Coffin in the Black Museum

by Gwendoline Butler

  It was just possible Louie had been one of Mimsie’s grandfathers, then.

  ‘And this length of rope in the case here?’ Herr Hamburg pointed to a twist of dark rope displayed in a row of objects. Next to it were several guns, and a couple of knives.

  ‘Jim Cotton, the Leathergate strangler. He did in five people with rope like that. That length was found on him while he was attacking his last victim. She got away.’

  A row of guns of various kinds were displayed next to the strangler’s rope, and Tom Cowley ticked off their exploits one by one: armed robbery, a murder then suicide, a multiple murder on a housing estate. The violent deaths spanned six decades and more. There was plenty of blood behind the display in this room. That was the attraction, of course, although not one that people actually put into speech.

  A group of local dignitaries arrived at this point. The new Lord Mayor apologizing for being late. He was a business man, head of a large concern with factories all over the world, but whose headquarters were in Leathergate.

  He was a man who knew how to be jovial to men so much less rich and powerful than he was himself. ‘Had a committee, Tom. But I’ve brought Katherine and Ted with me.’ This was Mr and Mrs Lupus. The Lord Mayor’s wife, Agnes Fraser, was a friend of Katherine Lupus. ‘And this is Frank Llywellyn who works with me.’ Llywellyn was a neat, quiet young man, an actuary by training and temperament. He was never bored by detail and demanded little of life in the way of excitement. He too had an office in Thameswater and had been lured into local government by the persuasions of Bert Fraser, his role model at the moment, although he had had others before and might have others afterwards.

  ‘We’ve come back for a second look,’ said Katherine Lupus. ‘I brought a school party and didn’t really get a chance for a good look round.’

  ‘That was the day two of them were taken ill, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was,’ said Katherine Lupus with feeling. ‘But it was the day they had had injections on account of a school trip to Turkey.’ She looked about the room with a practised eye, saw that Agnes was doing her duty as Lord Mayor’s wife by talking to the foreign visitors, and not flirting with anyone personable (usually Frank Llywellyn) as was her wont, and decided she could enjoy herself. ‘Oh, Miss Pinero, I am so pleased to meet you. I have watched you act so often and admired you so much.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re doing Ibsen, aren’t you? Hedda Gabler?’

  ‘I am directing, not acting,’ said Stella with a serious face. She knew exactly how to present herself to her women admirers. ‘My first attempt, so I am nervous.’

  ‘After Ibsen, you must try Strindberg,’ said Professor Uppsala, promoting his own national deity. ‘He is more full of passion.’

  Agnes Fraser joined them. ‘I hope you will do some modern work. Say Howard Brenton.’ Used to exercising social glitter herself, she recognized Stella as a rival attraction. A tall, slender, girl with red-gold hair, she knew that she was younger than Stella and her jewellery was better, but Stella had what used to be called star quality. ‘Or possibly some of the good new women writers.’ She tried to think of some names and failed.

  ‘I’ll do anything anyone gives me a good part in,’ said Stella gamely. ‘There aren’t so many for women.’

  Agnes Fraser turned to John Coffin. ‘I know your sister, Lætitia Bingham. We’ve worked together on a couple of committees. She chaired one.’

  It did not surprise John that Lætitia was on several committees, nor that she had chaired one of them; she was a lady who managed things. He remembered he had not heard from brother William and wondered why not. It was a little niggle at the back of his mind, suggesting no good of itself.

  ‘She’s not here today?’

  ‘No.’

  Agnes lowered her voice ‘I hear a head has been found, no body, just a head.’

  ‘How did you hear that?’

  ‘The son of some neighbours of ours found it.’ The Frasers had a penthouse overlooking the River Thames, part of an old East Indian trade warehouse. In addition they had a country house (cottage, they called it, but it was said to be considerably more than that) in Berkshire, still not far away from the Thames, for which they seemed to have an affection and in which they certainly had a strong commercial interest. ‘He told his mother that he knew who it was. He thinks she wasn’t listening and didn’t hear, but of course she was. She doesn’t know if he’s lying or not.’

