The Coffin Tree

by Gwendoline Butler

Coffin was awkward. ‘Got my share.’ He went over and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m off. To make all my chaps’ lives a misery by asking questions they can’t answer or don’t want to.’

  At the door, he turned round. ‘Thanks for letting me talk this over. There really isn’t anyone else I can be quite frank with. I can say things as they come into my mind and know you won’t find them ridiculous. And right or wrong, won’t say anything or tell anyone. I value that, Stella.’

  The door banged behind him, and Tiddles the cat departed too. He hadn’t taken the tray and as far as she knew he had had no breakfast himself.

  But that wasn’t her job and she wasn’t that sort of wife; that wasn’t what he wanted from her nor what she had to offer. He trusted her.

  And she trusted him. On the whole, with definite reservations. He was a man about whom women clustered.

  Phoebe, Mary Henbit (oh yes, she had drawn her own conclusions there) and now this mysterious Agnes. Agnes who might be and might not be.

  She had almost finished dressing when the telephone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  A woman’s voice answered, not one she knew. ‘Phoebe Astley here. May I speak to the chief commander?’

  ‘I’m afraid my husband has left for his office. Have you tried there? This is Stella Pinero.’

  ‘I know. I recognized your voice. Heard you on television. Seen you on the stage, for that matter.’

  ‘Have you?’ Stella was pleased.

  ‘Yes, once at the National and then you came to the New Theatre in Birmingham. The Rose Tattoo.’

  ‘Oh, so I did. Wasn’t it dreadful? We never got that play right somehow. We were all dreadful. I’m sorry my husband is not here. He’s only just left.’

  ‘I’ll get in touch. I just wanted to tell him that I had fixed up somewhere to live.’

  With Eden Brown. It would be interesting but temporary.

  ‘I’ll tell him. We ought to meet, you and I. Come to coffee in Max’s. Near the theatre.’

  ‘I know where it is … but I’m supposed to be working … I’m not sure if the boss –’

  ‘Your boss, not mine.’

  ‘OK,’ said Phoebe with a laugh. ‘But not today. Later.’ She was not going to be managed by Stella.

  ‘We’re going to meet tomorrow at Geraldine’s party.’

  ‘Are we?’ Phoebe seemed surprised; she hadn’t yet decided to go, but she gathered she was expected to be there. Politics of the district, she supposed – Geraldine was someone you had to know. She was certainly someone you did not overlook. She must remember not to wear the dress of which Geraldine had the red version. Just in case. ‘I don’t know where to go.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll get a message,’ said Stella easily.

  She had a deep and attractive laugh, Stella decided. Sexy, too …

  Stella went off to the theatre, taking the dog with her, wondering what her husband was doing.

  Her group of friends and fellow actors welcomed her with enthusiasm. Stella was popular, recognized as firm, just and fair. Also, even more important, as a star attraction to this venturesome enterprise. The new drama school, the theatre workshop and the mainstream Pinero Theatre in the old church needed all the help it could get.

  Stella responded with happiness to the cries of joy that greeted her. ‘These are my favourite people,’ she said to herself. ‘There’s no one like theatre people. They are my people.’

  She threw her arms wide as she walked through the foyer of her own theatre. ‘Darlings … Come and have a drink in the bar. All of you.’ Darling on Stella’s lips when greeting her own kind lost none of its rolling vibrance.

  ‘Bar’s closed,’ said a sad voice from across the room. ‘Max hasn’t opened it yet.’

  ‘We’ll force him to open it.’ Stella knew she had a key.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said her new stage manager, ‘I know where a key is and we’ll chalk the drinks up on the board.’

  Do you know that, my love, thought Stella, and you so recently with me? I shall watch you and the bar takings.

  But for now, she smiled and led the way in.

  Not all the casts of the three productions were here, of course, just those who felt sociable or had been given notes and wanted a talk either with their producer or a sympathetic soul. But enough people crowded after Stella to make a party of it.

