The Murders of Mrs. Austin and Mrs. Beale

by Jill McGown

  ‘It’s important, Leonora.’

  He was the only one who called her Leonora. The only one of all the people she had ever known, ever met in her entire thirty years on this earth. There was something Victorian about Jonathan that she would never get used to; she was almost surprised that he didn’t call her Mrs Austin.

  ‘All right,’ She put the phone down, and sighed.

  ‘Have I come at an inconvenient time?’ Beale asked, in the over-polite tones of one who knew how to talk proper when he had to.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘It’s just – well, I’ve been called home, I’m afraid.’

  He looked concerned, his eyebrows rising above his rimless glasses. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope, Mrs Austin?’

  ‘No,’ she said, a little grimly. ‘ Nothing at all.’ She smiled. ‘ Perhaps we could have a chat about the sort of thing you’re looking for some other time,’ she said, packing things into the desk drawer.

  He held up his hands. ‘Say no more, Mrs Austin – I understand domestic problems. With two sons-in-law, a wife and an ex-wife, I should.’

  She walked with him through the studio, and he ran a little way ahead of her to open the door.

  ‘No car?’ he said. ‘May I offer you a lift?’

  ‘It would be rather out of your way,’ she pointed out, smiling.

  ‘Secret of success, Mrs Austin. Know who your friends are. And don’t make them wait for buses.’

  She lifted an eyebrow. ‘I know who my friends are too, Mr Beale,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘ Thank you.’

  They walked through the misty rain along the row of craft shops and studios to the private car park at the rear of the Riverside Complex, which was how it had been described on the estate agents’ literature, and the only way in which the residents thought of it. It was actually called Andwell House, after the river. Two spaces to each flat; Beale’s Rolls took up both of his. Those who rented the shops and studios parked in a side-street, or they knew all about it when a resident found his space occupied.

  Beale reversed with difficulty in the tight space, then glided out on to the quiet road with a warning toot of the horn. Rain beaded the window, and the silent wipers flicked back and forth every fifteen seconds.

  ‘Do you think we’ll have a summer this year, Mrs Austin?’

  Other people had independence; so had she, once. But the money necessary for independence had gone into a dream. A dream of using her talent, instead of letting it fester. A dream that she couldn’t afford, but she had done it, anyway. And then along had come Jonathan. Solid, dependable Jonathan. ‘I’ve got this enormous flat and no one to share it with,’ he had said. ‘You’re in a bedsit that you can’t afford. Why don’t we get married, Leonora?’

  Before that, she had somehow survived years of juggling credit cards, of begging sceptical bank managers for loans; years of writing apologetic, determinedly optimistic letters to creditors, of persuading the council that she really would pay the back rent on the flat and the studio at the end of the month; years of breadline economics.

  And now, two years of marriage. Jonathan’s offer of security, of a roof over her head that wouldn’t actually cost her money, of three meals a day and a constant free supply of toothpaste, tights and Tampax had been an offer that she couldn’t refuse. But it had not been she who had accepted it. It had been some woman called Leonora.

  The little river along which they drove was moving slowly today, its surface flecked with the fine rain. Beale turned right, on to Stansfield Road, leading out of Malworth and – not unnaturally – to Stansfield, and Jonathan’s flat. Leonora kept Jonathan’s flat clean, washed his clothes, ironed his shirts and cooked his food. Leonora slept with him, come to that, for there was a strange formality about even Jonathan’s lovemaking to which Lennie could never have conformed. So Leonora had taken over there too, a dutiful Victorian housewife, lying back and thinking of England.

  The car slowed to a halt, opposite the darkened windows of a shop that had turned into a doctor’s surgery; through the car window, in the darkened plate glass, she could see her reflection. It made a curious double image that seemed all too appropriate.

  Beale was chatting, all the time; Lennie was supplying appropriate answers, and not listening to a word.

  ‘I can’t go on calling you Mrs Austin,’ he said. ‘I feel we’re old friends by now. What’s your first name?’

  She looked at him. ‘Lennie,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ He inclined his ear slightly, as the in-car CD played James Last.