  ‘He’s her child.’ If she couldn’t tell, who could?

  ‘He does have a vivid imagination. But this time she doesn’t think he’s lying.’

  ‘I’ll see someone goes round to talk to him.’ Or he might go himself. Little Billy had interested him. ‘Has he told them who he thinks it is.’

  Agnes shook her head. ‘Someone from the theatre, they imagine. He’s there so much.’

  ‘Is that what his mother thinks?’

  ‘It’s what I think.’ She was talking for herself as much as for Little Billy, Coffin realized. It was what she thought, and it worried her. ‘It’s sinister, that place, the old church ambience, don’t you think? It’s got a feel to it. My daughter used to go to Guide meetings in the hall and I always hated it. Nothing to do with the present use of it, something left over from the past.’

  Then she smiled. ‘Mind you, if anything could wipe out the past, then the current theatre group could. Some strong characters there. Have you met them?’

  ‘Only Stella.’

  Both of them turned towards the end of the room.

  An enthralled audience had gathered around Stella, constantly replenished as those who had had their word with the lady, drifted away and others took their place. Coffin admired the expertise with which she dismissed some and hung on to those she still wanted round her. She was holding a kind of court, at the heart of which were the foreign policemen with Herr Hamburg maintaining his place with skill.

  At the end of the room a long table was spread with a buffet where Tom Cowley was presiding over the wine.

  By the table was a display cabinet. Some strange exhibits were laid out here. One woman’s stocking, much laddered. An old raincoat, stained with mud. A dirty, crumpled square of linen. These were on one side, then to the right, as if associated with these objects but a little a separate, was another stocking, just as laddered as the one on the other side, but of a paler shade and smaller foot. It had belonged to another woman. Still to the right was a bloodstained sheet of old newspaper. It looked yellowing and brittle, but on one side was a faint, bloody fingerprint.

  ‘Don’t you find an atmosphere in this place?’ Coffin asked Agnes. ‘Wine? Or would you prefer gin or whisky? Tom seems to have thought of everything. I think there’s even some Perrier.’

  ‘Oh, I do feel an atmosphere, but that’s to be expected. It’s full of a kind of visible evil. But it’s been cleared up, the investigations are over.’

  ‘Not that one,’ said Tom Cowley, pointing to the display case. Ted Lupus, who had been looking at it, moved away hastily. ‘That was a failure. The case was not cleared up. We never caught that one.’

  ‘At home we have plenty of those,’ said the policeman from Hamburg. ‘More than we care for.’ But he studied the case with interest.

  ‘We thought we had the killer at one point. But it turned out not to be so,’ said Cowley. ‘I remember the case. Two young women, one after the other, raped and strangled. I should think we all remember it round here. A real nasty one.’

  ‘A famous case?’ asked the Belgian policeman.

  ‘No, it got very little notice outside the district. But we had a special reason here. The first victim was a policewoman and the first suspect was a young copper.’

  ‘Were these two young women the only victims?’ asked Herr Hamburg.

  It was a shrewd question, Coffin felt, with his own memories of the case flooding back.

  ‘We always wondered that,’ said Tom Cowley. ‘Especially after the second killing. There was c
ircumstantial evidence linking the policeman to the death of the first victim. When the second one was killed it looked as though he could have done that too. So he was arrested. And then, a bit later, this piece of newspaper was found. It should have been found before, but it wasn’t. That was bad.’

  ‘These things happen,’ said Herr Hamburg.

  ‘Yes, but you always feel they shouldn’t.’

  ‘They never should.’

  ‘But they do. Anyway, there was blood on this paper. She’d bled a bit, that girl. And there was this fingerprint. Her blood. Not her fingerprint. Not the young copper’s, either.’

  ‘You have it all pat.’

  ‘Fifteen years ago?’ Cowley shrugged. ‘I was young myself then.’

  ‘Was the second victim also a policewoman?’ asked Dr Copenhagen alertly.

  ‘No. But that’s clever of you, because she very nearly was. She’d applied to join as a graduate police officer, but was turned down because of eyesight.’

  ‘And you never got anyone?’

