Murder at the Mill

by M. B. Shaw

  Billy was a no-show. No surprise there, although Graham imagined that his mother and brothers must have wondered whether the public unveiling of Dom’s portrait would be enough of a pull to wrest the family’s black sheep out of the shadows.

  Other faces, though familiar, were a shock to Graham. At the back of the room, hovering beside the door, presumably in case she should need to make a swift escape, stood Rachel Truebridge, the very last person Graham would have expected to show her face. In black cigarette pants and a dark grey sweater, she looked wan and much too thin and as if she’d aged a hundred years since Christmas Eve.

  Turning back to Iris, he discovered that she’d wandered off, no doubt kidnapped by one of her many admirers. In her place, two women in cheap Next party dresses were huddled together, gossiping. Clearly neither of them knew that Graham was Iris’s plus-one.

  ‘I don’t know how she’s got the nerve to show herself,’ the first woman observed in a stage whisper. ‘With the family here and everything. As if poor Mrs Wetherby didn’t have enough to deal with already, now she’s supposed to make small talk with the killer’s wife?’

  ‘They released him, you know. McBride,’ her friend observed, dousing the flames of the first woman’s excitement with an unwelcome bucket of fact.

  ‘Under caution,’ woman one shot back. ‘That means they still think he did it – they just can’t prove it yet.’

  The barrister in Graham had to smile at that. The great British public’s lack of understanding of their own laws never ceased to astonish him. Not that he felt remotely inclined to leap to Ian McBride’s defence. Whatever he may or may not have done to Dom Wetherby, he’d been vile to Iris, and that was crime enough in Graham Feeney’s book.

  * * *

  Iris, meanwhile, had slipped towards the back of the room, where to her great delight she’d spotted her old friends Annie and Joe waving at her manically.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ Annie enveloped Iris in a hug, the fabric of her natural bamboo-fibre dress as soft against Iris’s skin as a baby’s blanket. ‘It’s been so long.’

  ‘I know,’ said Iris, inhaling the clove and cinnamon scent of Annie’s hair. Somehow she always managed to smell like baked goods, perhaps the result of living above the shop at Joe’s café. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so distant. I’ve been away a lot.’

  ‘We know.’ Annie’s boyfriend, Joe, winked at her. ‘We read the papers. And occasionally run into your miserable sod of a husband. I gather they released him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Iris rolled her eyes. ‘The whole thing was ridiculous. Ian didn’t kill Dom Wetherby.’

  ‘Who do you think did?’ Annie asked, as eagerly curious as a schoolgirl. ‘All those intimate portrait sittings…’ She nudged Iris knowingly. ‘He must have given you some clues.’

  If it were anyone else, Iris would probably have been irritated by this jokey tone, but she was so pleased to see Annie, she couldn’t be angry and found herself responding in kind.

  ‘The trouble is, he didn’t know he was going to end up at the bottom of the river. If he had, I’m sure he’d have been a lot more forthcoming.’

  Just as she made the joke, Iris noticed Lorcan Wetherby waving at her and trying to catch her eye. Feeling horribly guilty, Iris waved back. She was pleased that Lorcan seemed to want to communicate again, for the two of them to return to being friends. Not that they’d fallen out, but lately the poor boy had become borderline reclusive, rarely leaving his mother’s side. At some point Iris needed to talk to him about the night Dom died. Finding an opportunity to speak to Lorcan alone was going to be the hardest part, and tonight clearly was not the right time. But there were things Iris needed to ask him, for Ian’s sake, whether the police ultimately believed them or not.

  Lorcan Wetherby’s mind might be wired differently to everyone else’s, but he was not stupid, especially when it came to the language of emotion. He knew more than he was telling, Iris was sure of that.

  Up at the front of the room, Lena was wrapping things up, thanking Ariadne for loaning the painting and talking about the importance of truth in art, especially portraiture, and how none of us must allow the press’s baser instincts and grubby interest in Dom Wetherby’s death to detract from the value of his life or to sully our memories of who he ‘truly’ was.

  ‘I never knew Dom myself, although I know many of you did, but I do know Iris Grey. And I know that you won’t find a more truthful, more courageous artist than Iris anywhere. And so it is my honour and my great pleasure to reveal to you all tonight, for the very first time in public viewing, Iris Grey’s portrait of Mr Dominic Wetherby.’