  ‘Lennie.’

  ‘That’s a boy’s name.’

  ‘It’s my name,’ she said firmly. ‘Do I get to know yours?’

  ‘Lucy,’ he said, his face entirely serious.

  She laughed.

  The car moved off, past the open fields and hedgerows, into the light industrial estates which fringed the town in place of the now demolished Mitchell Engineering, down towards the big roundabout that guarded the entrance to the old village that had once been all there was of Stansfield. Mitchell Engineering-had been a pre-war enterprise, cloaked in secrecy, plonked down beside an Elizabethan village that had barely altered with the centuries. After the war, it couldn’t find enough people to employ, and her father had come looking for work in the fifties, like so many others. They had made him redundant, in the end, when electronics and microchips took over, and the days of heavy industry were past.

  Beale turned left, away from the village, passing the old post office building, now closed.

  ‘What is it really?’ she asked.

  ‘What’s what really?’

  ‘Your name.’

  ‘Frank,’ he said, and glanced at her. ‘ What’s yours, really?’

  ‘Lennie.’

  The sleek car turned into the Mitchell Estate, and entered the thirties housing with which she had grown up while what had been countryside had turned into a new town; it looked different, now, with the smoke and dust of the heavy engineering works gone, and the side-streets blocked off from traffic by bollards.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, as he smoothly pulled up outside the two new blocks of flats which had risen on the edge of the pleasingly elderly houses, aping their architecture. That was very kind of you.’

  ‘It was a pleasure.’ The car slid to a halt. ‘And don’t forget – I still want to talk about business some time. I don’t want domestic crises stopping me investing in you. You’ve got real talent.’ He paused, almost hesitant. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve got a friend who’s into art exhibitions and stuff like that. I could have a word with him for you.’ He leaned over her to open her door, and winked. ‘Lennie,’ he said.

  Lennie smiled. That would, be very nice of you,’ she said, getting out. ‘ Mr Beale.’

  He smiled, shrugged philosophically, and drove off. She watched the car go; Leonora could perhaps have put up with Mr Beale. She couldn’t.

  She took out her key, and pushed open the door to the flats, letting herself into one of the two on the ground floor.

  She rang the garage as soon as she got inside. The car, she was assured by the youth who answered the phone, would be ready in about half an hour; it was just being valeted. There would be someone there until seven if she wanted to collect it.

  ‘Of course I can’t,’ said Jonathan as, her hand over the mouthpiece, Lennie had asked if he could run her to the garage later. ‘ Gordon’s coming. I have to have paperwork ready for him.’

  ‘It’ll only take quarter of an hour,’ Lennie argued, but she knew she wasn’t going to win. ‘I can’t get there for seven,’ she said, once more addressing the youth. ‘Is it possible to leave it somewhere I can pick it up later?’

  ‘I’ll have to ask the boss,’ he said, and the phone clattered down.

  ‘I probably still won’t have time later,’ said Jonathan.

  Lennie didn’t reply, as the phone was picked up again. ‘He says he’ll leave it in the yard with the key under the seat, but to tell you t
hat it’s at your own risk.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Lennie, slamming down the phone, and relayed this information to Jonathan, who seemed less than interested. She went into the kitchen where, presumably, she belonged.

  Gordon arrived, and the meal was eaten with barely a word exchanged between his hosts.

  ‘That was lovely, Lennie.’ Gordon pushed away his empty plate, and plonked unpretentious elbows on the table. ‘Jonathan, I hope you know what you’ve got in this girl.’

  ‘I’ve always appreciated Leonora,’ he said, with a smile. He was handsome. Lennie had called him her fair-haired beauty, in the days when she had still been making an effort. But her efforts never seemed to please him, and she had long ago given up.

  ‘She looks good and she cooks good,’ Gordon said, putting his hand over hers and giving it a squeeze. ‘You can’t beat that for a combination.’

  Gordon Pearce was the son of friends of Lennie’s family, and she had known him almost all her life. He had followed her hopefully around until she married, but he had only recently taken to chatting her up, and then only in front of Jonathan.

