The Mill on the Shore (13 page)

‘You don’t think it matters how Jimmy died?’ George asked mildly.

‘Not much. Accident, suicide, what does it matter? It’ll not bring him back.’

‘But murder? What if it were murder?’

There was a brief silence. ‘So that’s what Meg’s saying, is it?’ His voice was compassionate but disapproving. ‘You can understand her cracking up under the strain. I always thought she’d taken on too much. She’s run the Mill almost single-handed, you know, since it opened and she teaches all those kids at home. She’s a wonderful woman.’

‘You don’t think there can be any truth in her allegations?’

Phil gave a sharp laugh. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Who would want to kill old Jimmy? Everybody liked him.’

‘Meg’s hired us,’ George said. ‘Professionally. To find out if James was murdered.’

There was an awkward silence while Phil Cairns poured tea.

‘I would have thought better of you than that, George,’ he said at last. ‘ You and Molly can’t be so hard up that you need to take advantage of a bereaved woman.’

George was shocked. Was that really what he was doing? Not for the money of course. That had no relevance. But out of curiosity and a fear of boredom? There must be more to it than that.

‘I wouldn’t have come to the Mill,’ he said, stung into a reply, trying to convince himself, ‘if I could have believed that Jimmy committed suicide. You knew him, Phil. You can’t think he took that way out.’

‘What are you saying?’ Phil demanded. ‘That he was really murdered? You spent too long working next to the police, George. You can’t believe anyone at the Mill capable of violence.’

‘It’s almost easier,’ George retorted, ‘than thinking Jimmy capable of suicide.’

They stared at each other across the desk. George had not expected this reaction from Phil. He had thought of him as an ally, someone who would look at the facts with an open mind. This hostility surprised him.

‘Did you know that Jimmy was writing an autobiography?’ George asked.

‘Of course,’ Phil said carefully. ‘He’d been full of nothing else for months.’

And yet, George thought, Cathy claimed to know nothing about it.

‘It seems that it’s disappeared.’

‘What do you mean, disappeared?’ Phil’s voice was impassive.

‘We think it’s probably been stolen.’

‘Look,’ Phil said, ‘are you sure Meg hasn’t hidden it away? She was never keen on it being published. She wanted Jimmy remembered as an established figure in the conservation world and he was hardly that. There were bound to be a few skeletons hidden somewhere.’ He grinned boyishly as if he were trying to re-establish good terms with George. ‘ More than a few. Some of the tales he had to tell about his life!’

‘I suppose it’s possible Meg took it,’ George said, ‘but I don’t know why she should. She’d inherit it naturally with the rest of Jimmy’s estate. She could do what she liked with it then. Was there anything specific she might have objected to?’

‘Any number of things I should imagine,’ Phil said. ‘Jimmy was no saint, was he? There were certainly other women. Meg used to give the impression to the press that they were a perfect family. It wouldn’t do her credibility much good if he gave a list of his lovers since they were married.’

‘No,’ George said. ‘Was there anyone recently? Since he moved to the Mill?’

Phil shrugged. ‘When did the autobiography disappear, anyway?’ he asked.

‘Presumably on the night of his death. He was working on it earlier that day.’

‘He’d nearly finished it,’ Phil said. ‘He was hoping to get it done by the end of the weekend.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because he told me. He came to see me on that Saturday and he told me then.’ He paused and added reluctantly: ‘He’d made an appointment to give it to his agent. He was going down to London on the following Wednesday. “He can arrange to have the bloody thing typed,” he said. “ Let him earn his ten per cent for once. I want it out of the Mill. I’ve seen enough of it.”’

‘Surely he wouldn’t have made an appointment like that if he intended to kill himself!’

‘You wouldn’t know with Jimmy, would you? Logic never played much of a part in his make-up.’

‘Do the police know that Jimmy came to visit you that day?’

‘Yes. They sent a fat slob called Porter to talk to me. I knew him when he was a kid and I never liked him then.’

‘But you answered his questions?’

‘Of course I answered his questions. He asked about Jimmy’s state of mind and if I’d noticed anything unusual. I said no. Then he went away.’

‘You didn’t tell him that Jimmy had an appointment to see his agent about his book?’

‘No,’ Phil said. ‘Porter never asked.’

