The Mill on the Shore (27 page)

Why not? George thought. Why didn’t you ask?

Porter was continuing breezily: ‘ That bitch did herself no good by keeping quiet for so long but they’re like that, aren’t they, brainy women? They tend to get hysterical. We’ve bailed her anyway and we’ll see what happens. But murder it certainly wasn’t.’

He laughed unpleasantly, concerned only that he had been proved right.

He paused, hoping perhaps for congratulations or an admission of defeat.

‘So you’ll be able to go home now with a clear conscience, won’t you?’ he said when none came. ‘I told you it was suicide and accidental death. No conspiracy and no murder. So you can go home and forget all about it.’

George replaced the receiver without speaking but he thought it unlikely that they could leave immediately. Aidan Moore’s death had been a distraction. It had little to do with the real issue. On the drive back from Salter’s Cottage, Molly suddenly remembered where she had seen the person who fitted Cedric’s description of the man who had met Jimmy Morrissey the weekend of the accident. They had discussed the possibilities the identification suggested and had come to the conclusion that the answer to Jimmy’s death lay even closer to home. It was all about families, Molly said, and it could be found at the Mill.

After breakfast the next day Meg called George into her flat. She told him that the investigation was over. She had decided that no more good would come of it.

‘But you asked us to come for a reason,’ George said, ‘and we haven’t fulfilled our commitment.’

‘You’re upsetting everyone,’ she said. She was at her most regal, dressed in a navy twin set and a navy pleated skirt. She was even wearing pearls. ‘I can see it’s not your fault but I hadn’t thought there would be so much disruption. Then there’s that business with Aidan. Poor Ruth is heartbroken. And now you tell me that dear Cathy had to go through the trauma of a police investigation.’

‘Don’t you want to know how Jimmy died?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Not any more.’

She was standing by the window looking out and she would not meet his eye. She seemed to come to a decision and turned back towards him.

‘Can I be frank, George?’ She sat down. He saw that it was confession time and it would not come easy to her. ‘Perhaps I was a little impulsive when I decided to call you in. Over-emotional. Of course I wanted to find out how James died. I’m still not convinced that he would have committed suicide. It was not like him. But if I’m honest that wasn’t my main motivation.’ She hesitated. Somewhere in the building Caitlin was playing the flute and the sound, piercing and shrill, seemed to be mocking her. ‘ I was frightened,’ she said at last. ‘ It was the missing autobiography – I was afraid it had got into … unsympathetic hands. Now I know that it’s been destroyed that concern is no longer relevant.’

‘What do you mean by unsympathetic hands?’

‘People who would have published pieces out of context. The press, I suppose.’

‘You were afraid that the Cairns’ role in covering up the pollution incident in the Marr would be made public?’ He would not have thought her so altruistic.

‘What?’ She seemed surprised. ‘Oh no. It wasn’t that. I knew about the incident at the time and I thought it was a mistake for James to be so high-handed. I tried to persuade him to drop it – we were friends after all – but to be truthful I thought it was a fuss about nothing.’

‘Why were you so worried then that the autobiography would be published?’

‘I was never allowed to read it,’ she said resentfully. There was a silence filled again by the laughing notes of Caitlin’s flute. Meg seemed suddenly irritated by the noise. She got up and shut the living-room door. The music faded. ‘ I suspected that James might have made some rather scathing remarks about the family,’ she said. ‘ Our family. It never had the same priority for him as it did for me. He might have been tempted to ridicule our ideals. Without realizing of course quite what he was doing.’

‘And that would never have done,’ George said, with gentle sarcasm. ‘ Would it? To make fun of England’s favourite mother.’

‘It would have been embarrassing,’ she said. ‘ James could never see it. He never took my work seriously.’

‘And when it was stolen you thought someone had sold it to the press?’

‘It occurred to me,’ she said. ‘ Some of the less principled rags would have paid something for it, I suppose. I panicked on the evening of the memorial service. There were all those people, involved in the media. It seemed unbearable that they should be given the ammunition to mock me. I decided then that something would have to be done.’

‘And who did you think had stolen it?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘ One of the students perhaps. Rosie? Jane? I thought you would find out.’

