Death in Dulwich

by Alice Castle

  Death in Dulwich

  Alice Castle

  The First London Murder Mystery

  Copyright © 2017 by Alice Castle

  Design: soqoqo

  Editor: Christine McPherson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2017

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  and something nice will happen.

  To Ella,

  Connie and William,

  with love

  Acknowledgements

  My first debt is to lovely Dulwich, filled with artists and writers who will, I hope, forgive my bringing sinister doings to their doorstep. Liz Johnson’s Dulwich Park: A Park for the People Forever was useful reading, as was Dulwich and Camberwell Past by Richard Tames. Grateful thanks to Clare, Lucy, Susan, Cathy, Helen, Ede, Steph, Caroline, Tara, Clare, Vicky, Christopher, Jeanette and all the friends who have heard so much about the progress of this novel. Thanks, too, to Laurence, Steph and Christine at Crooked Cat for all their help and support.

  Alice Castle

  About the Author

  Alice Castle was a national newspaper journalist for The Daily Express, The Times and The Daily Telegraph before becoming a novelist. Her first book, Hot Chocolate, was a European best-seller which sold out in two weeks.

  Alice is currently working on the sequel to Death in Dulwich, The Girl in the Gallery. The second instalment in the London Murder Mystery series, it will be published by Crooked Cat next year.

  Alice is also a top mummy blogger, writing DD’s Diary at www.dulwichdivorcee.com.

  She lives in south London and is married with two children, two step-children and two cats.

  Death in Dulwich

  Chapter One

  Beth Haldane peered anxiously into the hall mirror, on tiptoes as usual. She wasn’t after perfection. There was no time for anything fancier than the speediest swipe of make-up. She had to get her son Ben off to school, and then get herself – yikes – to her first day in her new job. She waved the mascara wand and hoped for some magic. There. The intelligent grey eyes staring back betrayed not a single jitter. Though the rest of it, she thought a tad harshly, you could easily have met hanging over a stable door.

  True, she had the uncompromising thick dark fringe of a Shetland pony, and a pensive oval of a face. And, indeed, the sturdy build and short stature that so often goes with the breed. But if she did have an equine air, it was that of the prettiest little pony that ever stole the show from a prancing white stallion.

  A nimble brain and sparkling eyes were scant comfort when you longed for legs up to there and a well-behaved mane. But Beth was happy enough in her hide. She smiled at herself encouragingly, and tucked a clump of fringe tidily behind her ear. Inexorably, it sprang back. Giving up, she took a deep breath. ‘Ben! School! We’re leaving NOW.’

  She rattled the front door chain off and clicked the lock decisively; today she absolutely meant business. In seconds, the tiny house was shaking as nine-year-old Ben thundered down the stairs, one small beloved boy rivalling the din of a tank battalion on ops.

  She shut the door on the chaos of breakfast dishes, books, Lego, and odd socks. Normally, everything would have been left pin-neat, but getting to her work debut on time was top priority. It would have been nice if someone had been around to wish her luck. Ben knew about the job, of course, but if he thought about it at all, it was as an eccentric hobby to fill her hours while he got on with the really important stuff at school. She looked back wistfully at the house – then noticed their black and white cat, Magpie, in the window. Was it her imagination, or did Magpie twitch her tail? She’d decided to take that as a little good luck wish, when the cat stared right at her, shot up onto her hind legs and started clawing at the window – almost as if she were trying to get Beth to come straight back home again. Beth felt a moment of pure dread. Magpie had never done that before. What on earth did it mean? Maybe she shouldn’t have changed her to that dry cat food?