  With one pull on a rather cheesy gold-tasselled rope, the red velvet drapery covering the painting fell away and there it was – there he was, Dom, his eyes as bright and searching as they had been in life, eagerly scanning his latest crowd of admirers.

  It’s actually not bad, thought Iris, as applause and murmured admiration rippled audibly around the room. The warm patina of the wood in Dom’s study came over beautifully from this distance. The knickknacks behind him, the rich softness of his cashmere sweater, the deep fan of lines around his eyes, all came across better on canvas than Iris remembered. As for Dom, he looked like himself. Relaxed, and yet conscious of the impression he made, how he was sitting, the direction of his gaze, even the way his hands trailed along the back of the sofa.

  Moving through the crowd, she tried to make her way back to the spot where she’d left Graham. Annie and Joe were lovely, but Iris realised with a sudden jolt that Graham Feeney was the one person with whom she wanted to share this moment. But when she reached the place where they’d been standing, he’d gone. Before Iris could track him down, a gaggle of private collectors swooped in to congratulate her on her latest ‘masterpiece’ and she found herself plunged deep into work mode, or what her agent, Greta, liked to refer to as ‘the hustle zone’.

  Oh well. I’ll catch up with Graham later.

  * * *

  Outside in the lobby, Rachel Truebridge twisted her wrist, painfully trying to free herself from Graham Feeney’s grip.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ Graham whispered furiously. ‘What on earth did you hope to gain?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Rachel insisted. ‘It’s not about gain. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see the painting.’

  ‘Well, now you have. So go.’

  ‘Did you know?’ Rachel challenged him. ‘Did you know where she painted him? That room! The background!’

  ‘Calm down.’

  ‘You’re sleeping with her, for God’s sake. Iris must have shown you…’

  ‘She didn’t,’ Graham insisted.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Do you think I give a damn what you believe?’ Graham snapped, his voice louder than he’d intended it to be. ‘I am telling you, the first time I ever laid eyes on that portrait was two minutes ago. Just like you. Now, for God’s sake, leave, before you draw any more attention to yourself. Or me.’

  He let go of her wrist and she slunk away, grabbing her coat before disappearing into the night.

  Graham took a moment to collect his thoughts. Then, straightening his tie, he walked back towards the bar. As he moved, he could feel Dom Wetherby’s haunting eyes following him from Iris’s canvas up on the dais, boring into him like twin lasers.

  Don’t you judge me, you old bastard, he chuckled to himself.

  Iris’s portrait was truly incredible. She’d captured Dom in all his complexity, like a soul-catcher imprisoning a spirit in a jar and hanging it up for all to see. Right there, in oil paint, was Dom’s charm. His vanity. His warmth. His spite. There was his life.

  It’s as if he’s still alive, thought Graham, suddenly realising what it was that was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  But Dom Wetherby wasn’t alive. He was dead and buried, and his secrets would be buried with him. As long as Rachel Truebridge kept her mouth shut.

  * * *

  E
xtricating herself at last from her gaggle of admirers, Iris escaped to the ladies’. The loos in this part of the gallery were the posh kind, with white marble countertops and a woman whose job it was to hand people individual towels for drying their hands. This woman had a little bowl beside her into which people were dropping tips, usually a pound. Washing her hands, Iris found herself idly wondering how much you could make in an hour, handing out towels, and whether the loo lady made more or less than most of the wannabe artists and writers at an event like tonight’s, when Ariadne suddenly appeared at the basin next to her, in unusually talkative mood.

  ‘Iris, my dear.’ She smiled the saintly smile. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you all evening, but my lovely Lorcan won’t let me out of his sight. I noticed you and Graham arrived together?’

  ‘Yes.’ Iris returned the smile. As usual she was never quite sure what to make of Ariadne. ‘He was instrumental in setting this up, as you know. Thank you again for agreeing to loan the painting.’

  ‘Oh!’ Ariadne waved a hand dismissively, as if to say it was nothing. ‘I’m just thrilled to see the two of you together. Dom and I both felt you’d make a wonderful couple, but it’s rare that these things work out so perfectly, isn’t it?’

