Death in Dulwich

by Alice Castle

  Beth picked up the nearest carton, unceremoniously upended it on a bare patch of floor, and let the dusty contents spill out. She kicked the pile into some sort of order without bothering to read any of the documents, though under a couple of inches of the now familiar back copies of school magazines from the 1970s, she did notice a few much older-looking ledgers and documents tied up with discoloured tape.

  She started stuffing the empty box with all the things that could easily be identified as belonging to the late Dr Jenkins. In went a moth-eaten pullover; a rather nice leather shoulder bag which, on inspection, seemed to contain only old copies of the Times – folded down to the cryptic crossword page; mostly at least three-quarters finished and certainly suggesting he was less than dedicated to his work; a scarf in what looked like an ancient take on the school colours; a pair of well-used tennis shoes; a dog-eared John Le Carre paperback (maybe the source of his MI5 tales); a stash of chewing gum; five rolls of Polo mints; and several packets of Benson and Hedges cigarettes. There was also a stack of well-used Moleskine notebooks, bristling with receipts, and a ragged sheaf of bank statements.

  Beth, after a brief struggle with herself, decided she really needed to go through these herself before handing them over. She could always say they had been stashed away in a drawer blocked by one of the boxes, if anyone wondered why she’d held them back. A cursory glance at the chaos in the archive office would help anyone believe that could be true.

  Technically, she supposed she shouldn’t be leaving the premises during the school day, but with Ben to look after once school finished, it was now or never if she wanted to beard Mrs Jenkins. And, after only five days in the job, she was now pretty convinced that no-one else in the school had the least interest in what happened in the archives office anyway.

  She almost laughed out loud as she contrasted her expectations of her shiny new job with the reality which had confronted her, right from the off on Monday. She’d been looking forward to careful, methodical hours, sorting, categorising, marshalling facts, doing the thing she did best – bringing order. Instead, from the moment she turned up, she’d been faced with a sort of casual indifference to her role. Everyone else referred to the place as a shed, and the more she thought about it, the more even Jenkins’ attitude to her had seemed off-hand and resentful.

  From Jenkins’ own point of view, she supposed she had burst into his kingdom, and would soon be shedding light on his laziness and complete failure to get a handle on the archives. If anyone had had a motive to do away with someone on Monday, it was probably him garrotting her, as his cover was about to be blown. But things had fallen out very differently. She now felt that, by trying to find out what had really happened, she was not only sticking up for Jenkins (however little he may have deserved it) but also fighting for the archives themselves. They had clearly been neglected for years. Well, all that, she pledged, was going to change. She was really going to start getting to grips with this room, she thought, as she looked around the crowded and cobwebby space. Just as soon as she’d got somewhere with Mrs Jenkins.

  With that, she picked up the large box and breezed out, carrying it in front of her as though she was on legitimate urgent school archive business, whatever that might mean. She passed a few teachers (not her Prime Suspects, as she’d begun to think of them) and legions of children without a query or even a raised eyebrow, nodded to the porter in a very important way, and was out through the Wyatt gates before she’d even paused for breath. She could only hope that Mrs Jenkins would be as accepting.

  It was a perfect English spring day. A fresh coolness was tempered by fingers of gentle sunshine, which stroked the bobbing daffodils and bright blue grape hyacinths dotted in gardens along her way. All the houses in Dulwich Village looked as though they’d been freshly painted to greet the new season, and she wouldn’t have been altogether surprised if they actually had.

  It hadn’t been hard to ferret out the Jenkins family address in Gilkes Place. It was at the top of Dr Jenkins’ bank statements, and she knew the road well. It was close to her own home, though the houses in Jenkins’ road were infinitely bigger and more stately than in her little street. Gilkes Place lay curved like an encircling arm around the back of the St Barnabus parish hall, which was a quaint building with a triangular-shaped roof, like a ski chalet suddenly dropped from a mountain top into comfiest suburbia. She had very fond memories of the hall itself, as she’d taken Ben there every Thursday morning for at least a year for one of his first toddler groups. It was where she’d met Katie.