  ‘Right, Tony, you do the drinks as you know the way.’ Tony Bright had come with radiant praise from his first job at the Lake Theatre, Brampton, but perhaps he would bear watching. He was competent, though, she admitted, as she watched him handing out the drinks.

  To Rachel Fisher, her new assistant (people came and went fast in this world, moving on after one production or so), she told the news that she had seen Harry Trainer’s script and meant to put in a bid for first production. Rachel’s cries of interest were strong and loud.

  ‘It’s a secret so far,’ Stella hastened to say. ‘Just between us, must see what Harry says first.’ But she did not intend there should be much secrecy – she knew the benefits of advance publicity as well as anyone.

  Harry might be angry, but he would come round.

  Stella felt full of energy and happiness. She was sipping some wine, not really drinking much, she was full of her own happiness which was intoxicating enough. This was her world but she would make John Coffin welcome in it.

  She settled herself at a table by the door where everyone could see her and greet her and held court.

  Eleanor Farmer and Phyllis Archer were making their way to her. They were shy of pushing their way through the crowd that surrounded her. Not the most famous of their profession, nor the most talented, they were modest about claiming friendship with the great. Afterwards, they might gently admit that, yes, they did know Stella Pinero, had worked with her once or twice, a lovely lady.

  Stella knew them and waved. She liked them, hardworking, professional, loyal girls. Troupers. No greater praise could pass her lips.

  ‘Good to see you. Got a drink? Oh yes, I’m so happy to be back. Lots of plans. Stay around, I’m sure there’ll be a place for you two.’

  Eleanor wore a very short pleated skirt in bright blue, her eye make-up matched it; Phyllis wore her new red suit for the first time – it was her lucky colour, bright cyclamen, more pink than red. She had been right to wear it today.

  Stella remembered where she had heard the name Agnes. ‘Phyllis, tell me about Agnes. You know her, don’t you, darling?’

  Phyllis looked surprised but was willing to oblige Stella Pinero. Both of the girls had been in work for six months without interruption now, the St Luke’s Theatre complex had brought them luck. Six months clear, and now possibly the chance of more. Little travelling either, so for both no need to take a lodging anywhere; Ellie could go home to her husband and Philly could return to the man she was living with and his two dogs. ‘Well, I do,’ she began.

  Coffin too was conscious of the names circulating in his mind. What was Phoebe doing, how was she getting on with Eden Brown, and where and who was the mysterious Agnes?

  Phoebe was, in fact, unpacking her possessions in her new lodging and talking to her landlady. Eden was doing most of the talking while Phoebe listened, making mental notes. Just a load of misery, she decided, about how bad sales were and how anxious she was about the future. Nothing specific.

  Eden looked thin and unhappy. She offered Phoebe a cup of coffee which Phoebe refused, then Eden excused herself, saying she had left her Saturday girl in charge of the shop and had better get there quick.

  Phoebe completed her unpacking, then took the opportunity to make a quiet survey of the flat. She didn’t get much good from it. Eden was either a very cagey lady or else she destroyed her personal records as she went along. Phoebe did this herself.

  There was a desk with one locked drawer at which Phoebe looked wistfully but she could not start her stay here by forcing drawers. There was also a personal computer which might contain personal files and this too was lo
cked: Phoebe knew she could not get into it. An expert could without doubt, but she put this thought aside for future use.

  She took some more aspirin for her burning toothache, more of a jawache now and decided to take a tour of all the shops in the chain: Dresses à la Mode, KiddiTogs and Feathers and Fur.

  She didn’t think she would pass as a young mother but she could always claim to be shopping for a godchild.

  John Coffin expected results and she had better come back with something.

  The chief commander was back to routine, which did not really suit him. He had the usual number of letters to read and answer, reports to skim through and two interviews that he could not cancel. He never did put off appointments, experience having taught him that they only had to be gone through at a time that might be even worse. Routine was a bore, but he had trained himself to be efficient about it because in the end it was what your life relied on. It was the bedrock. He himself frequently had flashes of illumination, but he knew very well that more cases were solved by the plodding inquiries of detectives asking questions and making notes.