  Iris nodded awkwardly and threw her towel in the ‘used’ basket, reaching into her evening bag for some change. Had Dom really thought that she and Graham should get together? Had he put the idea into Graham’s head before he came down to Hazelford for the Christmas Eve party, the same way that Ariadne had ‘casually’ mentioned Graham to Iris when she dropped by Mill Cottage that day? And if so, why did that idea trouble Iris so much? Matchmaking one’s friends and acquaintances wasn’t a crime, after all. So why did Iris feel so manipulated, like a puppet on a string?

  ‘I noticed Rachel Truebridge was here earlier,’ Ariadne observed casually. ‘Did you invite her?’

  ‘No!’ Iris said vehemently. ‘Why would I invite her? I don’t know her.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Ariadne nodded, apparently satisfied with Iris’s answer. But the whole exchange was very odd. ‘Well, she’s gone now, anyway. I saw her talking to Graham and then she just left. Here, let me.’

  Ariadne dropped two pound coins into the attendant’s bowl with a satisfying clink, clink and, hugging Iris as if the odd, accusing Rachel conversation had never happened, headed back into the party.

  Iris hung back. Looking up at her reflection in the mirror, she was surprised to see two frightened eyes gazing back at her. Each ‘clink’ had sounded ominous, somehow, like a key turning in a lock. A cage door closing.

  Something bad is happening. Something’s wrong.

  Stepping back into the gallery, she was immediately accosted by a man she didn’t know.

  ‘Iris?’

  ‘Yes?’

  The man looked distinguished and was softly spoken, with a faint European accent of some sort. He had grey, slightly unkempt hair, and wore tortoiseshell glasses, a combination that gave him the look of a professor. Iris didn’t recognise him, but assumed he must be either a critic or a collector.

  ‘We haven’t met.’ He extended a hand politely. ‘I’m Lars. Lars Berens.’

  Iris looked at him blankly. Was the name supposed to mean something? Greta was always telling her she needed to remember people’s names and try harder at networking, but Iris’s brain was like a sieve for that sort of thing.

  ‘Thea’s husband,’ he clarified.

  Thea!

  Iris’s stomach lurched. She felt the room begin to spin and instinctively leaned against the wall for support. She hadn’t seen or heard from her sister in decades, although she had started thinking about Thea again recently, ever since she began investigating Dom’s death. It was astonishing how quickly the painful emotions came flooding back, opening a door to the past that Iris had hoped was shut for ever.

  But this was worse than dredging up old memories. This was tangible. This was Thea’s husband, standing right here in the flesh, touching Iris, talking to her. Worse, he seemed like a nice, decent sort of man.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my coming tonight,’ Lars went on, oblivious of Iris’s inner turmoil. ‘I happened to be in London for a seminar and I read about your exhibition in the paper. I have a good friend on the board at the National who was kind enough to arrange an invitation. Your work is—’

  ‘What do you want, Mr Berens?’ Iris interrupted coldly. She knew she was being rude, but she couldn’t help it. She was angry. How dare her sister impinge on her special night like this? Iris didn’t want to think about Thea, tonight or any night. She wanted to be happy. She deserved this moment, and now Thea and her softly spoken husband had ruined it! ‘Why are you here?’

  If Lars was affronted, he tried not to show it.

  ‘I wanted to meet you,’ he said, reasonably. ‘Thea doesn’t know I’m here.’

  Iris snorted. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘She doesn’t,’ Lars insisted. ‘But I know she wants to end the estrangement between you, Iris. It’s been so many years.’

  ‘No!’ Iris could hear the fear in her own voice. She barked the word out in staccato, like a gunshot. ‘I’m not interested in that.’

  ‘Your sister has changed,’ Lars continued patiently. ‘She was very ill when she was younger, but that’s all behind her now. With the right drug combination and therapy, she came back to life, Iris. She’s a good person.’

  No, she isn’t. She isn’t!

  Please go away!

  Iris closed her eyes, willing this well-meaning man to be gone.

  ‘She’s a good wife.’

  No.

  ‘A good mother.’

  Each word was like a punch in Iris’s stomach.