  Jonathan glanced at her, his fair lashes closing for a moment before he spoke. ‘ I’ll give you a hand to get this lot loaded up,’ he said.

  As they loaded the dishwasher, he asked her if she could find something to do so that he and Gordon could talk.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘We’ve a lot to get through,’ he said. ‘And I’d rather you weren’t distracting him from the matter at hand. I want him to keep his mind on business, not on your legs.’

  She was glad that she had changed out of her jeans; she almost hadn’t, since it was only Gordon.

  ‘You brought me home just to cook a meal? I’ve to retire to my room and do my embroidery? Read an improving book?’

  ‘I really don’t care what you do,’ he said. ‘Just don’t do it in the same room as us.’

  In her time, she had been irritated by him, annoyed by him, angered by him. Sheer blind rage was new.

  ‘Right,’ she said, going into the living-room. ‘Sorry, Gordon,’ she called over her shoulder as she walked past him. ‘I’ll have to love you and leave you.’

  Gordon, halfway through easing his well-fed frame into an armchair, stood up again. ‘Oh,’ he said, with mock-disappointment. ‘You’re the only reason I came.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said again, picking up her jacket, walking quickly to the door.

  She turned and treated Gordon to a dazzling smile. ‘I might be late back,’ she said. ‘ So I probably won’t see you. Tell Pauline she must come with you next time.’

  ‘How did your first day go, ma’am?’ asked Lloyd.

  ‘Oh, don’t!’ She twisted out of his arms. ‘I’m never going to get used to that – it makes me feel like the Queen Mother.’

  ‘Now there’s someone who knows a bit about promotion,’ Lloyd said.

  She smiled.

  ‘How come you haven’t said anything about it?’

  ‘How come you’re such a great cook?’ Judy asked, the button at the waist of her jeans wishing that he wasn’t.

  ‘I learned at my mother’s knee,’ Lloyd said, sitting down beside her. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I thought Welsh mams waited on their menfolk hand and foot,’ she said, leaning back, eyes closed, drawing her legs up and resting them on his knee.

  ‘They do,’ he said. ‘ Real Welsh mams. Don’t change the subject. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ That was no more than the truth. Nothing was wrong. Malworth, once a busy market town, was now a haven for successful, middle-aged, middle-class businessmen; winner of the Best Kept Town competition three years running in the eighties, clean and neat and tidy.

  Real shops and businesses had given way to estate agencies and twee craft and gift shops. Nothing was wrong, and it looked as though nothing ever would be. And the sad fact was that police officers really rather preferred things to be wrong. Malworth did a roaring trade in parking offences, and its officers lurked in lay-bys with radar guns to catch the motorists who failed to observe its thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit as they went through; others waited by the traffic lights to catch the ones who didn’t obediently and unnecessarily wait on red late at night.

  She smiled to herself. Bob Sandwell had solemnly assured her that one of these well-appointed houses with the manicured lawns was a brothel, but even he hadn’t found out which, so it obviously kept itself to itself if it was. She half believed that he’d made it up to make her feel better.

  ‘Bob Sandwell is very supportive,’ she said.

  ‘Does he have to be?’ Lloyd asked, his voice concerned.

  Well. Judy didn’t answer. She seemed to have acquired some sort of reputation as a women’s rights activist which had preceded her to Malworth. She had sensed a good deal of hostility, though none of it was overt. An over-punctiliousness, perhaps. Too much emphasis on her rank, which was after all newly achieved and the bottom rung of middle management. She supposed that they were being defensive; they were having to get used to a new sergeant and a new inspector. Perhaps it was more wariness than hostility.

  ‘I did hear that you might run into some male chauvinist piggery,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘I run into that all the time,’ grumbled Judy. ‘Sometimes from a source not a million miles from where I’m sitting.’

  Lloyd looked hurt, but that had long ago ceased to fool Judy.

  ‘Do you really want to know how my first day went?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Well, he’d asked for it.

  Gordon Pearce stared at Jonathan Bolton.