  But there was no time to worry about that now. The morning sun slanted generously onto window boxes of purple and yellow primulas as they turned into Dulwich Village. It had rained overnight and the street looked as though it had been through the express rinse cycle of some celestial washing machine, windows sparkling, pavements pristine. As they passed Bartley’s, the florist on the corner, Beth breathed in deeply to catch a waft of the early hothouse hyacinths, fat stems crammed into black buckets, alongside acid yellow daffodils and supermodel-spindly catkins. Five minutes more and they were at the charming Hansel and Gretel redbrick building, criss-crossed with yellow London stock brick, which was Ben’s school – the Dulwich Village Primary. She left him at the gates, as boy protocol demanded.

  Gone were the days when she could accompany him into the classroom, even hang up his coat and settle him at his desk. Now, every morning, she felt a pang at the thought that it might be the last time he’d deign to hold her hand as they walked along. Many of his friends took off on their scooters and were at school before their mothers had time to fire up their huge 4x4 cars. The mummies still turned up at the school gates – but that was just to chat, and deliver forgotten sports kits, packed lunches, and instruments. There was no need to chide a child for forgetfulness if you had time on your hands. Even the women who did work seemed to play at it, like suburban Marie Antoinettes. Beth knew she shouldn’t be bitter, but it was hard not to resent her situation. She sometimes felt she was the only woman in Dulwich who had to pay her own credit card bill. Which was probably why she always left the card at home.

  She said a few hellos and fobbed off well-meant enquiries about half term – no, they hadn’t spent it whizzing down a Swiss mountain, like everyone else – when, with relief, she saw her friend Katie waving. Katie was normal. Yes, she did have a lovely husband with a good job (Michael was something important in publishing), and she did only work part-time, but she was passionate about her job as a yoga teacher. She also managed not to nag Beth about her own lack of fitness regime, and she had a lovely normal son, too, who was Ben’s greatest friend.

  The two women kissed on both cheeks – the basic Dulwich ‘hello’ after any school break – and Beth said quickly, ‘I’d love to catch up but I’ve got to dash…’

  ‘I know, I know, first day today. Just wanted to give you this.’ Katie pressed a bulky envelope into Beth’s hand. ‘Now off you go, knock ’em dead. Oh, wait, seen Belinda?’ she nudged, looking over to where a tall woman was holding court with the largest group of mummies. The spring sunshine glinted off perfectly tousled blonde hair and the equally shiny metal clasps of a new handbag, the size of a well-fed toddler. Beth raised her eyebrows at Katie. That bag must have cost more than her monthly mortgage payment. Which was looming.

  All that was going to get a lot easier, thought Beth as she hurried away from the school, crossing the road at the traffic lights, saying a brief ‘hi’ to a couple of mothers running late, kids straggling behind them like reluctant ducklings. She picked up her pace down Calton Avenue. Normally, she’d admire the pocket handkerchief gardens she passed, but today her thoughts ran in only one direction.

  Against stiff competition, and much to her surprise, she’d landed the job as assistant archivist at Wyatt’s – in her view, definitely the bes
t school in the area, though the dinner parties of Dulwich chewed this topic over endlessly. The job wasn’t going to solve all her money woes at one stroke, but it was certainly going to help. And what’s more, she loved Wyatt’s and was hoping that Ben might somehow squeak in; she then might possibly be able to scrape together the fees, when he had to leave the Village Primary.

  He was now in Year Five, the calm before the storm. Year Six was action stations. As soon as the school year started in September, parents all over the UK performed dare-devil contortions to get their children into the secondary school of their choice, fighting catchment areas, dwindling places, and each other. It was life or death stuff, nowhere more so than Dulwich, where there were a huge number of high-achieving, determined parents – each one with a uniquely talented and very precious child – all jostling for a tiny clutch of places in the prestigious Dulwich Endowment Schools. Beth hated the thought of what was to come. But, like any hapless conscript, she was in the thick of it whether she liked it or not.