  She opened her eyes and stared at her sister’s husband. Everything stopped dead: the spinning room, the hubbub of the party. It was as if time itself had frozen to let Lars’s last words hang in the air.

  ‘Thea has children?’ Iris croaked out the words in disbelief.

  ‘Yes!’ Lars smiled, mistaking Iris’s horror for surprise. ‘We have three, actually. Henrietta, Michael and Anton.’ He pulled a laminated picture out of his wallet and handed it to Iris, who took it dumbly. She found herself looking into the faces of three blond, smiling children. The oldest, the girl, looked like a gap-toothed version of Thea. For an awful moment Iris thought she was going to be physically sick.

  ‘I’m in the UK for a couple more days,’ Lars continued blithely, retrieving the photograph from a dumbstruck Iris and replacing it with a business card. ‘These are my numbers. I’m staying at the Dorchester. I know you’re probably very busy, but if you had time for a coffee, I’d love to meet up. Fill you in on our lives, on the years you’ve missed.’

  Iris opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. She felt paralysed with rage. The years I’ve missed? I haven’t ‘missed’ anything! I’ve been living my life, away from that bitch, that liar. How dare this man walk into her life, her exhibition, and have the audacity to tell her, Iris, that her sister was a ‘good person’? She was nothing of the sort. No drug, no therapy in the world could take a black, spiteful heart and make it white. Nothing could erase what Thea had done. Not now, not ever.

  Just then Greta Brun, Iris’s agent, wafted over in a cloud of Chanel Cristalle and confidence. Iris couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so pleased to see someone.

  ‘Can I steal her for a moment?’ she asked Lars, adding to Iris, ‘There’s an important Russian collector here I need to introduce you to.’

  ‘Of course.’ Lars smiled. ‘I was just leaving. Take care, Iris.’ And with that, mercifully, he was gone.

  ‘He’s attractive,’ said Greta, guiding Iris back into the reception and through the crowds towards her Russian. ‘Not cheating on the lovely Graham already, are you?’

  Still in shock, Iris was only half listening. ‘What? No!’

  ‘I was joking,’ said Greta. ‘Are you all right, Iris?’

  ‘She�
�s back.’ Iris had stopped suddenly. ‘Ariadne said she left, but she’s back.’

  ‘Who’s back?’ Greta followed Iris’s gaze to the double doors. Rachel Truebridge was standing just inside, talking animatedly with Chris Wheeler, Dom Wetherby’s agent. Iris remembered that the two of them had clashed at the Christmas Eve party, the night before Dom’s death, when Rachel had shown up drunk and made a scene. She’d been angry then and on the offensive. Tonight, clearly, the tables had turned. Wheeler was leaning over her, his finger wagging chastisingly, dominating and aggressive, while Rachel literally shrank back, cowering like a frightened dog.

  ‘Really, my love,’ said Greta, struggling to hide her impatience with Iris’s random asides, ‘I need you to meet Vasile Gretski. He spent over twenty million sterling on his collection last year alone and … Ah, speak of the devil! Vasile, you must meet Iris Grey.’

  The man leaning down to kiss Iris on both cheeks looked more like a professional wrestler than an art collector. Tall, bald and built like a Sherman tank, Vasile Gretski radiated an unsettling combination of power and menace. Despite this, he was flanked by two goons in dark suits, both wearing earpieces, who were clearly some sort of security detail. He must have some serious enemies. Or major paranoia, Iris thought. A fistful of gold rings sparkled on his hands, adding to his overall ‘gangsta’ image, and he wore an expensive couture suit that looked ridiculous on his massive muscle-bound frame.

  ‘It’s a good portrait,’ Vasile told Iris, nodding at his bodyguards to step back. ‘You have captured him very well.’

  He spoke slowly, which was just as well, as his Russian accent was so thick it was an effort to understand him.

  ‘You knew Dom?’ Iris asked, disconcerted to see that Greta had already scuttled away and abandoned her to her fate.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ the big man growled.

  ‘Unfortunately?’ Iris looked at the Russian with renewed curiosity.

  ‘He was a liar. Deceitful,’ Vasile intoned, nodding towards Iris’s portrait. ‘He cheated many people out of money.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Of course. On the card tables and elsewhere. But I think you knew that, no? You show it in his eyes.’