  What you did need in addition was sharp cross-indexing, and here the Home Office computer network into which all forces were linked was invaluable.

  But he was thankful, deeply so, that he had trained assistants to feed his computers and then read them back; he did not know their language.

  He went into an outer office where screens moved and winked, looked at them, then returned to his room.

  For a moment he went to his window to look out; the big double window was open to the sky on this hot day, so that he could breathe in the usual London air of pavements, petrol, and people. A thick brew built up over the centuries, and only changing smell when horses went out and horseless carriages came in. How Victorian London must have smelt of dung and sweat; he preferred what he had, and true Londoner that he was, found it agreeable.

  One of his secretaries came in to say that Chief Inspector Timpson would like to talk to him on the telephone. Or he would come in.

  ‘Telephone,’ said Coffin at once. He liked Timpson, but the rumour was (and Coffin heard all the rumours, no matter what people thought they kept quiet) that the man had both money troubles and woman troubles and a personal element might always enter into their conversation which he would rather keep clear of for now.

  The telephone rang and he answered quickly. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Sir, I knew you wanted to know about Albert Waters.’ Timpson was keen. ‘I’ve questioned him myself. He says he did not know Mary Henbit, did not know either of them. Not by name or by sight. Blank denial … and I’m bound to say we can’t flush up any evidence that he did.’

  ‘Neighbours?’

  ‘He’s not close to anyone so there is not much scope for digging. But he has never been seen with anyone that fits either of the Henbits’ description.’

  ‘That might not mean much.’

  ‘No, he could meet them anywhere, although it’s hard to see why. Nothing seems to connect him to Mary Henbit. We’ll keep on digging, of course. There are the Henbit neighbours and friends to question, but I’ll be surprised if we pick anything up.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He made a resolve: he would get to Albert Waters himself.

  He went back to his desk and his In trays and Out trays and the one he called Forget It. There was always a pile in that one.

  When the telephone rang again, it was on his private line. Phoebe, he thought, as he picked it up. She might have something. She was always quick at reporting.

  But no, not Phoebe.

  ‘It’s Stella … You wanted to know about Agnes. You’ve got it all wrong … I’ve found out. Agnes is a shop, a dress shop. Agnes is a place, not a person.’

  Well, that gives me something to think about, decided Coffin. Add that to Albert Waters and it was quite a bundle.

  The strange thing was that his spirits were rising: he liked a puzzle.

  The heat rose during the day and it began to rain again, but Coffin slogged on, seeing various people, dictating letters, sitting on a committee.

  One of his secretaries left early, his assistant seemed to have disappeared on some ploy of his own. Coffin took the hint from life: he slipped on a raincoat and left, telling no one. They would find him if they had to, they always did. But a man must take some freedom while he could.

  He walked, the distance was not far, and his code name was Walker.

  It was possible that Albert Waters would not open the door to him, but he would be at home, he was said never to go away.

  The street was empty and quiet with cars parked at the kerb; the fence fronting on the rough ground with the gap through which they had all crowded had been boarded up. Coffin fancied he could still smell smoke but that could have been imagination. He walked straight up to the fence where he ran his fingers along the top, they came away with a black smear on them; then he sniffed smoke. So the ghost of the fire was still there and might be there for ever.

  He walked past Albert’s house where the curtains were drawn close, but he thought he saw a slight movement as if Albert was there taking a discreet peep out. Of course, you are, old man, I’d do the same myself.’

  The Tower of Babel in the front garden, which had clearly been based upon a ziggurat, was looking dejected. The storm had passed over it and done it no good; it had been designed for drier, warmer lands. It was also possible that Albert was a poor builder.

  Coffin banged on the door. No one came, but the curtain on the upper window moved an inch.

  ‘I know you are there, Albert,’ he called out. ‘Come on, you know me, let me in.’

