The Mill on the Shore by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online Page A

surprised her mother by deciding to go in for A levels. Her corner was designed to resemble an undergraduate’s study. There were shelves of textbooks, a file of previous exam papers which she was slowly working through and a tape recorder so she could practise her French.
    Tim and Emily were sitting at a large table in the middle of the room. Tim was supposed to be working on the Vikings too but his attention was not on the book in front of him.
    ‘Ruth!’ He raised his voice so it penetrated her corner. ‘ Do you think they’re detectives?’
    Ruth sighed, put a bookmark between the pages of La Peste and went to join them. She thought Meg was making a dreadful mistake. The outburst after the memorial service had been embarrassing but understandable. To pursue the matter by hiring private detectives was so bizarre that she wondered about her mother’s sanity. She must have known that the children’s interest would be aroused. How did she think she could explain the couple’s presence?
    ‘They’re sort of detectives,’ Ruth said at last. ‘Mum wants to find out how your father died so she’s asked these people to come and look into it. That’s all.’
    ‘But the police came before,’ Tim said. ‘That morning we found him. The fat one must have been a detective because he wasn’t wearing uniform.’ The logic seemed to him unanswerable. He considered. ‘ He didn’t do very much though,’ he said at last. ‘He sat in the kitchen with Rosie and Jane all morning drinking tea and eating flapjacks. He talked to Mum in the flat but he didn’t see anyone else. Not as far as I know.’
    And he would know, Ruth thought. Tim knew everything that went on at the Mill.
    ‘Mr Palmer-Jones isn’t that sort of detective,’ she said. ‘ He’s not a policeman. He’ll have time to ask questions and find out what actually happened.’
    ‘But we know what happened,’ Tim objected. ‘Dad killed himself some time that evening when we thought he was in the study working on his book.’ His face was pinched and Ruth thought that uncertainty and muddle would make it harder for him to accept James’ death. What was Meg thinking of?
    Emily had finished her picture. She set the paper aside and began to peel strips of dried glue from her fingers.
    ‘I don’t think he killed himself,’ she said calmly. ‘I think Mum’s right.’
    She stood up and went to wash her hands in the deep sink under the window. Before Ruth could ask what she meant the bell rang for dinner and the children ran off.
    They ate in the field centre dining room which could hold eighty people at six large tables. Now only one was laid. It was covered by a white linen cloth and set with heavy cutlery and glasses. Most of the lights in the room had been switched off. The table where they sat was in one corner, lit by a single bulb on a long flex covered by a wicker shade and by candles. The shadowy space beyond them seemed vast. The room was rather cold and their voices seemed to echo.
    Molly wondered at the formality of the occasion. With such a small number wouldn’t it have been easier to eat in the kitchen? At least there it might have been warm. But Meg seemed concerned to maintain the ritual of the Markham communal meal. She had changed from her sweater and skirt into a soft grey wool frock and there were pearls around her neck. Molly, who had felt liberated from the need to consider clothes with the coming to fashion of the track suit and who was still in the navy joggers and sweatshirt she had worn for travelling, felt decidedly underdressed.
    ‘We always try to eat together in the evening,’ Meg was saying as the children came in. ‘Family and students together when the courses are running. I like to think it typifies the atmosphere of the place. Now let me introduce you to my wonderful brood.’
    And they were, Molly saw at once, all too wonderful for words. It was as if each child had been moulded with a different personality only to