  As she rounded the corner into Gilkes Place, she leaned the box on a handy wall for a moment to catch her breath. If she hadn’t been carrying such a massive chunk of cardboard, she would have thoroughly enjoyed the stroll. The box had been useful as a prop when she’d exited the school, but now she was cursing all its unwieldy angles, and its contents slopped from side to side with every step she took.

  She lifted it up again with a little sigh. Not far to go now. The road was a cul-de-sac and even the birds seemed to have been fitted with silencers to preserve the hush. These houses were gorgeous, and very rarely came on the market. She wondered – acknowledging that she was being horribly ‘Dulwich’ as she did so – if Jenkins’ place would have to be sold now. There would be a feeding frenzy as soon as it hit rightmove.com, that was for sure.

  The houses in the short road were all different in style, though each one was signalling solid middle class values and unassailable affluence. Jenkins’ home sported a green pocket handkerchief of lawn outside – not quite up to Wyatt’s billiard table green smoothness, but not far from it – which was roped off from the street by dinky short white posts with a painted chain slung between them. It wasn’t Beth’s style – the post and chain arrangement served no purpose but would require loads of work to keep it blinding white – but it was eye-catching and high maintenance, which were solid Dulwich values, she had to admit.

  All this observation was taking the edge off her nerves as she stood, box in arms, contemplating Jenkins’ house. Even though she didn’t want to be hefting the box around forever, now that she was here, Beth was reluctant to ring the bell. What on earth was she going to say to poor Mrs Jenkins? Wasn’t she intruding terribly? And what the hell was she hoping to achieve by this piece of nonsense?

  As usual, letting the negative voice in her head have full rein for a minute helped Beth convince herself that she was right. Yes, she did risk making an utter fool of herself. But on the other hand, she did need to clear herself of the imputation of murder. Her choice was either to wait what was likely to be a very long time for the police to sort everything out according to today’s elaborate protocols, or to get on and do it herself. If she could bring up Ben, pay her mortgage and put food on the table, she could do this simple thing and barge in on a grieving widow, couldn’t she? She took a deep breath, marched up the crazy paving path, plonked the box at her feet, and rang the brass bell on the shiny pillar-box red door. With any luck, no-one was in.

  There was a long pause, and Beth really thought her wish had been granted. Suddenly, she was disappointed, and stooped to pick the dratted box up again. Now she’d have to carry the blinking thing all the way back.

  Then she heard the unmistakable sound of someone stirring inside. Her heart started thumping, and she ran a hand over her hair, pushing the Shetland pony fringe out of her eyes. It flopped inexorably back into place just as the door opened.

  ‘Miss Brown!’ exclaimed Beth in shock. It was Ben’s learning support teacher – a little more red-eyed and rumpled-looking than usual, it was true, but the same reassuringly motherly figure, in burgundy wool trousers and a fawn cowl-necked sweater, that Ben had been getting extra reading practice with every Thursday this year.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Beth. ‘What are you doing here, Miss Brown? Where’s Mrs Jenkins?’ Beth couldn’t help rising onto her tiptoes and looking behind Miss Brown into the gloom of the hall.

  Was Mrs Jenkin
s a friend? Was the kindly Miss Brown comforting the new widow? Beth’s thoughts whirled. Miss Brown, looking less cuddly than usual now that Beth looked more closely, was still gripping the front door. She sighed and spoke quickly and quietly, her voice strained.

  ‘I am Mrs Jenkins. I go by the name of Brown at the Primary, because I started there before I married – a long time ago, but people get used to the name. Not that I quite see why it concerns you?’ Her eyebrows made perfect half-circles against her pallor.

  Beth was astonished. She’d had no idea that Ben’s Miss Brown and Dr Jenkins’ widow were one and the same. She felt silly. But she hadn’t made the connection at all. It was a common enough name and, it sounded ridiculous, but she had never thought for one moment about the woman’s life outside the school. She did remember she and Ben had bumped into the teacher in Dulwich Park, back in September, and had said their hellos, but Dr Jenkins hadn’t been anywhere in evidence. And besides, that was months before she’d got the Wyatt’s job. She wouldn’t have known who Jenkins was anyway at that point, even if he and Miss Brown/Jenkins had been skipping around the park together hand-in-hand. She did wonder whether Katie had known, but if she had, she would have told Beth. Wouldn’t she?

