Murder at the Mill_A Mystery by M. B. Shaw

Author:M. B. Shaw [Shaw, M. B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 1250189292
Amazon: B079DVPTZP
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2018-12-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Harry Masters closed his eyes and pulled the pillow over his head to block out the noise of the church bells.

Five peals. Five o’clock in the morning.

Harry had lived at Church Cottage for more than twenty years now and had long since learned to tune out the bells during the night. But recently his sleep had been so fitful and fractured, he’d begun waking on the hour and then struggled to fall back off again. Perhaps, unconsciously, he was resisting sleep, afraid of returning to the nightmares that had haunted him ever since Christmas Day. The ghoulish image of Dom Wetherby’s drowned face, his cruel, taunting eyes rolled up to just the whites. Harry himself, trapped in a glass box in which the water was rising, unable to escape, scrabbling frantically at the smooth closed lid. Ariadne beyond the glass, coolly passive, watching him drown. When he awoke from these dreams, Harry wasn’t sweating, like people did in films. Instead, it was as if every ounce of moisture had been sucked out of him. His mouth and throat felt painfully dry, his skin burned, and his eyes stung, devoid of tears, yet still full of the horrors of the night.

He rolled over, daring sleep to reclaim him, but as the first thin rays of dawn started streaking the sky, he realised the attempt was futile. Night was over. He may as well get up.

After his usual breakfast of two crumpets with marmalade and a large mug of very sweet tea, followed by a couple of peaceful hours pottering about in the garden – in Harry’s youth, the Hampshire soil had been frozen solid in January, but these days the winters were so mild there was no excuse not to get out and dig – he felt revived enough to wander up the hill and buy a paper. He saw at once that the Mail was back on the Wetherby murder story in its usual tasteless way and was running an interview with some raddled old slapper claiming to be a former mistress of Dom’s. Curious, but too angry to buy it (Harry Masters wasn’t about to put another penny in the pocket of these greedy, shameless journalists, trying to make entertainment out of tragedy), he opted for the Guardian instead, hurrying back home before the heavens opened.

Iris Grey, Ariadne’s artist tenant, was coming to see him this morning at nine, to talk about starting piano lessons. Harry had explained over the phone that he was retired now and rarely, if ever, took new pupils. But she’d offered to do a free sketch for him in return – a portrait, if he wanted it, or a picture of his beloved garden – and Jim Agnew, Harry’s friend from the bowling club, had convinced him to accept.

‘She’s had exhibitions in famous London galleries, you know, Harry. And this portrait she’s doing of Dom is bound to be big news, especially since the murder. She’s up and coming, Iris Grey. This sketch might be worth a fortune in five years’ time.

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