‘Can you tell me what happened when Jimmy came to see you that day? Perhaps you’ll convince me that he killed himself, then I can go away and leave Meg alone.’

‘I don’t blame you really, George,’ Phil said uncomfortably. ‘I suppose you’re only doing your job.’

‘But you will tell me?’

Phil nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Cathy was out. She’d gone into Mardon to do some shopping. She knew I’d not want to go. Especially in the winter I like to spend all the daylight on the shore. It was one of my wildfowl and wader count days.’

‘Were you out when Jimmy came to the cottage?’

‘I’d just come back for a spot of lunch. He’d probably waited until he saw me walk in from the saltmarsh. You can see the whole shore from the common room in the Mill. I made him a sandwich and we drank a couple of bottles of beer.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Nothing probably. An excuse to get away from the Mill. He couldn’t stand the visitors, you know. He could be quite rude.’ There was a brief silence. ‘ He talked about Timothy first. He was really proud of the lad. Said he was a chip off the old block. If he didn’t turn into a scientist he’d eat his hat. “He’s got quite a sophisticated lab set up in the schoolroom. I help him of course, but he knows what he’s doing.” Then he told me the autobiography was nearly finished. I asked him what he’d find to do with his time then. I was a bit worried. He’d been so wrapped up in it that I was anxious he might find it a bit of an anticlimax when he didn’t have it to work on any more. Do you know what I mean?’

George nodded. ‘You thought the depression might return if he didn’t have the project to take his mind off things.’

‘Something like that.’

‘And was he depressed?’ It was an explanation perhaps for the suicide.

‘He said not. He just winked. “Don’t worry about me, Phil old boy,” he said. “If things work out as I hope I’ll have plenty to keep me busy.”’

‘And you thought that had something to do with the book?’

‘I didn’t think anything,’ Phil said with a trace of irritation. ‘If you must know I just wished he’d go, so I could get back to my count.’

‘But he seemed excited?’

Phil shrugged non-committally.

‘Weren’t you surprised then when you heard he’d committed suicide late that night?’

‘I suppose so, but Jimmy was never predictable, you know. I could imagine him finishing his book, drinking most of a bottle of whisky, then thinking his life’s work was completed and there was nothing left to live for.’

‘Yes,’ George said. ‘ Perhaps that would be possible … Did he come back out on to the shore with you in the afternoon?’

‘No, he said he had an appointment at the Mill. He winked again. “Wish me luck, old boy,” he said. “ I’m hoping for a bit of comfort in my old age.”’

‘Did you know what he meant?’

‘Didn’t have a clue,’ Phil said frankly. ‘But I didn’t understand most of what he said. It was all jokes and riddles.’

‘He had an appointment with the community psychiatric nurse that afternoon. Does that make sense to you?’

‘I suppose it was just a joke then. She’s a pretty little thing. She was at the memorial service and I thought so then.’

There was a silence. Somewhere in the factory a hooter sounded.

‘Jimmy made some jokes about the book too,’ George said. ‘He talked about exposing secrets, causing embarrassment. He might not have meant it just in a personal sense. He’d have access to all sorts of information through his work at
Green Scenes.
He didn’t mention anything like that to you?’

‘No,’ Phil said. ‘Why should he? It would have nothing to do with me.’ He must have realized that he had sounded abrupt because he added: ‘Besides, if he’d come across anything like that, wouldn’t he have made it public at the time?’

‘Yes, I suppose he would.’ George spoke almost to himself. ‘Perhaps I should ask Aidan Moore.’

‘Aidan?’ Phil said sharply. ‘What would he know about it?’

‘Oh,’ George said, ‘he worked for Jimmy on the magazine before he made enough to support himself as an illustrator.’

‘Did he? I didn’t realize …’

‘You didn’t see Jimmy again that night,’ George asked, ‘the night he died?’

‘Of course not,’ Phil said.

‘Did you or Cathy go out that evening?’

‘I think Cathy went to see a friend in the village for half an hour.’ He stopped suddenly, seeming to realize the implication of George’s questions. ‘ What are you saying, George? That one of us went to the Mill and forced a handful of tranquillizers down his throat?’

‘No,’ George said uncomfortably. ‘ Of course not.’

