The Beloveds

by Maureen Lindley

  I am finally confronting the truth of it. Of course it is Henry who must go. It is the only thing that makes sense. It cannot be both Gloria and Henry, because the child they would leave behind them might have a claim to Pipits. If it is just Henry who goes, it won’t be hard to talk Gloria into selling Pipits to me.

  I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before, instead of tinkering around with what could only be temporary setbacks. I can hardly wait. The thought of the Bygones finally seen off washes through me. Its wake is sweet.

  No doubt this has been in my subconscious all along. The summer pudding episode was the germinating seed, and now it has sprung green shoots. It’s a big thing to contemplate. Strangely, though, the thought has a surprisingly familiar feel. Haven’t we all occasionally indulged the idea that the absence of someone will solve what seems insoluble?

  With Henry out of the picture, Gloria’s meager income won’t allow her to keep the place going. With a baby to look after, selling will be the only practical option open to her. She could have Alice’s house as part of the deal, so much more suitable for her than Pipits. I have no doubt that she would marry again. A decent pause for a widow’s grief before the suitors come calling. Happiness, her default position, would be resumed before she knows it.

  I need to think it out, take time to get it right. But it won’t be an easy thing to achieve. It must look like an accident. Traceable poison would be foolish. And what poison that I could get my hands on wouldn’t be traceable? The web informs me that aconite shows only asphyxia as a postmortem sign. Apparently, the emperor Claudius was dispatched by his wife Agrippina, who served the leaves to him in a bowl of mushrooms. Clever Agrippina. I like the idea of it—and I could easily get my hands on the purple shrouded aconite—but even one sign is too many in these enlightened times.

  Whatever I choose must look accidental; there can be no disposing of the body, no need for an alibi. A method that doesn’t require my presence is ideal. Henry’s horrid building site comes to mind. All those glass panels lying around, the drills, the cement mixer. There must be something there, surely?

  I wait impatiently for the right thought to take form. I study Henry carefully these days, note that he is a man of habit, breakfast at pretty much the same time each day, lunch, too. I see that he likes to finish one job before starting the next, that he is easily distracted. Once or twice he has caught me out in my inspection and given me a thin unsettling smile. Does he sense what I am about? Probably not; he has no idea how much I dislike him, and he is not particularly intuitive.

  I cannot allow myself the smallest nod toward mercy. He is what stands between me and Pipits. I want him gone.

  * * *

  BERT, PROBABLY FOR SOME selfish reason, is suddenly in a hurry. He has requested a meeting between us and our lawyers. It seems he wants to be done with our marriage without a big legal battle.

  My lawyer, Poppy Jordan, says she understands that he is prepared to be generous, to go beyond what a court is likely to decide.

  I know Bert well enough to know he is rattled. He hates things hanging over his head, can’t hack being anyone’s enemy. I was prepared to wait it out, to work at getting what I want from the now dead marriage; but here we are, only late January, and he has caved.

  Clearly he cannot bear the idea of court or of endless meetings where he knows I will not be easy to deal with. And why should I be? Neither Bert nor Helen has the right to expect an easy ride from me.

  We meet up in Poppy Jordan’s West End office. Bert has lost weight, lost that high color he had when his drinking kept up with mine. He looks quite healthy, in fact, as though he could last another decade at least.

  Poppy’s office is small, so we have the meeting in her firm’s conference room. Bert sits in the chair opposite mine, a solid table between us. He is gazing over my shoulder through the window into the distance, as though what is going on in the room has nothing to do with him.

  He has offered to buy me out of the business for five percent above the market value. On top of that, I can have the apartment, no strings attached. He will just walk away, move out as soon as I agree to the deal he’s offered. I don’t ask to where.

  “It is most unusual not to split the value of the joint property,” his lawyer says, frowning a little. “It is more than generous, and something I advised my client against doing.”

