by Alice Castle
After suppressing some epic expletives, she had cobbled together an eleventh-hour effort – a plastic stegosaurus shoved into a shoe box full of green tissue paper moments before they left the house – and they just made it to school on time. Ben was not great about telling her this stuff beforehand. Mind you, she hadn’t interrogated him for a while on school stuff to winkle out vital information. She’d been distracted, by the preparation for her job interview, getting the job, and now dealing with the fall-out from the world’s worst first day.
Beth spent a few fruitless minutes trying to point out to Ben that his projects would be much better if he mentioned them to her in advance. He responded that his dinosaur was brilliant and that he was bound to win all the prizes, then ran off ahead without a care in the world.
She loved his confidence, but she just knew some of the kids would be turning up with porcelain brontosauri that their mothers had fashioned then fired in kilns purchased specially for the purpose. If they could have cloned the actual dinosaurs in their pristine Dulwich kitchens, some of these mums would. Even the more lackadaisical amongst them would probably have hand-knitted a pterodactyl or two.
Beth sighed. She didn’t want to think of herself as competitive – yet nor did she want her son to be trounced by a rival whose mother had too much time on her hands. But last night she had had way much too much to think about. She’d managed to sleep, thank goodness, despite worrying that mustard and red visions would keep her up all night. But she had spent the entire evening mulling over the whole business. She was looking forward to discussing it all with Katie – she needed her friend’s perspective.
She wasn’t that surprised to see the crowd of mothers outside the Primary gates was thicker than ever this morning. Ben’s dinosaur project deadline was quite a draw, even without a murder down the road. There would inevitably be some mothers – Big Bag Belinda included – who would be desperate to get a look at the other mummies’ – sorry, children’s – efforts. Beth hadn’t been expecting the reporters, though. There was a straggle of them, staying a safe distance away, thanks to the reassuring presence of a police constable standing squarely in the sea of mothers.
In a way, she felt she’d missed a trick. If anyone knew the inside track on the death at Wyatt’s, she did, and with her journalistic background, she could have sold the story in a trice to one of the papers. Heaven knew, she needed the money. But that would have been disloyal. After only one day at work, she was part of Wyatt’s, and a betrayal would have felt grubby.
She was glad that not many of the mums realised she was now working at Wyatt’s. Katie was one of the trusted few, and she elbowed her way through the throng to give Beth a sympathetic hug. They’d spoken, briefly, last night, but the homework/bedtime routine was so all-consuming – especially for single-handed Beth – that they’d barely scratched the surface.
Beth passed the Jurassic shoebox to Ben, and Katie handed over a bag sprouting a jungle of newspaper foliage. Thank goodness, Charlie had obviously made this one himself.
With the boys safely waved into school, Katie turned to Beth. ‘Jane’s? Cappuccinos?’
Jane’s was the newest, and most popular, of the Dulwich cafes. As such, it was rammed night and day with mummies with buggies, mummies with toddlers, mummies with school-age kids, and also mummies who’d achieved total drop-off and needed to celebrate that with coffee, too.
‘Could we go somewhere a bit… quieter?’ said Beth.
One of the problems with Jane’s was that it was so full that you needed to shout to make yourself heard, and Beth really didn’t want to be yelling about yesterday’s events. They quickly agreed to go to a much smaller and less public café, the Aurora, which was just round the corner from the main village thoroughfare, yet managed to be a world away in terms of popularity. The service was iffy and Katie didn’t rate their coffee – perfect, today, to keep other ears at bay.
Sure enough, the café was almost deserted as they took their seats in a corner and ordered. ‘This better be worth drinking dishwater for,’ muttered Katie, as the waitress stomped off to the kitchen, where Beth suspected she would be making fake ‘coffee machine’ noises while spooning instant granules into two cups for the worst cappuccinos within a mile radius.
‘Well, what do you want to know?’ Beth said. Unconsciously, her shoulders sagged a little.
‘I’m sorry, Beth. I feel awful,’ said Katie, reaching out a hand and patting Beth’s. ‘I’m just being curious about the death, instead of realising it’s been horrible for you. What a start for you!’
