Murder at the Mill

by M. B. Shaw

  15 March 1980

  Dear Dom,

  I received your reply to my letter of 1 March. To be clear: I also have no desire to end up in court. We’ve been friends for a long time. As long as you agree to make me whole, and to pay me my equal share in the monies you have received for our book, I have no wish to shame you, or expose your deceitful behaviour towards both me and your publisher to the wider world. Unlike you, I’ve never been interested in fame. I am perfectly content to live a quiet life. What I am not prepared to do is to sit here and do nothing while you and Ariadne blatantly rip me off.

  What I said in my letter was that I have more than enough material to take this to court, should you fail to meet your obligations. This is the simple truth, and indeed I have provided you with copies of much of this material to prove it, although by no means all. I have chapter plans, notes, whole sections of the book, very clearly in my hand. I also have six letters from you, in two of which you promise explicitly not to move forward with the novel – our novel – during the summer of ’78 when I took my internship.

  Dom, I feel I have been both forgiving and patient, in a situation where you have readily admitted to me in private that you were in the wrong. But enough is enough. This will be the last letter I write to you before instructing my lawyers. I will give you two weeks to reply, and to send me a cheque for fifty per cent of your combined advance and royalties.

  Yours,

  Marcus

  P.S. The fact that you and A decided to buy a bloody great Hampshire pile using money that you knew was half mine is, I’m afraid, your problem. Please, Dom, no more excuses.

  At this point Iris already knew every word by heart. Every phrase, every nuance. The letter had been written only a week before Marcus Feeney’s death, yet there was nothing remotely suicidal about his tone. Quite the opposite, in fact. And Dom clearly knew it, judging by his diary entry of a few days later, also photocopied by Jenna.

  The Mill, Tuesday, 6 p.m.

  Terrible day, sick with worry. M clearly serious about a lawsuit and determined to ruin me. Nothing I say gets through. Ariadne’s agreed to go up to Oxford tomorrow and try to talk some sense into him. Praying she succeeds, as every time I open my mouth, the red mist descends and M explodes on me.

  He claims to have enough material to make a case, and perhaps he does, legally. I don’t know. All I do know is that I wrote the damn book, while he thought about writing it, and some grasping lawyer somewhere seems to have convinced him that makes us co-authors! Christ, it’s sad. Years of friendship down the drain. I’d pay him off if I could, rotten and unfair as it is, but the money’s gone. Between this house and the poker, I’m tapped out.

  Must give up the cards. Promised A. She’s forgiven me a lot this year, but I need her now more than ever.

  And a day later, 21 March, the day of Marcus Feeney’s suicide:

  3 p.m.

  Call from A. Saw M for lunch and he listened, apparently. She’s going over to his rooms for drinks later. Hopeful.

  The last entry Jenna had copied was for two days later, 23 March. Dom hadn’t written anything on the 22nd, the day he would have learned of Marcus’s death. No doubt he was too upset.

  M has killed himself, jumped from the window of his flat. Two days ago.

  No words. Want to feel more, but I can’t seem to. Just … numb. A saw him about an hour before it happened. She said he seemed fine. Happy, even. He was still angry with me, but she’d convinced him to drop the lawsuit. That it was better to talk calmly as old friends and come to some sort of arrangement in private. She said he seemed relieved.

  And then this!

  Terrible day. Poor A can’t stop crying. I think she blames herself.

  Everyone’s in shock.

  Dom’s horror and bafflement rang true to Iris. She could hear his voice echoing off the page, authentic and tortured. And yet something was wrong with the picture of Marcus Feeney’s suicide. A number of things were wrong, in fact, going by these letters and diary entries.

  Firstly, and most obviously, there was the disconnect between Marcus’s apparently confident mood and his decision to take his own life. But that wasn’t the only jarring note.

  If Marcus really had had chapters, written proof of some kind that gave him a claim to the Grimshaw series, and if he’d already spoken to a lawyer about that, as he claimed, surely he would have filed those documents away with a lawyer. And surely the beneficiaries of his estate – specifically Graham – would have known about them and filed a claim against Dom Wetherby and the publishers. Graham had mentioned ‘rumours’ to Iris. Dom’s mistress, Rachel, had said the same. But if Marcus Feeney had been on the brink of going to court, there should have been a lot more than rumours.