  I can have it all: the furniture, the paintings, everything. The only thing Bert wants is the small oil of a barrel of cranberries that sits on a little easel in his study. It has no signature and was the first piece of art that he bought for himself. He is sentimental about it. There is something that touches his heart about an artist with such talent who has gone unrecognized. It is a rather fine little piece, but without the right provenance, its worth most likely is only a couple hundred. I suppose he can have it; I can’t be bothered to haggle.

  The deal he is offering seems too good to be true. I am suspicious.

  “What do you want from me?” I ask.

  “Well,” his lawyer begins.

  “Not you,” I say, turning to Bert. “You tell me what you want.”

  A short silence, as though he is thinking how to put it. Then, “Only that you agree, and that it is done quickly. I don’t want a fight.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “Do you really want to drag this through the courts, Lizzie, and spend a fortune doing so, only to get less than I am offering now?”

  I suspect a larger motive at work. “Mm, but still, what’s the hurry? Why didn’t you wait to see what I would have settled for?”

  “The truth, Lizzie?”

  “Of course the truth.”

  “I don’t want to spend time fighting you. I want to marry Helen as soon as possible and be happy. You may not believe it, but I’d like you to be happy, too.”

  “Why should I believe anything you say? You were happy enough before your girlfriend came along. Don’t deny it.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Lizzie. It’s love that makes for happiness. I was content to think that we had something near it, and perhaps we did at first. Not now, though, not for quite a while. There’s hardly even affection left on your part.”

  “Or on yours.”

  “Well, perhaps when we are through this, it will come back.”

  He sounds stern, full of some new drive, distanced from me, letting me know I have lost my power over him. I hear the tone of Helen’s voice in his usually gentler one. I guess he is still upset about my having slapped her. The smallest bit of a stew upsets Bert, and I bet that Helen made the most of it, instilled some outrage that’s led him to this.

  “No need to fight, Lizzie. You must have whatever you want,” he says in a softer voice. “Let’s be done with it.”

  I wonder if I am imagining that Bert is scared of me, scared of what I would do if he were to fight me for an equal share of our assets. Helen probably told him what I said about making things difficult for them.

  I request a private chat with Poppy. Bert and his lawyer obligingly go to wait in the reception area of her office. I’m not impressed with Bert’s lawyer; he is not pushing me on Bert’s behalf, and he can’t take his eyes off Poppy, who I realize suddenly is a very good-looking woman.

  “It’s more than a fair deal,” Poppy says. “I strongly advise you take it, Mrs. Walker. I’m pretty sure you would get less if you took it to court.”

  “Mm.”

  I remind her that I prefer these days to be called Miss Stash. She smiles and apologizes.

  She may be right about the court thing, but I think I could do better. I know Bert. I believe him when he says he wants things over and done with. He wants to avoid trouble, to write me off. He won’t settle until everything is tidied up and behind him. Cash won’t be a problem, not now that he is as one with Miss Moneybags. Whatever hole is left in his finances after his payout to me, she will pick up the slack. When you think about it, it’s pretty insulting; any lengths to be rid of B
etty Stash, worth it at any price.

  I tell Poppy what I intend to ask for and she shrugs and gives me a doubting look. She buzzes her reception to call Bert and his lawyer back, and they return to the conference room carrying mugs of coffee.

  “Great coffee,” Bert’s lawyer says to Poppy. “You must tell us what blend you use.”

  She smiles at him flirtatiously, puts her head to one side, and runs her hands through her hair. “Oh, it’s nothing special,” she says.

  I’m impatient to get on with things. We seat ourselves in the same places again. Bert seems on alert now, shoulders forward, waiting to hear what I have decided.

  “I accept the five percent over value offered,” I say, and note the relief on his face. “But I want ten thousand on top of that, and all my legal expenses paid.”

  Bert’s lawyer sucks his breath in noisily. He directs a grimace across the table to Poppy.

  “Plus, until we sign and it’s done with, I should have half of the profits from the business.”

  Bert blinks, but he doesn’t look surprised. His lawyer’s eyes, though, have widened, and his mouth has slackened in astonishment.