  Distantly, a voice called back, ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to talk.’ That was evident, but Albert liked things spelt out.

  There was a pause. ‘What about?’

  Coffin lost patience. ‘Oh, come on, Albert, you know what about. Open up.’

  A shuffle of footsteps, then the door slowly opened about two inches. ‘You can’t come in, we’ll talk here.’

  ‘No, we won’t. If you won’t let me in, walk round to the pub and I’ll give you a drink.’

  Albert considered the offer. ‘The Grenadier on the corner? That’s my local.’

  ‘I know it.’ And a dubious place it is too, Albert.

  ‘I’ll get my coat. I’ll just close the door.’

  Coffin waited patiently again as Albert disappeared to emerge after a considerable interval wearing a raincoat and cap. ‘Lost my teeth,’ he explained, showing a row of gleaming dentures by way of proof.

  They walked together to the Grenadier, where the barman gave Coffin an old-fashioned look, and where the publican’s wife presently emerged to give the chief commander a long stare. She was a youngish woman with orange-red hair which matched her lipstick, but not her shiny brown eyes.

  Albert knew her: ‘Hello, Ena,’ he said. She acknowledged Albert with a brief smile which did not take in Coffin. She was stiff and muscular and could have been a grenadier herself.

  He wasn’t welcome there and he knew it. If he had been in Albert’s shoes he would not have chosen to come in here with a top-ranking policeman, but everyone has their own tariff of risks they are prepared to run.

  Coffin brought Albert the Guinness he preferred to drink and took a light beer himself. He was glad to sit down, it had been a long and difficult day and he was tired.

  ‘So, Albert, you say you don’t know Mrs Henbit?’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘So you have no idea how she came to end up on your patch?’

  ‘No.’ Albert took a draught of beer and looked away.

  ‘I should have thought you would have noticed anything odd that was happening on that particular bit of ground. Your ground in a way.’

  ‘I don’t own it, Council does. And other people use it, a gypsy caravan got on it once, then moved on. Bunch of kids camped out there. No, it’s not just mine. And I was in the back garden trying to get into somethin
g else. I started building an ark once.’

  ‘Yes, you told me.’

  ‘It didn’t work,’ said Albert briefly. ‘I didn’t know enough about ship building.’

  Coffin didn’t think Noah had done, but he’d managed. He left that point and went on to what really interested him. ‘Still, I am surprised that you didn’t notice anything.’

  ‘I was concentrating. It just shows you don’t know anything about how a man feels when he creates something. You concentrate, don’t see anything.’

  I may not know much about creativity, thought Coffin, but I know something about when a man’s lying.

  ‘Why are you down here anyway? I know who you are, you’re the Big White Boss, the top brass; what are you doing going around asking questions of the likes of me? I’m not important.’

  ‘I’m interested,’ said Coffin.

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard about you and your interests. When you get interested, things explode all round.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got friends.’

  ‘I am certainly interested in why a fire you had started was used. I mean, how was it known about?’

  ‘Could smell it, I suppose. It’s not the first fire I’ve had there, I have ’em regularly. Not every week, I’m not saying, but often enough. I do a lot of building work, you see, and there’s debris. I clear up as I go … Then those campers left a lot of rubbish, I burnt that. Why don’t you ask them what they know?’

  ‘We will when we find them.’ So that was where Albert was pointing the finger? Clever old boy. He must find out if they had ever existed and if so, what Timpson was doing about them.

  ‘I like wood, you see. I need a lot, use a lot, I think about wood. You can do anything with wood if you are gentle with it.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Albert leaned forward. ‘There’s a tree on that ground that I’m watching as it grows. I’ve got my eye on it. It’s sycamore and when it’s ready, I shall have a limb or two for my own use. I shall be making a coffin. I call it my Coffin Tree.’

  He looked at Coffin with a mixture of malice and mirth, his teeth in a crocodile grin. Coffin was used to not being liked, but it was the first time he had felt the impact of such strong malice.