  Who was Marcus Feeney’s lawyer? And where did those ‘chapters’ go?

  Of course, it’s possible that there was no proof, Iris thought, as the train rattled on its way. No lawyer, no chapters. If Marcus Feeney was bluffing, and Ariadne called his bluff, could that have pushed him to suicide? In the frustration and heartbreak of the moment?

  Maybe.

  Tucking the letters into her handbag, Iris leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. Her last trip to Oxford had helped her to solve the mystery of Dom’s murder. It was Professor Nevers, talking about the art of portraiture and the importance of the background, that had helped Iris see what had been right in front of her all along.

  The professor’s voice drifted back to her: ‘What are the objects behind them? The shadows? The clues?’

  What was the background to Marcus Feeney’s death? What details, what shadows had Iris missed? Had everybody missed?

  The train arrived in the city at just after three, and by four Iris had checked into the Randolph. Her room was overpriced for what it was – Oxford’s most famous hotel had become a study in faded grandeur, with a heavy emphasis on the faded – but it was at least clean and bright, with a comfortable bed and a mercifully powerful shower. After washing and changing into a light cotton sundress and espadrilles, Iris headed straight to the coroner’s office on Tidmarsh Lane.

  A low grey concrete building with all the warmth and charm of a nuclear winter, the Oxford Coroner’s Office was a fitting structure in which to house the business of death. By contrast, the sixty-something woman at the front desk was as bubbly and bright as her surroundings were dour, defiantly injecting a much-needed note of colour in her yellow flowery dress and rainbow-hued bangles as she beamed helpfully up at Iris.

  ‘Our records are open to the public, of course, and we’re organised chronologically. Computers are free, but you need the Wi-Fi password.’ She handed Iris a printed sheet of paper, with this and other details on it, including a detailed map of the building. ‘Your case was in the 1980s, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Iris.

  ‘So that’ll be housed here – we go back to 1960 in this building – and we should have a corresponding paper file. Just type the deceased’s name and the date into the search engine and you should be directed. You can’t make copies here, although we can order one for you, if you need it. There’s a charge for that, I’m afraid. Anyway, do come back and see me if you have any problems, my love.’

  Iris didn’t. ‘Marcus Feeney, March 1980’ swiftly produced a six-digit code, corresponding to a room, aisle and shelf number. Five minutes later Iris was sitting at a desk, carefully reading every word of the coroner’s report into Marcus’s death, and how the verdict of suicide was reached.

  ‘Rolf Carnaby.’ Iris returned to the desk on her way out. ‘He was the coroner at the time of the case I’m interested in. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where I could find him?’

  ‘Sorry.’ The receptionist gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Mr Carnaby was well thought of here, I know that, but he was before my time. You could try the public records office. If he’s still in Oxford and a registered voter, he’ll be in there. Or if he’s died. They close at six, and they’ll be open again at ten tomorrow m
orning,’ she added helpfully.

  Iris arrived at five thirty and, after a little negotiation, persuaded the clerk to let her in. Again, the office was almost empty and its computer systems, though archaic, were surprisingly efficient. Within twenty minutes Iris had discovered that Rolf Carnaby was indeed still alive, still registered to vote and still living in Oxford, at an old people’s home off the Witney Road.

  Ironically, the home was called ‘Mill House’.

  Tomorrow, thought Iris. Tomorrow morning she would pay the old man a visit, see if he remembered Marcus Feeney’s case. At almost ninety, there was of course a chance that he didn’t remember anything at all. But a first-hand account was worth more than a thousand pieces of paper.

  On her way back to the Randolph, Iris took a cab to Marcus’s old block of flats on Cowley Road. It was starting to get dark now, although the warmth of the day persisted as she stood on the pavement and stared up at the seventh-floor windows. All the flats were the same, with full-length windows opening out onto tiny balconies, which were really little more than ledges, big enough for a small planter or windowbox and perhaps a single chair. Tenants, most of them students, streamed in and out of the building as Iris watched, some talking on mobiles, others laughing or calling out to friends, all of them caught up in the hubbub of daily life. The same noisy, youthful life that had ended for Marcus Feeney here, violently and, for his family at least, quite unexpectedly.