  She felt quite disconcerted, but maybe the fact that she already knew Miss Brown – or Mrs Jenkins – however slightly, might work in her favour now and help the older woman to open up. She could but hope.

  ‘Oh! Well, I have a little boy at the school. Don’t you recognise me from parents’ evening? His name is Ben. I’m his mum, Beth Haldane. He’s in Year 5. At the Primary. As I said,’ said Beth, beginning to babble as Mrs Jenkins continued to look unrelentingly blank.

  ‘You read with him on Thursdays,’ said Beth, a little desperately.

  Mrs Jenkins heaved a sigh and seemed to come to a decision. ‘Well, I’m sure we can talk at school if you’ve got concerns about how he’s getting on. I’m afraid I can’t chat now,’ she said with a brief smile, then prepared to close the door.

  Beth rushed into speech, determined to prevent this opportunity from slipping away. ‘I’m very sorry to have troubled you, Mrs Jenkins. This is really odd, but I haven’t come about Ben at all. I’ve come about your husband.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Mrs Jenkins’ tone was curiously flat, but her hand dropped from the door.

  ‘I actually just started working with your husband… he appointed me as assistant archivist…’

  ‘Oh, did he?’ Again, Mrs Jenkins’ tone was flat, but there was a flash of something in her eyes at this news. Was it dislike? ‘Well, I don’t see what that has to do with me. I’m sorry, I do need to get on. There’s such a lot to do….’ Mrs Jenkins tailed off, flashing that meaningless social smile again. As far as she was concerned, that was that.

  The last thing Beth wanted was to see that shiny pillar-box door shut in her face. She had to try and get inside the house and interrogate Mrs Jenkins – as sensitively as she could, of course. She racked her brains for anything, anything, which might give her a pretext. She started to talk fast.

  ‘Um, well, I don’t know if you knew this, but the police have been going through everything in the archives office and I thought that might well mean you hadn’t wanted to pick up his things from work. I thought I would save you the trouble of coming to the school. It must be very difficult… in the circumstances…’ She knew she was rambling and she knew that Mrs Jenkins, listless as she was, was running out of patience.

  Beth picked up the box and brandished it in front of her, hoping it looked too tempting to slam the door on. She even rattled the contents a little, like someone trying to entice a pet. ‘I’ve brought some of his things round for you. I wondered if you’d like them. And, well, I really thought you should have them back.’

  For a minute, Beth wasn’t sure whether Mrs Jenkins was going to ask her in, but when she saw the size of the box, the older woman sighed. ‘I’ve got a bad shoulder; I can’t lift that great big thing. Well, I suppose you’d better bring it in, whatever it is.’ There wasn’t much enthusiasm in her voice.

  Beth followed the older woman into the dark hall, which led off at the end into a large square kitchen. It was immaculate but somehow cheerless, dominated by unfashionable dark-stained wooden units, lavishly patterned taupe wall tiles, and a moss green paint which seemed to suck out the light.

  ‘What a lovely house, have you been here long?’ asked Beth brightly, hoping to dispel a bit of the gloom by simply refusing to acknowledge it.

  Mrs Jenkins looked around. ‘It seems a long time,’ she said heavily. ‘This is all much more Alan’s style than mine. He wasn’t into change, to put it mildly. I won’t offer you tea. I expect you’re in a rush.’

  ‘Oh, actually, tea would be great. I don’t have to be back for ages and I haven’t had a cup all day,’ said Beth enthusiastically. As it was only 11 o’clock now, she’d made herself sound like a hardened tea addict, but that was plausible enough, she thought. She was British, for goodness sake. A cup of tea was always going to be lovely.

  Mrs Jenkins sighed but filled the kettle and switched it on automatically. The mugs she unearthed from a cupboard were dark brown. Beth recognised them as from a huge service her grandparents had had dating from the 1970s, bristling with gravy boats and vegetable tureens, which had infested all their kitchen cupboards and which she had heartily loathed. Whenever she’d stayed at her grandparents’ house, they seemed to be entertaining and she remembered feeling left out upstairs alone as they and their friends shrieked late into the night. This pattern was now back in fashion, but still horrible, she reflected. She wondered if it was original, or had been bought recently in a bid to be trendy? Her money was firmly on the former option.