‘And now you know Cathy Cairns burned it on her bonfire you’ve decided you don’t need us any more.’

‘I don’t think I do,’ she said graciously, her natural self-confidence returning. ‘ I’m very grateful for all your efforts of course. And Molly’s too. But I think now it’s time to stop grieving and to look forward. I have to consider the children in all this. I don’t think it’s healthy for them to live with this uncertainty.’

‘I think Jimmy was murdered,’ George said. ‘You were right about that.’

‘All the same,’ she said, dismissing him, ‘I think we’ll accept the inquest verdict after all. I think that would be best. Stay on until the end of the week, George, as our guests. I wouldn’t want to be inhospitable. But enjoy yourselves. Pretend that you’re on holiday. No more detective work!’ And she smiled at him chidingly as if he were one of her younger children. ‘You will promise, George? I insist.’

‘Of course,’ George said, ‘if that is what you want.’

It was easy for him to make the promise. They had decided already that Molly would play the role of detective that day.

Molly walked to the Dead Dog straight after breakfast and arrived there before opening time. There were still dirty glasses from the night before on the bar and ashes in the grate. There was a smell of stale beer. A woman, presumably Cedric’s mother, was making an energetic attempt to clear up. She tuttutted at the mess and began to polish the tables with a vigorous circular movement of her cloth. She was very small and neat and despite the domestic work she was rather smart. Her hair was permed and her face was made up. She wore a flowery overall on top of a matching brown skirt and jersey. It was still very cold outside but she had opened the door to let in the fresh air.

Molly stood in the doorway watching her, waiting to catch her attention.

‘Excuse me,’ she said at last. ‘I wonder if it might be possible to speak to Cedric.’

The woman stopped her work and looked up. Cedric might be approaching middle age but her first instinct was still to protect him.

‘Why?’ she said suspiciously. ‘What’s he done?’ She was clearsighted enough to know that her son wasn’t quite normal. She would always be anxious about him.

‘Nothing,’ Molly said quickly. ‘Nothing at all.’ She walked away from the door and up to the bar. ‘ We were talking in here a couple of nights ago and he gave me some interesting information. I was hoping he might help me again.’

‘Oh.’ The landlady wasn’t quite sure what to make of this scruffy little woman with her round John Lennon specs and her parka tied at the waist with a frayed string. ‘Who are you then?’

‘My name is Molly Palmer-Jones. I’m staying at Markham Mill.’

She understood then. ‘Your husband’s that detective.’

Molly was tempted to reply that they were partners, that she too was a detective but she simply nodded.

The woman’s curiosity was aroused. The pub had been talking about James Morrissey’s death and the arrival of the mysterious detective all week. She hoped, through Cedric, to have some news to contribute, and she regarded Molly more kindly.

‘I’ll get him,’ she said. ‘He was just having his breakfast. If you don’t mind waiting here.’

Molly took a seat.

Cedric bustled into the bar soon after. He had dressed hurriedly and he had the tousled look of a small boy. People seldom took him seriously and Molly’s request for help had excited him. His mother followed him but this was
his
moment of glory and he didn’t see why she should listen in.

‘We’ll go into the lounge, shall we?’ he said, giving his mother a brief, spiteful look. ‘It’ll be warmer in there.’

He took Molly into the other room and with a gentlemanly flourish lit a calor gas heater. The smell of the fumes filled the place. He settled himself heavily on a leatherette bench. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’

‘You told me that Jimmy Morrissey met a man in the pub on the weekend that Hannah died,’ Molly said. ‘It was a long time ago but I wondered if you’d manage to recognize him again.’

‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘ Why do you want to know?’

She hesitated. She did not want to offend or disappoint him. ‘I’d rather not say at the moment,’ she said. ‘We have a duty of confidentiality. You do understand?’

He nodded proudly. Of course he understood. They were private detectives like on the telly. It would all have to be hush-hush. You couldn’t expect anything else. He would have liked to be in on the secret but was glad just to have the attention.