  Tom Cowley shook his head. ‘One of our failures, an unsolved crime.’

  ‘And no more murders?’

  ‘None that we know of,’ said Tom Cowley.

  ‘And the young policeman?’

  John Coffin and Tom Cowley looked at each other.

  Coffin said: ‘His wife had died while he was under suspicion. Childbirth. When he got out he hanged himself. That right, Tom?’

  ‘Right,’ said Tom Cowley heavily. He didn’t look too well. He needed that holiday, Coffin thought.

  It was amazing how some cases never lay down and died.

  John Coffin and Stella Pinero walked home to St Luke’s Mansions together. Without admitting it to each other, they were both edging towards a closer relationship.

  ‘What about Herr Hamburg?’ The chap had hung on.

  ‘I’m meeting him tomorrow for dinner,’ said Stella. ‘He is interested in the theatre.’

  I bet, thought Coffin. He was annoyed to find he minded.

  They crossed the busy main road by the Spinnergate Tube station, where Mimsie was sitting by her paper stand. She gave them an alert look. Today she was wearing a red straw boater with feathers at the back.

  Coffin bought a paper. It was considered bad luck locally to pass Mimsie by without buying and he never ran unnecessary risks, tucked it under his arm, and they turned the corner into Black Archer Road.

  ‘That’s the house where Rosie Ascot had rooms.’ She pointed to the second in a terrace of tall, yellow brick houses, some of which were due for renovation and some of which had already experienced a sharp rise in status. The house Stella indicated was still awaiting change.

  ‘Rosie who?’ said Coffin absently.

  ‘The girl who went away.’

  ‘Oh yes. What about her landlady? Wasn’t she worried?’

  ‘Not that sort of place. Almost a squat. No one cared.’

  ‘What was she like, this girl? Describe her to me.’

  ‘Tall, fair. But I can do better than that.’

  Once at St Luke’s Mansions, Stella led him inside her flat where packing cases stood about in the hall. ‘I’m camping out. Wait a sec while I look in this box.’ She rummaged in a cardboard carton, emerging with a clutch of photographs. She handed one to Coffin and dropped two on the floor.

  ‘This her?’ He was studying a publicity photograph of a smiling, blonde girl with curly hair and neat features.

  ‘Yes, she sent in photographs when I was auditioning people for Hedda.’ Stella studied the photograph. ‘I didn’t want her for that, I’ve got Goldstone, but I gave her Mrs Elvsted. She had the right look somehow. Bridie Peel has the part now.’

  Coffin: ‘What’s this, though?’ The girl was in uniform, grinning at the camera from a car. Don’t say she was in the police force?’

  ‘No, her agent sent that in. She had a part in a TV police series.’

  ‘Right.’ He returned the photograph. ‘Hang on to that. Thanks for showing me. You staying here now?’

  ‘As from tomorrow. But just now I am going over to the Workshop for a run through.’

  Together they left Stella’s flat.

  The door to the main church stood open.

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ said Coffin. He pushed the door further open. ‘Smells a bit.’

  Stella wrinkled her nose. ‘Earthy. And damp.’

  ‘Coming from the crypt. The builder has started work, digging up the floor.’ He took a step forward. ‘Does it seem sinister in here to you? Any bad feel?’

  Stella shook her head. ‘Only the smell.’

  It was quite strong, an earthy decaying smell.

  Stella kissed his cheek and walked on to the Theatre Workshop where a strong-minded group, such as Lily Gold-stone and Charlie Driscoll, did not believe in any ghosts other than the one that walked on Friday, and the one that hung over the ‘Scottish play’ whose name one must not speak.

  Later that day, when he was at home again, he took a call from his sister Lætitia Bingham.

  ‘I’ve heard from William. Have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh well, you will. He’s coming to London on the shuttle and wants us to meet him for lunch. He’ll go back that night.’

  ‘Really?’ William had a more than usual economical turn of mind. If he was spending money it boded no good. ‘Where?’

  ‘He’s leaving it to me to say. I shall say the White Tower, I like it there.’