  Wyatt’s was the boys’ Endowment school, set in magnificent grounds sprawling alongside London’s south circular road and dating from the sixteen-somethings. The College School was its counterpart – an offshoot of the original foundation, set up 250 years or so later with the new-fangled idea of educating girls. The grounds were less impressive, the buildings not nearly as lavish – but the results were terrifyingly good. Both schools were riding high in the school league tables, and together they were the main reason why Dulwich was such a sought-after area. Houses never, ever changed hands here for less than a million. No wonder the local garage only sold Audis.

  Beth often thought that buccaneering Thomas Wyatt, the schools’ founder, would have thoroughly approved of the affluence of his old stamping ground. In his youth, this Flash Harry made glittering fortunes overseas; his interest in children was apparently confined to fathering, rather than educating, them. But he had returned to his beloved Dulwich just in time to expire, and left the lavish pot of money which allowed the two schools to flourish to this day. Fortunately for Beth.

  The gates of Wyatt’s said everything they needed to about money, privilege, aspirations, and even education, in squiggly wrought iron, held aloft by immense red brick pilasters. Beth took a breath to steady herself before going in. Groups of boys rushed past her, shining with intelligence, youth, confidence, and the odd pimple. They reminded her of racehorses waiting for the off at the Grand National. She had never felt more of a Shetland pony, dusty after her walk and knee-high to these thoroughbreds, but she dismissed the self-doubt briskly. Yes, she did have a place here, and a very necessary job to do.

  Strangely, for such an organised and successful school, the archives were in a woeful state. When she’d been shown them briefly at her interview, she had been taken aback. Some might have scratched their heads at a school having archives at all, but Thomas Wyatt’s legacy was more than just money for a good education; it was a tangle of deeds, transfers, maps, and titles. Much of the material was in boxes, following successive moves from office to cupboard and building to building, as the schools acquired property, weathered wars, and finally split into two as the years rolled by. Some of the records had gone to the College School site, as part of a detangling process which had never quite been fully achieved. There were also huge volumes of them left at the Wyatt’s site. And the little which was in the right place had looked as though it had never been put in the right order. She had her work cut out.

  As usual, she worried about being found out – she’d never dealt with archives before and was still amazed, and even puzzled, that she’d landed the job. She quickly scanned the letter clutched in her hand. It confirmed her appointment and told her the drill for her first morning. She must have read it a dozen times, she pretty much knew it by heart, but looking again gave reassurance.

  After signing in at the porter’s lodge, she was to stop at Reception to pick up her official pass from Janice, the school secretary, in the main school building. She remembered Janice from her interview – mid-thirties, pretty, warmly competent.

  Beth trotted up a flight of stairs to the main entrance, pushed with some difficulty through a heavy wooden door with mirror-bright brass inlays, and was suddenly plunged into a cool and echoing entrance hall, all wood panelling, smooth flagstones, and icing sugar cornices on the ceiling miles above. She sniffed – floor polish, books, and the faintest tang of adolescent boy. Turning sharp right off the main corridor, as laid down in her letter, she found herself in Reception, where Janice held sway behind a countertop which glowed like a freshly peeled conker.

  Beth hurried over pale, velvety carpet – which would not have been her top choice with hundreds of muddy shoes on the premises – past a pair of lush, low sofas and a coffee table bearing just one discreet prospectus. A flat screen TV flicked silently from sporting triumphs to stratospheric A level results, showing why there was no need for a hard sell. Wyatt’s was effortlessly perfect, with the subtext that your child would be, too, if only you could crowbar him in here.

  Janice, in a pink cashmere sweater accessorised with a welcoming smile, was the cherry on the top.

  ‘Beth! Welcome to Wyatt’s. One of the family now,’ she said, springing out from behind her burnished counter to give Beth the regulation double Dulwich kiss. ‘Glad you’re joining us. It’s a big school, but we’re only a small team behind the scenes; you’ll soon get the hang of who everyone is. And it’s lovely and quiet today. Lots of classes are out on school trips – we call it Field Day. Great way to start.’

  ‘Oh? It seemed pretty busy coming in …’ said Beth.