  ‘You’d get a salary, of course,’ Jonathan said, pouring him another whisky. ‘That’s probably a blessing, with a baby on the way. You don’t need uncertainty with another mouth to feed.’

  He had known it wasn’t going to be good. He had known, from the tone of Jonathan’s voice when he’d asked him over. Pauline thought that his careful preparation had been for Lennie, but it hadn’t. He had known, had wanted to feel on top of things. He picked up the whisky, and stared at Jonathan. He had known it wouldn’t be good. But this.

  ‘Salary?’ he said, his mind still unable to take it in.

  ‘It’s a good deal, Gordon,’ said Jonathan. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it if it wasn’t.’

  Gordon’s mouth opened. ‘ Recommend it?’ he said. ‘You drafted the bloody thing!’

  Jonathan shrugged a little, and sat down again. ‘ The board drafted it,’ he said, in reasonable tones.

  Gordon’s mouth opened and closed again as he tried to dredge up the words. ‘But this isn’t …’ he began. ‘We didn’t …’

  ‘Come on, Gordon,’ Jonathan said, his voice full of comradely encouragement. ‘ If there’s something about the agreement that bothers you, just say. We can be flexible, surely? We’re friends, aren’t we?’

  Gordon didn’t know which point to counter first ‘Agreement?’ he repeated. ‘Agreement? I haven’t agreed to anything – I haven’t…’ He finished in a spluttering cough, and drank some more whisky.

  ‘I know,’ said Jonathan. ‘But you have to agree, Gordon. If you don’t sign this, then …’ He sighed. ‘Then you’ll simply be voted out altogether. No job, no salary. No dividends for at least five years – Gordon, you’ve just taken on that flat. You’ve got a baby on the way. Pauline won’t be working – you’ve got commitments. Yes, I drafted it! Christ, Gordon, I fought to get this agreement!’

  ‘Fought?’ Gordon knocked his drink over as he got to his feet. ‘The board was your idea – your friends. There was no board until you came in!’

  Jonathan mopped up the coffee table with tissues, and shook some drops off the bundle of papers. ‘Gordon,’ he said, ‘you are an engineer. Not a business man. The figures speak for themselves. Until I came in you were going downhill. The board feels that you should …’ He sighed again. ‘They think you should stick to what you know best, and let busin
ess brains run the company.’

  Gordon sat down heavily. ‘A moment ago they wanted me out altogether,’ he said. ‘You want to get your story straight.’

  Jonathan replenished Gordon’s glass. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll be straight. Your expertise isn’t what’s needed any more. What’s needed now is someone with the right attitude to take the company into the nineties. Into Europe.’

  ‘1992 and all that.’ Gordon shook his head.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And you’re it, are you? Tomorrow’s man? The business brain?’

  ‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘Obviously, I hope to be elected whenever the general election happens, so I won’t be involved at all after that.’

  Through the hurt and the anger sudden clarity presented itself to Gordon. ‘Rosemary Beale,’ he said.

  Jonathan went slightly pink.

  ‘Your fancy woman’s going to run my company!’ roared Gordon.

  Jonathan’s eyes widened.

  ‘Do you think people don’t know?’ Gordon gulped down his drink. ‘A woman! A woman running an engineering firm? Whoever heard of – what the hell does she know about it?’

  ‘She … she knows the market-place. She knows about beating off the competition, about reaching the winning line first.’

  ‘She’s a crook,’ said Gordon, indistinctly.

  ‘Oh, don’t start all that again.’

  ‘She’s a crook! She and her husband are the biggest crooks this side of prison bars! And I let you talk me into giving her a seat on the board. What’s she want with my company? I asked. And you said we were going to be big. Big, big, by the end of the century, and she recognised a good thing when she saw it.’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Damn all I’ll get out of it!’

  ‘You’re still a major shareholder!’

  ‘But it’s my company,’ Gordon said weakly. ‘I started it. I built it. I …’

  ‘You would have seen it into bankruptcy. I’ve got it where it is now, Gordon. I’ve trebled the profits – I’ve got lorries with our name on them taking our products to six Common Market countries, and further. The Middle East – maybe even eastern Europe when things settle—’