  Coffin decided not to interfere. He had an idea that William was perhaps, as they say in Scotland, the ‘warmest’ of the three of them. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘He says that he has been investigating the family archives and has found something we ought to see.’

  ‘Family archives? What’s he mean by that? I didn’t know we had any.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just the way he talks. Whatever it is, we shall find out. Next week. Tuesday.’

  No sooner had he put the telephone down than it rang again. This time it was Superintendent Paul Lane, a man he had worked with before and who had transferred to the new Force with him.

  ‘Got a bit of news. You know that head you found?’

  It was a rhetorical question which Coffin did not answer.

  ‘It’s the head of a man.’

  ‘I thought so.’ Not Rosie, then. Had he ever really thought it was?

  ‘The funeral parlour deny that it is anything to do with them. Never saw him, don’t know anything about him. The urn is not one they would ever use, probably came from a garden centre, they say. And as for the label, there are always some around in the office to put on flowers or some such. Anyone could have taken one.’

  ‘Not much further forward, then.’ He was wondering about Rosie Ascot.

  Lane was triumphant. ‘We are. It’s been identified. A chap in the office here recognized the face.’

  ‘I’m surprised.’

  ‘Yes, but he saw the hair, apparently the way it grew reminded him and he thought about it, took another look and decided it was. The chap used to be the caretaker in St Luke’s.’ He paused. ‘Where you are now.’

  Letty had said that the caretaker had left. For ever, apparently.

  ‘So that was where he went.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing. Name?’

  ‘Peter Tiler. Usually called Pete. In his forties.’

  ‘Any record?’

  ‘No record.’

  No help there, then. An ordinary man.

  ‘He’s been dead a bit. Could have been kept under refrigeration.’

  ‘Ah. That’s the suggestion, is it? Not just your idea?’

  ‘The pathologist thinks so. You can tell, apparently.’

  Coffin had a passing thought for his own small freezer. Yes, it was just about head-sized. He hoped the late caretaker had not rested there.

  ‘But that’s not all. Underneath the head … I don’t suppose you looked?’

  ‘I did not.’

&n
bsp; ‘There was a hand. Just one. The right one. Wacky, isn’t it?’

  Later still that day, Stella went back to her new apartment, she was expecting to entertain a few friends and made for the refrigerator to investigate the chances of ice-cubes. She took a look in the freezing compartment.

  She gave a scream at what she found there, and fainted.

  CHAPTER 3

  Coffin did not hear the scream in his high tower since several doors and a winding staircase insulated him from it, but he was alerted by a hammering on his door and the pealing of the front-door bell. It was the old-fashioned kind of bell that you pulled, the architect thought it more in keeping with St Luke’s Mansions than anything electric and had gone to considerable trouble to find an antique apparatus. The noise it made was a tribute to its long dead makers, and was one that Coffin was never able to ignore. Generations of servants must have hurried to answer it as he did now.

  The bell rang back and forth, sounding its tocsin. It was still ringing as Coffin opened the door.

  ‘What is it?’

  He saw a small, plump man, with a rolling mop of curly fair hair. He had bright hazel eyes, very lightly outlined in pencil and with just a touch of mascara on the lashes.

  ‘I’m Charlie Driscoll. From the Workshop. You don’t know me, but I know you. Can you come? It’s Stella. In her place. She’s found something.’

  The words were bubbling out, not easy to comprehend, but the urgency was clear.

  He was still talking as Coffin followed him.

  ‘Poor Stella, I mean, there she is, innocently looking into her freezer. She’d asked us all up to her new place for a drink. And did we need one after the disasters we’ve had with the set and everyone drying! So she left the door on the latch and JoJo and I marched in and there she was on the floor. Quite out, poor love, and who shall blame her.’ He paused momentarily for breath. ‘I feel sick myself and I assure you I gave the object the merest glance. Hardly a twinkle. Shut the door, Stella, I said, there’s no need to lie staring at it. She was flat on the floor … I’ve left JoJo with her.’

  Stella was still on the floor, but fully conscious. A tall, bustless, blonde girl was kneeling by her side, one hand firmly on Stella’s chest, the other gripping her wrist. She appeared to be holding her down.