  ‘Probably just the last-minute rush of sixth formers trying to beat the bell,’ said Janice. Beth was relieved – perhaps that explained why they’d all been so enormously tall.

  ‘Now, I’m just wondering who you already know at the school? You’ll already have met Tom Seasons, the Bursar, at the interview; and Dr Jenkins.’ Janice paused, then rushed on. ‘Tell you what, come and find me at lunch time and I’ll introduce you to a few of the others then. Now, here’s your security pass, you’ll need to swipe that to get through the doors to most of the buildings. Do you know where you’re going?’

  Beth swallowed. She couldn’t altogether remember where the archive office was, but in the face of so much bright competence, she wasn’t about to admit that. She smiled, assuring Janice that she knew the way like the back of her hand, and was soon outside again and negotiating her way through the last straggles of teenagers making for the Sixth Form Centre and the Science buildings.

  Just as she was wondering if she’d missed the turning leading to the far-flung archives block, she spotted her new boss, Dr Jenkins, clad in a mustard yellow tweed jacket. He’d been wearing the very same thing at her interview. It had stuck in her mind for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘Alan! Alan…’ she called, breaking into a trot and rapidly catching up with the elderly man. He seemed miles away. It wasn’t until she had put a hand on his arm that she got his attention. ‘Hi, Alan, er, Dr Jenkins… it’s Beth, Beth Haldane. Your new assistant?’

  The archivist seemed startled at being accosted, and peered over half-moon spectacles. It seemed to take him an age to place her.

  ‘Ah. Yes. The lovely Miss Haldane. Yes, yes, I remember,’ he breathed. Then his small black eyes seemed to be running all over her like beetles. Oh dear. She’d had a few misgivings at the interview, but she had decided he was just of that generation which didn’t find it easy to treat women as equals. She was sure she could cope with it. And she needed the job.

  Now, suddenly, she wondered how this was going to work. There was no longer the comforting presence of the Bursar, Mr Seasons, or the Human Resources manager, Geoff Something – Geoff Trainer, she remembered – sitting solidly between her and Jenkins, as there had been at the interview. It would just be the two of them sharing the archive office, which she now recalled as pretty cramped. Jenkins was still staring fixedly, and not even at her fa
ce. Had she made a terrible mistake?

  ‘Now, I’ll just show you in, then I have to go and meet… Well, let’s just say I have an appointment this morning,’ said Jenkins. And he started up a wheezing commentary on what all the nearby buildings had previously been used for over the years, as they meandered along.

  Beth fervently hoped she wasn’t going to be tested on this monologue. She was trying to memorise the route – and keep well out of Jenkins’ way as he lurched along with little consideration for her personal space.

  ‘Nearly there now,’ he said, peering at her again for just that moment too long, with eyes that seemed to take the scenic route up and down her legs.

  Dr Jenkins swiped his card to enter the unprepossessing building, which was little more than a portable office, though on two floors. The ground floor was given over to spare tennis nets, cricket stumps, and great orange nylon nets of footballs, with a narrow passage left clear, leading to a set of metal stairs. They sidled past the sports kit in silence, climbing the rickety stairs to the top floor and a small lobby that seemed to grow increasingly narrow, as Dr Jenkins stared again, seeming to take forever to root about in his pockets for the key. Unlike the entrance door downstairs, with its swish modern entry card system, the archive office door had a simple old-fashioned lock.

  Finally, he found his bunch of keys then began fiddling with the keyring. ‘Now, I’m going to trust you with my spare, but don’t you go losing it, young lady,’ he said, brandishing the key right in her face and giving her a sidelong smile.

  ‘I think I can manage to keep it safe,’ said Beth, just resisting the temptation to roll her eyes, as Ben would definitely have done. How old did Jenkins think she was? And with how many brain cells? What a pain the man was. They hadn’t even started their first day’s work together and she was already telling herself to think of the salary at the end of the month.