‘I know, right? The next time someone tells me their job is complete murder, I won’t know whether to laugh or cry,’ said Beth, instinctively lowering her voice as the waitress bustled back and plonked two coffees on the table.
As they watched, the meagre centimetre of foam on the top of both cups sank without trace, leaving sickly grey-brown coffee. Katie closed her eyes as if in pain. Beth shrugged and took a sip anyway. At least it was hot.
‘So, what do you think actually happened? Was it like being in Midsomer Murders?’ Katie was sitting on the edge of her chair.
‘Exactly like that, apart from there not being any thatched cottages, quaint villagers, or sinister squires in the vicinity,’ Beth laughed.
‘Well, apart from Dr Grover himself,’ Katie speculated. ‘I’ve always thought his looks are a bit too good to be true…’
‘I’m sure there’s a step or two between being handsome and being a cold-blooded killer.’ Beth raised her eyebrows.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t find him attractive?’ Katie said.
‘He’s maybe an inch or two too tall for me,’ said Beth, with a laugh. But her face immediately fell. It felt a bit too soon to be joking.
Katie caught her newly-sombre mood. ‘So, it was definitely murder, then?’ she asked in a low voice, glancing around.
‘The police inspector was very discreet but I think it must have been. I can’t see any way Jenkins can have had an accident, flat on his back like that, which would have caused so much blood…’
‘Euuww,’ said Katie, screwing up her delicate features.
‘Well, yes,’ said Beth. ‘But you did want the gory details. And they are – really gory. He was stabbed. It’s the only explanation I can think of. When I shut my eyes, I just hear that line of Lady Macbeth’s, you know: “who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him?”’
‘God, how dreadful,’ said Katie. ‘I wonder how his wife is taking it.’
‘His wife? You know her?’
‘Well, yes, sort of. She started taking one of my stretch classes about six months ago.’
‘What’s she like?’ said Beth, agog.
‘Well, she’s a funny one, really. She’s one of those older ladies who looks really cuddly, you know; lots of cardies and florals, and she’s quite smiley. Everyone’s idea of the perfect granny. She looks really friendly, but I get the impression that she’s really not at all. She doesn’t mingle much with the rest of the class – apart from the Bursar’s wife.’
‘Which Bursar?’
‘The Wyatt’s one – you probably know him now that you’re in with that lot. Anyway, Mrs Jenkins – Ruth is her first name – is always tagging along with the Bursar’s wife. Now she’s quite nice, very well turned out, blonde, and very good at yoga. But Ruth Jenkins, she’s not really what I’d call a yoga natural. She’s a bit more well, cylindrical, shape-wise, you know.’
Beth, who did know only too well, was newly sympathetic towards Mrs Jenkins. Marriage to Dr Jenkins can’t have been fun. Now she’d been horribly widowed, and even her yoga style was under attack.
‘Do you know if she works?’
‘Not every day, or she wouldn’t be at my class, I suppose. I think she has something to do with our school, Charles and Ben’s, I mean. I’ve seen her in there. She never says hello to me, though she must recognise me. And I don’t know what she does. Some kind of office job, maybe?’
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Beth was surprised, but made a mental note to check. ‘Anything else strike you about her?’
‘Nothing I can really put a finger on. I’d sum her up as aloof,’ Katie said, stirring her coffee with a frown.
‘Mmm. Sounds quite different from Jenkins. He wasn’t nearly aloof enough. Like I said on the phone, a bit of a perv. I wonder how they got on?’
‘No idea. Never saw them together. I don’t suppose she’ll be coming to the session today, but her friend might. I’ll let you know if I find anything out. Is there any reason you want to know, or is it just idle curiosity?’
‘It’s mostly just being nosy. I mean, he was supposed to be my boss. I didn’t take to him. But obviously not enough to do him in. You know me. I don’t like secrets and mysteries. I’d like to know what happened. But also, I am a bit worried, because I’m the person who found the body.’
‘Well, that’s appalling, but it’s not as though it was your fault. You were just there.’
‘Yes, but don’t you see? The police always suspect the person who found the body. Half the time, they’re right to. Because the only reason someone finds the body is because they’ve just killed it…’
‘Present company excepted, I assume!’ said Katie.