  She wasn’t sure what she was looking for exactly.

  Background. Shadows. Clues.

  Nothing came to her.

  She returned to her hotel, ate a light supper of soup and salad, and fell into an overheated and fitful sleep.

  * * *

  From the outside, ‘Mill House’ was an ugly 1980s brick building, a vast sprawling bungalow that spread out in long tentacles from a central hub, like a rather rigid octopus. Once inside, however, visitors were immediately struck by the bright and cheerful atmosphere. For one thing, the whole place was flooded with light. Each ‘tentacle’ contained ten rooms or suites, all of which opened out directly onto the gardens. In the central hub, the body of the octopus, was a foyer complete with flowers, gaudy artwork, comfortable armchairs and a rocking horse, toy corner and (perhaps unwisely) upright piano, for the entertainment of visiting grandchildren. Also there was a large refectory-style dining room, with tables draped in red-and-blue gingham cloths, a residents’ lounge, containing a large television, a games area and a help-yourself snack bar, and a small whitewashed non-denominational chapel, like the ones you get in airports only more welcoming.

  If I ever wind up in an old people’s home, I hope it’s like this one, thought Iris, remembering the soul-crushing home her grandmother had been dispatched to in east London, with its grey walls, miserable staff and hallways smelling of cabbage and disinfectant. Clearly Rolf Carnaby was one of the lucky ones.

  As it turned out, his luck extended beyond his family’s choice of care home. The smiling nurse who showed Iris into Mr Carnaby’s room introduced her to a man who, though physically frail, was clearly in full possession of his mental faculties, and seemed delighted by this unexpected chance to reminisce about his old professional life with an attractive young visitor.

  ‘I’d like to tell you I remember all my cases, Miss Grey,’ the old man said, offering Iris a Bourbon biscuit from the plate by his chair. ‘But I was a coroner for twenty-two years. Eight in Harrogate and fourteen here in Oxford. That’s rather a lot of corpses, I’m afraid.’

  ‘This was a suicide,’ said Iris, declining the biscuit but taking a sip from the cup of tea the nurse had poured for her. ‘It was 1980. A young man named Marcus Feeney fell from the balcony of his flat.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Carnaby frowned. ‘Terrible case that. Of course I remember it. He jumped at about nine at night onto a busy road. All sorts of people coming home from dinner or whatnot. Scores of wretches saw the body, or what was left of it. Can you imagine? That’s a picture you’re not going to get out of your head in a hurry. The local papers covered it at the time.’

  ‘I read your report,’ Iris said. ‘You didn’t express any doubts about the suicide verdict.’

  ‘I didn’t have any,’ the old man said simply. ‘The boy jumped. There was nothing to indicate otherwise.’

  ‘But he’d been happy in the days leading up to his death,’ said Iris. ‘Multiple sources attest to that. And according to the police report, he’d been heard laughing and joking with a woman literally moments before he fell.’

  The coroner sighed. ‘That’s very common, I’m afraid. When you’ve dealt with as many suicides as I have, you come to know the patterns. People are often incredibly upbeat, on a real high, in fact, right before they do the deed. According to the psychologists, it’s to do with the fact that they’ve made the decision. They know they’re going to do it, they know the pain’s going to end, and a sort of euphoria sets in. Strange but true, I assure you.’

  He took a contemplative bite of his own biscuit before continuing.

  ‘I do remember the business about the woman. The police would be able to tell you more, but I think the chap’s flatmate or neighbour or something believed there was somebody actually in the flat when it happened. Or right before it happened – I don’t remember which. In any case, no one ever came forward, and there was nothing at the scene, no signs of struggle or anything, to indicate foul play.’

  ‘Did the police have any insight as to motive? Why he did it? Might he have been having legal troubles?’ Iris fished. ‘I’m hoping to track down a lawyer I think Marcus spoke to in the weeks before he died.’