Molly spread a number of photographs over a table. Some were of the Morrissey family at different times in their lives. Caitlin had provided them from the family album the night before without asking why Molly needed them. Others had been obtained in a more underhand way. There was even one of George as a young man which for some foolish and sentimental reason Molly kept in her handbag. It was the nearest she could come, she supposed, to an identity parade.

Cedric considered the photos seriously. His stomach prevented him from leaning over the table to get a closer look so he stood up. He pored over the smiling family groups, the birthday parties, the days out with friends. She thought that he probably recognized the man immediately – throughout the episode he had an air of confidence – but he wanted to prolong the excitement. There was something of the showman about the way he moved the photographs over the table with his fleshy fat fingers, like a magician moving cards.

‘That’s him,’ he said when he could spin it out no longer.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Definitely,’ he said. ‘I told you I’ve got a photographic memory.’ He paused. ‘ I can see now why I thought I’d seen him again recently. Uncanny, isn’t it?’

‘You won’t say anything?’ she said quietly. ‘Not yet. Just for twenty-four hours. It won’t matter after that.’

‘You can trust me,’ he said, nodding violently and touching the side of his nose with his fingers. ‘You can rely on old Cedric.’

She thought, as she walked back to the Mill through the frozen countryside, that she probably could.

In the schoolroom Meg was supervising the children’s lessons. Tim and Emily were moving on from Vikings to the Tudors and Stuarts and Meg was showing them how a family tree worked. She set it out on the blackboard marking all the Tudor kings and queens in different coloured chalks.

At first Ruth took no notice. She was writing an essay on
Northanger Abbey
and Meg’s voice was only a distraction. Then Meg asked Emily to come and draw their family tree on the board. The child held the chalk in her fist and carefully printed JAMES X MEG. Then a line and four rods leading to each of their names.

‘Very good!’ Meg said. ‘That’s quite right.’

But it’s not right, Ruth thought. James wasn’t my father. Mother is so keen to make us appear one big happy family that she seems to forget that Caitlin and I have deserted him.

They considered it a chore now to keep in touch with him. They had to be reminded of his birthday and when he phoned to talk to them they pulled faces at each other as if to say: What a
drag.
What have we got to say to him? He still taught at the same school as when Meg had walked out on him, with his two young daughters, to set up home with James Morrissey. He had never come to the Mill. Whenever he phoned to suggest it Meg put him off and the girls were grateful to be spared the awkwardness. Despite his profession he wasn’t very good with teenagers.

But now, looking at the family tree from which he was excluded, Ruth considered they had treated him unfairly. She thought of Rosie who seemed so close to her mother despite the hardships of her childhood, who still mourned her father after all these years. If my father were to die, Ruth wondered, would I care at all?

Molly spent the rest of the morning in James’ office, making phone calls, building up a pattern of what must have happened. When the bell went for lunch it was almost finished, though there was no proof. If that was needed it would have to come later.

‘Family values,’ she muttered to herself as she went in to the meal. ‘Bloody family values.’

George found lunch an awkward meal. There was an air of forced jollity. Meg seemed to feel there was need for a celebration. It had been a dreadful time for them all, she said, but they had to put it behind them. She looked around her fondly.

‘You children have been
so
brave,’ she said. ‘I want you all to know how much I’ve valued your support since James died. And I’m sorry if George’s questions have made things more difficult. I can see now that there’s no purpose in taking it any further.’ She leaned forward across the table. ‘If you feel up to it I thought we’d open the Mill for business again next week. I’ve phoned Laura Sutherland about the Wildlife and Photography course and I’ll try to get in touch with all the prospective students this afternoon. What do you say?’

The children nodded dutifully, surprised by her mood. Then she asked Rosie to bring wine, unheard of at lunchtime, and she even allowed Caitlin to take two glasses.

‘Molly and George will be leaving tomorrow,’ she announced. ‘We’re very grateful for their efforts but I can see now that it was a mistake to ask them to come. We’ve spent too long agonizing over the past. Perhaps we should drink a toast to the future.’

George thought it was all in dreadful taste. Even if Meg had come to terms with her husband’s death she should be mourning Aidan Moore, a brilliant young man with so much to look forward to, who was supposed to be a family friend. Besides, George knew that it was not all over and that by the end of the day there would be a tragedy of a different sort.