‘You see, even you’re sounding a bit suspicious,’ said Beth, cradling her cup again, as she had yesterday in the office when the constable’s questioning was going on and on. ‘You can imagine what it’s going to be like at Wyatt’s. Nobody’s said anything, of course, but I was already getting some sideways glances. The only thing they know about me is that I started work on Monday at 9am and my boss promptly died a gruesome, violent death. It’s not a great introduction to the place, is it? Some of them are bound to think...’
‘What? What are they going to think? That you took that job on purpose just to attack a complete stranger? No-one can really think that, particularly once they’ve met you,’ said Katie, looking her friend over affectionately.
Beth, from her mop of shiny dark hair and worried grey eyes, to her tatty ‘day off’ jeans and little pixie boots, was the last person anyone would suspect of murder most foul. She might frequently be guilty of stressing out, she over-thought things on a daily basis, she could be a tad clumsy, but violence? Never.
Beth put down her coffee cup a little too hard, and half the remaining liquid sloshed onto the table. They both set to with napkins to mop up.
‘I’m such a klutz!’ Beth groaned. ‘I don’t know, Katie, look at all this. I’m a wreck,’ she continued. ‘I’m the obvious suspect. The only suspect, as far as I know. People are bound to be wondering. I would myself, if I were in their shoes. I bet that’s just going to get worse, until they find whoever did it.’
‘What about the police? Surely they can set everyone straight, tell them you were nowhere near?’
‘But don’t you see, Katie? They don’t know where on earth I was. No-one knows. I don’t have an alibi. I was stuck in the archive office, on my own, for three hours. I didn’t see anyone… and no-one saw me. I don’t even know what the time of death was; the policeman was so tight-lipped. But it doesn’t really matter because I’ve got no alibi at all for any of that time.’
Katie was silent for a minute, absently stirring her coffee dregs. Then her sunny nature shook off the gloom. ‘On the other hand, you have absolutely no motive, either. You didn’t know Jenkins. Had you ever met him before?’
‘Only at the interview, and I wasn’t alone with him at all. If I had been, I would have noticed the leering more, and… well, I would still have taken the job, but I would have been a bit more prepared for him yesterday.’
Katie looked thoughtful. ‘They won’t think you stabbed him because he was perving at you, will they?’
‘God, I hope not! He didn’t actually do anything, after all; he just made me feel uncomfortable. It’s not punishable by death yet. I’d be more likely to have a quiet word with him – excruciatingly embarrassing though that would have been – than take him out to the bins and actually stab him.’
‘They don’t know that, though, do they? They might think you’re a completely militant feminist or something. “Death to the defiler”, and all that,’ Katie mused.
‘Oh cheers, thanks for that. Even my best friend thinks I have an excellent motive. Would you mind keeping an eye on Ben for me while I’m in prison for twenty years?’ said Beth.
‘Oh, don’t be silly, I was just thinking out loud. They’re going to take one look at you and realise you couldn’t stab the plastic film on a ready meal, let alone a fully-grown pervert.’ Katie was matter-of-fact as ever.
‘God, I hope so. Mind you, that makes me sound so limp. I mean, I really don’t think I could kill anyone in cold blood – but say he was attacking Ben? I might be able to then.’
‘Well, maybe don’t mention that to the police,’ said Katie briskly. ‘Let’s stick with the wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly and didn’t-know-the-victim-anyway angle – both of which are true. I hope you won’t be officially under suspicion. That could be horrible.’
‘I know. Maybe I could have had some sort of ancient grudge against him… who knows? That’s why I’m beginning to think… Katie, this may sound crazy, but I think I’ve got to try and clear my name. At least, try and find some other people who would have had a motive to kill him. Then maybe one of them will turn out to have been in the playground at the right time. After all, someone really did murder him – and it wasn’t me.’
They looked at each other, eyes wide. ‘But how on earth will you start?’ said Katie.
‘Well, maybe with Mrs Jenkins. If anyone understands why somebody wanted him dead, it’ll be his wife – or her best friend. Listen, I’ve got an idea. Ben’s at school, I can’t go to work, I’m not in the mood to tackle any of my other jobs – what time is your stretch class?’