  Mrs Jenkins stirred milk into both cups slowly and brought them over to the heavy oak table, with their matching saucers – naturally – and an oval platter of hard-looking Rich Tea, Beth’s least favourite biscuits. She placed them on a lace table runner that bisected the shiny wood. Her face was still blank and unsmiling. Either Mrs Jenkins had been firmly under her husband’s cheerless thumb and was devastated by his death, or Beth had got her all wrong and she was far less warm and maternal than she’d seemed at that parents’ evening. Beth dragged out one of the oak kitchen chairs and sat down facing her.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering what Dr Jenkins was like to work for,’ said Beth gently. Mrs Jenkins looked at Beth. It was clear that, whatever she had been thinking, it wasn’t that – and that her actual thoughts were far darker than anything Beth could guess at. She must miss him terribly, thought Beth to herself. Poor lady. She seemed so different today from the cosy figure she remembered. Well, it wasn’t surprising that she would be affected by the murder of her husband, but she seemed depressed rather than sad.

  ‘Actually, I hardly knew your husband really. It was my first day when…. Well, you know,’ Beth tailed off. ‘But he seems to have been held in great esteem at the school… I’m sure he’ll be much missed…’ Beth shut up as she realised that she was spouting platitudes which did not fit Dr Jenkins at all. He didn’t seem to be held in much esteem and no-one seemed to miss him in the slightest – apart from the widow’s supposed best friend, Judith Seasons, who seemed altogether too keen on the man.

  She needed to start again. ‘Shall I just show you what I’ve packed in the box?’ Beth made to get up and fetch the carton, but Mrs Jenkins stopped her.

  ‘No! No, don’t do that. I’d rather go through everything… in my own time. You know.’

  ‘This must have been the most dreadful shock,’ Beth said sympathetically. ‘Are you sure you’re all right here on your own? Is there anyone staying with you?’ Beth looked around, but the house had a peculiarly deserted air. ‘I think you’re friends with Mrs Seasons, aren’t you? I expect she’s been round?’

  ‘How did you know about her?’ Mrs Jenkins was roused from her torpor for a moment.

  ‘I could ring her, if you like,’ said Beth, edging round
the question and hoping to get Mrs Seasons’ number, though she supposed it would be fairly easy to find it at school.

  ‘No, don’t ring her,’ said Mrs Jenkins firmly. ‘I’m fine on my own. I really am. I just need to… think things through a bit.’

  It was an odd comment. It certainly didn’t sound to Beth like the standard thoughts of a grieving widow. It was more as though Mrs Jenkins was struggling to come to terms with a seriously substandard tumble drier, rather than having her life’s partner snuffed out in… well, not exactly his prime, but still with a reasonable amount of time on his side. Beth, who had previously thought of the woman as a gentle, patient teacher that Ben seemed happy enough to trot off to once a week, realised there was a whole other Mrs Jenkins or Miss Brown – she wasn’t even sure what to call her now – who had remained hidden. She wasn’t sure she liked her. She definitely didn’t understand her. She tried again. ‘Maybe I could call your family, then?’

  ‘The family? Nooo,’ said Mrs Jenkins, shaking her head vigorously. ‘No, no, they shouldn’t be here, absolutely not… Oh, it’s all been so difficult. You wouldn’t understand,’ she said, fixing Beth suddenly with an anguished look. That glance made Beth realise how little eye contact they’d had since she had been in Mrs Jenkins’ home. Had the woman been deliberately avoiding her gaze? Or was she just consumed with her own misery – or depression?

  ‘Try me,’ said Beth. ‘I might understand more than you think. My husband died, too.’

  ‘Oh, did he? I knew you were on your own with your son, but I’m afraid I assumed you’d just had one of these splits. Well, it’s the modern way, isn’t it? Families don’t stick together any more, not like they used to. It’s not that I approve or disapprove, you understand,’ said Mrs Jenkins carefully. ‘One can’t discriminate, and of course my duty is to the children, whatever their backgrounds. But it does make everything so difficult. Two sets of PE kits, homework always left in the wrong house, all the confusion on who’s picking who up from school; the poor mites. They do suffer. They’re so mixed up. Divided loyalties, you see. Most of that is caused by people moving on, in one way or another. Not by death.’