  “I think that’s unreasonable,” he falters. “No court would give you anywhere near that percentage of the joint assets. Your husband has been more than—”

  “It’s a deal,” Bert cuts in. He stretches his arm across the table and offers me his hand. “Shake on it?”

  I do, but for reasons I don’t like to think about, it doesn’t feel good. Thoughts of old betrayals surface. The sour musk of them rises in my throat. I’ve had my way, but somehow once again in life I’ve been seen off.

  “I’m glad it’s settled,” Bert says to me. “When you get to my age, you understand what it takes to make you happy. You can’t hang around hoping it will happen. Whatever it costs, you have to go for it with everything you’ve got.”

  “I intend to,” I say. “That’s good advice.”

  “I wish you luck, Lizzie. No hard feelings?”

  “None,” I say, swallowing a gob of hot spit. “Oh, and one other thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Call the business what you like, but please remove ‘Stash’ from its title.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Bert knew he was never going to get away with the biggest slice of our marriage cake, but notwithstanding the money I’ve cost him, I can tell that he and Helen will be celebrating later. I hadn’t thought of it before, but suddenly I know that Bert’s future is set fair. Despite Helen’s ridiculous clothes, her layers of fat, despite her appalling taste in art, she is a Beloved. Bert will be marrying a Beloved!

  11

  HENRY HAS ASKED ME to move out. So much for: “It is your home as much as ours.”

  “Since Alice died,” he says, “what with the sadness, and then the robbery, and the building work being held up, and now your troubles with Bert, well, we haven’t been concentrating on the right things. We need some quiet time to ourselves to prepare for the coming of Mango.”

  He says it half-jokingly, making it sound as if they must prepare for the coming of a messiah.

  “You understand, don’t you?” he says. “Gloria has had a hard time of it. First her mother, then Alice.”

  “It’s the same for me,” I blurt out. “My mother, too, and don’t forget that Alice was my friend first, and now the divorce.”

  He pats my shoulder, gives a little wince as though he’s the one in pain. “Of course, of course,” he says, his voice sticky with sympathy.

  “But really, Betty, it’s the best thing for us all,” he insists. “Baby is almost here, and there will be upheaval, mess, noise; you won’t like it.”

  Henry’s insistence is a new thing. He’s usually so accommodating. He needs to cosset Gloria, he says. And besides—and here his eyes slink from mine—they have rarely been alone in their marriage. They need some time to be together, just the two of them, before they become three.

  I don’t see how I am going to get out of agreeing to leave. Henry suggests that I move into Alice’s house so that I can be nearby. Alice’s house! A legacy to them, held in my name.

  “We can keep an eye on you, and you on us. And you’ll be near the baby when it comes. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

  I don’t answer at first. I’m finding it hard to breathe. However Henry puts it, they’re chucking me out. He has elected himself master of the house, wife protector.

  I have Alice’s house and will soon have the London apartment, so no excuse that I’ll need time to find somewhere to live. I am expected to pack a bag and go.

  “So lovely that you’ll be living in the village,” Henry says. “And you’ll be an aunt. We’re making you an aunt.” It sounds like a boast.

  When Gloria appears, I can see that she is anxious. Her eyes dart about the room, she’s doing her hopping thing, and her lips are swollen where she has been biting them.

  “You don’t mind, Betty, do you? I have to think of what Henry needs, too.”

  “Why should I mind, Gloria? It is your house, isn’t it? Mother left it to you, after all.”

  “Oh, you do mind. I’m so sorry.”

  I shake my head and tell her not to give it a thought. Of course I understand. I drive a sword through my spoiled little sister’s heart and twist and twist the blade. Such a pleasing image.

  I return her nervous smile with a broad, untroubled one. I project composure, I tune my voice to calm, to obliging.

  She accepts my words with relief. No checking beneath the surface, no reassuring herself that I am actually okay with it. I sense one of my migraines on the way.