***
Two hours later, Beth was lying on a yoga mat, wearing the best impromptu exercise gear she could dig out at short notice – an ancient T-shirt and pair of leggings that had seen far better years. She loved Katie’s yoga school. It had a fantastic location, on the first floor above one Dulwich’s most exclusive – read, most expensive – boutiques. It was a large whitewashed space, very New-York-loft-apartment in spirit. There was a bank of open wooden shelving at one end for mats, bolsters, foam blocks, and other mysterious yoga accoutrements. An office and a tiny loo clustered at the other end of the room. All the splashes of colour in the room came from Katie’s clientele’s expensively curated fitness clothes. Everyone either arrived ready-changed or was so body-confident that getting into the latest gear from Sweaty Betty or Lululemon in front of the rest of the class simply wasn’t an issue.
Beth, naturally shy, had felt self-conscious as the assorted Dulwich ladies shrugged out of their skinny jeans and then wriggled into equally skinny Lycra pants, flashing a good deal of lightly tanned, expertly depilated flesh. Luckily, this particular class wasn’t too advanced and she was loving the stretches, even if she sometimes found she was listing like a creaking door to the left while everyone else glided effortlessly to the right.
Technically, she was a spring chicken - most of this group had at least ten years on her. But they were all in great shape, with barely a love handle breaking their smooth Lycra-ed lines as they raced through the movements with precision. Katie, in her element, was correcting a posture here, offering encouragement there, nipping from lady to lady.
As she hovered over the woman next to Beth, she looked meaningfully at her friend. Beth nodded quickly, hoping Katie wasn’t being too obvious. She took a quick look when everyone else was absorbed with their Downward Dogs. So, this must be Mrs Jenkins’ best friend.
Beth spent the rest of the session working out how best to approach the woman. Unfortunately, all the thinking wasn’t helping Beth’s own performance. She was giving only part of her mind to the routine, and it didn’t seem to be the sporty part. As they got to the tricky Chair Pose, her lack of attention got the bette
r of her – she stumbled forward and, to her mortification, collapsed onto Mrs Jenkins’ friend.
She flushed beetroot and whispered her apologies – the rest of the class was politely ploughing on, despite the disruption – but at last she had her entrée. As the class wrapped up and everyone began to collect their bags from the side of the room, she had the perfect reason to apologise again.
‘I feel such an idiot… in fact, I’ve been a bit shaky since yesterday,’ she said, not having to embroider her flustered act too much; the whole business genuinely was still so raw. ‘I had a terrible first day at my new job at Wyatt’s’.
As she had expected, this was enough to get her companion’s full attention. She was the Wyatt’s Bursar’s wife, after all.
‘Oh, were you there when…?’
‘I was. I actually found the body,’ Beth said, lowering her voice and looking around to see if they were being overheard.
Sure enough, a couple of the women turned away and started determinedly talking amongst themselves. She wasn’t at all surprised. Murder didn’t happen every day, did it? Not in lovely, leafy Dulwich.
‘You must be the new archive girl,’ said her companion quietly.
‘That’s right, I’m Beth,’ she said, immediately sticking out her hand. She felt if she could establish a connection, she might root out a lot more information. Her hand was shaken, reluctantly.
‘Judith. Judith Seasons. I’m a great friend of, well, was a friend of Dr Jenkins – and his family, of course,’ she said quietly. Her still-glossy, expensively blonded hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her skin glowed from the recent exercise. She might be in late middle age but, as they said in Dulwich, 60 was the new forty-with-fillers.
‘Is there anywhere we could go, just to have a quick chat?’ Beth saw alarm flicker in Judith Seasons eyes. ‘Just in case you have anything you want to ask me,’ she added quickly, as though extracting information on her own account was absolutely the last thing she had in mind.
‘Well, I’m just about to…’ Judith Seasons appeared to be on the verge of thinking up an excuse, when Katie popped up, having rolled all the mats and stacked them neatly in double-quick time. Everyone else had disappeared while they had been talking.