  Rolf Carnaby smiled. ‘You don’t need a motive for suicide, Miss Grey. Only for murder. Suicides, by and large, are depressed. Now, Feeney certainly had antidepressants in his bloodstream. Which suggests that whatever happiness he was expressing prior to his death was probably a relatively new emotion for him. Probably brought on, as I say, by the decision he had made to end his life.’

  Iris finished her tea. She liked Rolf Carnaby and she trusted him, but his confidence unnerved her. The ex-coroner seemed to view things in black and white, things that to Iris felt deeply grey.

  ‘So you’re sure, then? You’re certain that Marcus Feeney killed himself?’ she asked him.

  The question made the old man chuckle.

  ‘It was never my job to be sure about what happened, Miss Grey. I’m not God, after all. I wasn’t there. All I needed to be sure about was my verdict. Because a coroner’s verdict is based not on omnipotence but on evidence. In this case, the evidence overwhelmingly suggested suicide. Of that I am certain.’

  Iris left the old people’s home feeling strangely depressed. Carnaby had been sharp and informative and helpful and clear, but everything he’d told her reinforced a picture that felt wrong to her.

  Somewhere, in the cracks between Dom’s diary entries and the letter from Marcus and Rolf Carnaby’s ‘overwhelming evidence’ of suicide, the truth had fallen.

  With a sinking heart, Iris realised where she had to go to look for it.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  St Aldate’s Police Station was the exact architectural opposite of the city’s coroner’s office. A handsome Georgian building built in mellow Cotswold stone, it blended into the historic old city like cream into coffee: olde worlde, inviting and positively bursting with chocolate-box charm.

  Inside, however, Iris was greeted by the kind of surly, unhelpful jobsworth of a desk sergeant she’d come to know and loathe in Hampshire.

  ‘We don’t keep records here, ma’am.’

  ‘We can’t comment on individual cases, ma’am.’

  ‘Unless you’re here to report a crime, ma’am, I must ask you to move aside.’

  Two hours later, after a strong cup of coffee and a Caffè Nero chocolate panettone to keep her spirits up, followed by a brief research session online at her hotel, Iris found what she needed herself: both the name of the officer in charge of the Marcus Feeney investig
ation (Philip Steckenberger, an unusual one, thank God) and his address, or at least the last one he’d registered on the electoral roll.

  The door at 29 Damson Street was answered by a white-haired woman in curlers and slippers who seemed neither surprised by Iris’s presence on her doorstep nor curious about it.

  ‘If you want my Phil, he’ll be where he always is on a Thursday. The golf club. At the bar, mind you. Don’t go wasting your time looking for him on the green. I don’t think he’s swung a club up there in twenty years, the lazy sod.’

  Despite this gloomy pronouncement, Mrs Steckenberger was happy enough to provide Iris with directions and also offered to take her name and number and any message she might want to leave ‘just in case’.

  The former DS Steckenberger was indeed at the golf club’s bar, enjoying a gin and lemon with a small gaggle of like-minded pals, just as his wife predicted. And like his wife, he seemed to be cut from a far more cheerful and less misanthropic cloth than his modern-day counterpart down at St Aldate’s.

  ‘Now, you tell me why I wouldn’t want to help a beautiful young lady who’s come asking me questions? What are you drinking, my darling?’

  Philip Steckenberger had been a relatively young man himself, just a few years older than Marcus Feeney, when he was charged with the grisly task of determining exactly what had gone on that awful night.

  ‘Some kind of genius, he was, I remember. Doing his PhD at Oxford. And then – boom – it’s all over, his skull smashed like an egg, all those brilliant brains spilling out onto the road like—’ He stopped, registering Iris’s horrified expression. ‘Sorry, love. Maybe I shouldn’t be so graphic. Did you know him?’

  ‘No,’ said Iris. ‘I knew his brother.’

  She explained, briefly, her connection to Graham Feeney, and how he’d confessed to murdering Dom Wetherby as an act of revenge, blaming him for Marcus’s suicide.

  ‘Feeney!’ Phil gasped. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed. I never put two and two together. That it was his brother. My jumper’s brother? Jesus Christ. Small bloody world, ain’t it? What a dreadful story.’