Phil Cairns sat for a moment, apparently lost in thought.

‘You really think that Jimmy was murdered,’ he said suddenly. ‘Don’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ George said. ‘Not yet.’

But Phil shook his head as if he did not believe him.

Molly was the only customer left in the café. She was sitting in a corner hunched over a mug of tea as if she belonged there and had been at the same table all day. The proprietor was making a big show of cleaning up, but when George asked for tea she could not quite find the courage to refuse him. She handed it over the counter ungraciously and retreated to a stool by the microwave to read the
Sun.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘What was your nurse like?’

‘Very exotic,’ Molly said. ‘And rather clever.’

‘Are we any further forward?’

‘Jimmy Morrissey thought he was in love with her,’ Molly said. ‘On the afternoon of his death he told her he wanted to leave the Mill and move in with her.’ She looked up. ‘You don’t seem very surprised.’

George shrugged. It was hard to explain that Jimmy Morrissey had usually been in love. There had been nothing particularly tawdry about his affairs and quite often the object of his infatuation was hardly aware of his passion. He was a romantic and women were delightful creatures to be worshipped. He had experienced the strange sheltered upbringing of an English gentleman and even after two marriages he had still lived in hope that one day the magic would last.

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘If anything it’s another indication that he was returning to normal.’

‘So you don’t think he would have killed himself because Grace turned him down?’

‘Of course not. There was nothing he liked better than admiring his beloved from afar. And a challenge.’

‘She’s afraid she might have driven him to suicide,’ Molly said. ‘She didn’t say anything at the inquest because of Meg.’

‘No,’ he said, quite certain. ‘That’s impossible.’ He drained the strong, brown tea and leaned back in his chair. The café proprietor got up expectantly, hovered, waited for them to leave, then returned disappointed to her paper. ‘Did you get anything else?’

‘Grace thought there was something in his past which was troubling him, something that she could have told me more about if she’d wanted to. He defined himself by his work, she said. She thought work mattered more to him even than the death of his daughter. I wondered if he intended to put the record straight in his autobiography.’

George remembered his last meeting with Jimmy. Perhaps the difference and the lack of confidence had more to do with some error of judgement, some opportunity missed in the conservation field, than Hannah’s death. It made sense.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘ It’s certainly a possibility.’

‘And if we find out if anyone else was involved in his mistake we have a motive for murder?’

George nodded slowly.

‘But there’s no one at the Mill who could have had anything to do with his environmental work. That was based in London.’

‘There’s Aidan Moore,’ George said. ‘He worked on
Green Scenes
for a while.’ He got to his feet, clattering his chair on the tiled floor, bringing the woman rushing out to shut and lock the door behind them. ‘I wondered, you know, what kept him at the Mill after all his students had left.’

‘You’ll talk to him about it?’ Molly asked.

He nodded again. He was already starting to lose enthusiasm for this case. It was too messy and perhaps, as Phil Cairns had said, Jimmy Morrissey would be better left in peace, remembered by his family and friends as a hero.

In the High Street a Mardon Wools lorry was negotiating its way past a double-parked car and blocking the traffic. By the time they returned to the Mill it was almost dinner-time.

Dinner that night was a quiet and gloomy affair. Apparently there had been a family row in the afternoon because Timothy had run away to the shore without permission and the cloud of Meg’s disapproval hung over the place. Even Rosie and Jane communicated in whispers and arch silent gestures.

Ruth, who had been filling in university application forms, looked forward for the first time with enthusiasm to leaving the Mill. She had always shared her mother’s love of the place and had believed it would be a dreadful wrench to leave, but now the anonymity of a crowded student residence seemed appealing. Since James’ death she had felt obliged to take on some of the responsibility of keeping the family happy – in her grief Meg could not be expected to do it alone. Now the strain was beginning to tell and she looked forward to living in a place that made no demands on her – somewhere red brick and vulgar which she could leave at the end of the degree without sorrow.

She looked across the table secretly at George and Molly. She was trying to pick up some clue about how the investigation was moving, fascinated despite herself, but she only discovered that they had spent the afternoon in Mardon. What would they find out about James there? He hardly ever went near the place, said it was a miserable dump, that it reminded him of one of those grey towns in the Eastern bloc he had visited when he was still some use to the world.