  I tell myself I haven’t lost the war, I am only retreating to regroup. I will suffer the temporary setback and stick to my plan. And now at least there is no need to feel pity for Henry. I’m reminded of how ruthless his true nature is.

  * * *

  I MOVE INTO ALICE’S house with no intention of changing anything. I will put up with her awful pictures, her polyester sheets, the cheap pine wardrobes that line her bedroom walls. I’ll leave it to Gloria to knock through, rip up the floors, and paint dim-witted scenes on the walls. When Henry’s gone, she will need a project. She can set about altering things with her usual passion.

  Mrs. Lemmon has refused to clean for me here.

  “What with Mrs. Bygone’s work,” she whines, “and Pipits being such a big house, I hardly have time for anything else.”

  I don’t believe her. We get on well enough knowing our places, and I know she could do with the extra money. I don’t dislike her, not at all. I hardly ever speak to her, so she can’t hold much against me.

  Her refusal comes about because she knows she can’t fool me as she does Gloria. I’ve noticed how she moves picture frames, and ornaments on mantels, without really cleaning them. The old trick of placing things differently to suggest she has been there with her duster and polish. She has chosen her camp, and it is Gloria’s. I don’t intend to keep her on when I have Pipits. I am looking forward to taking care of House myself.

  12

  I’VE MADE MY DECISION. I am going for the simple option of following in Agrippina’s footsteps. I’ve hurt my head thinking about more complicated scenarios: exploding kilns, cutting the brakes on Henry’s car, even that plan from the movie Strangers on a Train. But I don’t have the skill to fix the kiln, or to cut the brakes, and the train scheme is too complicated. One would need to find the right stranger with a similar problem, and then to trust her. Highly unlikely. Simple is best.

  I dismissed the idea of poison at first because it could be detected, but what does that matter if it looks like Henry has accidentally poisoned himself?

  Of course, I am not thinking of aconite, but of mushrooms of the mephitic variety. It is the perfect solution, particularly as Gloria hates fungi and won’t be partaking. I rather fancy seeing her as the grieving widow; to observe her in defeat will be a rare and satisfying sight.

  The only drawback is that it wi
ll mean waiting until autumn, when the spores poke through the dank run of earth where meadow meets wood. Until then I will have to suffer the frustration of dawdling through spring and summer. But I am used to waiting, biding my time.

  Planning the details will be important. I will only get one shot at it. Nobody ever poisons himself twice with mushrooms. Twice would look suspicious.

  I have bought a book on fungi, beautiful illustrations and very clear. Reading it, I wonder how anyone can summon the courage to pick and eat them at all. Russian roulette comes to mind. I wonder how I ever trusted Henry to know good from bad when I ate the mushrooms he gathered. The difference between life and death can be as little as the depth of a cap, a pinkish tinge on the gills, hardly noticeable to the naked eye. A shade lighter or darker can mean the difference between the here and now or the hereafter.

  When Henry cooks whatever he is going to cook with his first crop of mushrooms, usually his favorite risotto, he will, as far as anyone can tell, have poisoned himself. Whichever way you look at it, providing I proceed with caution, providing I get the amount right, it is rather a neat plan. No worries about leaving fingerprints, or traces of blood, no concerns that one has left a hair or a tiny thread of clothing at the scene, no question of motive or alibi; such seminal things in these days of DNA testing. It will simply be a tragic case of bad luck and ignorance.

  I will study my subject, be an eager student. Meanwhile, I suppose things will progress as expected; the baby will arrive soon, and a great fuss will be made, no doubt. Henry will claim that it has the look of his grandfather, or uncle, or suchlike. Gloria will say she sees something of Mother in it. Parents seem to find pleasure in such things, as though they need proof that the child is really theirs and not some changeling, planted to make mischief.

  When the time comes for Henry to leave us, I will take my proper place as Gloria’s older sister. I will organize everything, make the decisions she will be too preoccupied with grief and baby to make herself. A simple call to Looton’s Funeral Home should do it.