Billy kept walking, oblivious.

  Walking into Mill Cottage’s kitchen through the still-open door a few moments later, Dom saw Iris leaning over the sink with her back to him. ‘Knock, knock,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I just popped over to let you know I can’t make our sitting tomorrow. Something’s come up in London and I … Are you all right?’

  He noticed Iris’s shoulders were shaking.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she sniffed, unconvincingly.

  Dom frowned. ‘I passed Billy on my way here,’ he said. ‘He seemed agitated. Did he do anything to upset you? Iris?’

  He didn’t get any further. Turning round, sobbing uncontrollably, Iris launched herself into his arms. Suddenly it was all too much – the hostility from Ian, the recurrent feeling that someone was following her, the break-in, being dismissed by the police, and now Billy with his unexpected ‘peace offering’ followed by unwanted sexual advances and Jekyll-and-Hyde rage. It wasn’t that Iris needed Dom’s comfort particularly. Chances are she would have hurled herself into the arms of whomever had been next to walk through her door. And yet there was something especially comforting about Dom. His broad chest and deep voice, like distant rolling thunder, combined with his warmth and the fact he was almost twenty years Iris’s senior made him feel both paternal and safe. She found herself clinging to him embarrassingly tightly, like a flightless baby bird to its nest.

  ‘Sorry,’ she sniffed, once she’d cried herself out. ‘I’m not sure where that came from.’

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ said Dom, with a calmness he didn’t feel. ‘Iris, you must tell me the truth. Did Billy hurt you? Just now?’

  ‘No.’ Iris shook her head vehemently. ‘It was nothing like that. He made a pass at me, that’s all.’

  ‘What?!’ Dom went white.

  ‘It wasn’t anything terrible. It was more the fact that it sort of came out of nowhere. That was what threw me.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Dom groaned. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m afraid my son’s got a problem with women.’ He rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘A huge problem. It’s what got him sent away.’

  Wiping her eyes on a tea towel, Iris sat down, gesturing for Dom to do the same. ‘Tell me. What happened?’

  Dom didn’t need to be asked twice. Assuming the seat that Billy had just vacated, he poured out the story. To Iris’s surprise, he seemed to want to talk about it.

  ‘About three years ago Billy became obsessed with a young woman who lived in the flat below him in London. Susan Frey. She was a legal secretary. I think they’d had a drink together once or twice at the pub on the corner, but that was it. Anyway, somehow Billy got it into his head that this girl wanted to be with him. That her boyfriend was controlling her, holding her against her will or some such nonsense.’

  ‘Did he have any reason to think that?’ Iris asked, calm again now and eager to hear as much of the story as Dom was willing to tell.

  Dom shook his head, visibly pained at the memory. ‘None whatsoever. It was all in his head. I think he knew that really; he just couldn’t admit it to himself. Anyway, it started with emails and phone calls. But I mean literally hundreds and hundreds of phone calls. The poor girl was terrified. The boyfriend tried to reason with Billy, and when that didn’t work, the police got involved and Susan took out a restraining order against him. That was when things really went tits up.’

  Iris waited for him to elaborate.

  ‘Ever since his early teens Billy’s had a problem with anger, mostly directed at his mother.’

  ‘Do you know why that is?’

  Dom gave a joyless laugh. ‘“Why that is” … As far as I know, there is no “why”. It just happened. He woke up one day and decided to start hating her. Accusing her of God knows what. Mistreating him. Lying. Turning the family against him. He was incredibly paranoid.’

  ‘Do you think it was drug-related?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Dom shrugged. ‘He smoked a good bit of weed as a teenager, but then who didn’t? No one ever diagnosed him as addicted to anything. After the restraining order, he became furious with this poor Frey girl for rejecting him and started stalking and harassing her, slashing the tyres on her bike and leaving threatening messages in the middle of the night. Showing up at her work, yelling obscenities one minute and asking her to marry him the next.’

  ‘It sounds like he needed psychiatric care, not prison,’ said Iris.

  She sensed a lot of anger in Dom’s tone and not much compassion for his troubled son, although she tried not to judge. Perhaps Billy had simply exhausted his family’s reserves of patience. That could happen. Iris’s own sister, Thea, had had bipolar disorder throughout her teens, so Iris knew from bitter experience what a fine line it could be between mental illness and straightforwardly selfish behaviour.

  ‘Well, he ended up getting both,’ Dom told her. ‘After he tried to set fire to her car, he was arrested and charged. A psychiatrist assessed him as fit to stand trial. I would have helped him if he’d admitted it, but some moronic friend of his persuaded him to plead innocent to harassment and criminal damage. The stupid sod didn’t show a shred of remorse.’

  ‘They found him guilty,’ said Iris.

  ‘Yup.’ Dom smiled wryly. ‘Right after they found the Pope Catholic. The judge gave him two years, with mandatory therapy three times a week. He got released on parole in the autumn after just over a year and moved back home. At first he seemed better. Calmer, and more aware of what he’d done and that it was wrong. But the more time he spends around his mother, the angrier he gets.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea to have him living here?’ Iris asked tentatively. She was hesitant to pry too deeply into another family’s private turmoil, although it was obvious that Dom wanted to talk about it. ‘I mean, if Ariadne’s some sort of trigger, wouldn’t it be better for him to live independently?’

  ‘It would, yes,’ Dom said bluntly. ‘A lot better. But his saint of a mother won’t hear of it. She ref
uses to kick him out. We do love him,’ he added, rather touchingly, Iris thought. ‘But it’s been bloody hard. Anyway, I’m so sorry that he scared you.’

  Reaching across the table, Dom took Iris’s hand in his. She’d seen a flirtatious side to him before, during their sittings, but this wasn’t like that. It was a gesture of genuine kindness and care.

  ‘I’m fine. I overreacted.’

  Releasing her hand, Dom suddenly noticed some pieces of doll’s-house furniture, tucked away behind the sugar bowl at the far end of the table. Iris had started repainting one of the bedroom ‘suites’ last night, and the less-than-impressive results were still drying on a sticky piece of newspaper.

  ‘What are these? Christmas presents?’ His tone had changed completely, back to his usual charming, engaging self. ‘Do you make them yourself?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Iris blushed. ‘I just…’ The words trailed off lamely.

  For some reason, Iris found that she really, really didn’t want Dom Wetherby to know about her private passion. Her doll’s house was a sacrosanct fantasy, not to be invaded by outsiders, and especially not by a relative stranger. Although it occurred to her that, after everything he’d just shared about Billy, perhaps Dom no longer saw her in that light.

  ‘Who’s it for? I wonder. Let me guess. Goddaughter?’

  Iris shook her head. ‘I should really take a shower and get dressed…’

  ‘Niece?’ Dom tried again.

  ‘All right, look, actually it’s mine,’ Iris blurted, wondering why on earth she hadn’t grabbed at the ‘goddaughter’ lifeline and run with it.

  Dom looked amused. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Yes.’ Iris cleared her throat. ‘I’m a collector. It’s a hobby of mine.’

  There was an awful moment’s silence. Then Dom suddenly burst into laughter, a deep, full-throated guffaw loud enough to make the tiny kitchen shake.

  ‘Oh, that’s priceless!’ He wiped away tears of mirth.

  ‘Why? What’s so funny about it?’ Iris demanded primly.

  ‘Nothing! I mean, it wouldn’t be funny if you weren’t so defensive about it. And so adorably pompous!’