The Coffin Tree

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘Whose coffin will that be?’

  Albert shrugged. ‘My coffin, your coffin. Who needs it first. First come first buried.’

  Definite malice, Coffin thought, and found it interesting. Somehow, he got an arrow in. ‘Two people were seen around the bonfire,’ he said. ‘We have a witness.’

  ‘My lovely neighbour. What could she see? Shortsighted old bat.’

  And that might be true, Coffin thought. You’ve got all the answers, Albert, but I’ve still got the questions.

  He bought Albert another drink and went away. As he looked back, he saw the man looking at him, and he picked up something from that look.

  ‘You’re frightened, my old boy.’

  His feet dragged with fatigue as he walked back to the office, wondering what Stella was up to, and what state their relationship would be in when they next met. He ought to do something about that meeting: ring her up, go round looking for her. Tell her he loved her. Do all three, that might be wisest.

  He did not think that Albert Waters had murdered Mary Henbit; it was even more unlikely that he had killed Felix Henbit and Mark Pittsy. But Albert had shown unmistakable signs of anger and unease.

  That meant something.

  He was surprised and not too pleased when he got to the office to collect his papers and get back to St Luke’s Mansions and Stella, to find a message from DCI Timpson, asking for a meeting: he had something the chief commander would want to hear.

  Timpson was at the end of his telephone line in the incident room. The room itself sounded quiet as if not much was going on there, perhaps they were all asleep.

  ‘We’ve had the postmortem reports on all three bodies. In the case of the two men there was a substantial amount of sedative in the stomach.’ Timpson could be heard turning a page and then reading from it: ‘Chlorpromazine diazepam …’

  ‘I thought there might be something of that sort.’

  ‘It’s a well-known sedative. You can get it in liquid form so it could have gone straight in the whisky, which they’d also had, and they would never have known. The taste would have been masked … The drug would have made them docile; you could say it made them easy to handle.’

  ‘Easy victims … so it was murder?’ Coffin felt relief to have it out in the open.

  But the chief inspector had not finished with him.

  ‘The third body, the burnt one, what there was of it, presented different problems … the prolonged, intense slow heat destroyed the soft tissues … seems there are some tests that can be used. But the path lab isn’t hopeful.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ He sensed that Timpson was holding something back.

  ‘The heat shrank the legs, the whole body was badly distorted …’

  Coffin frowned; he wondered what was coming. ‘Come on, out with it. I know there’s something.’

  ‘The skull was so badly burned that it was hard to establish the features, but the teeth survived … The teeth do not match the charts for Mary Henbit.’

  ‘The body is not that of Mary Henbit.’

  6

  When he got to St Luke’s Mansions, climbing the stairs to his high, light sitting room, there was no sign of Stella. But she had been there. A coat was flung over a chair, her big pale leather handbag, half opened as if she had dragged something out in a hurry, was on the floor, and she had been drinking tea, the cup was on the floor too.

  He felt relieved: she was back, this was her home, the cup declared it. He touched it, still warm, she couldn’t be far away.

  He sat down in a chair to think about what was going on in his sprawling, violent bailiwick. He knew that at any one time there would be an act of violence of some nameless sort, he might never get to hear about that attack, the victim bearing his wounds in silence, but it would have happened. Several robberies of greater or lesser importance, a ramraid on a shop, some domestic violence, rape and incest and the odd missing person. They all happened. Some crimes would be cleared up, others would never be solved.

  But his mind would not leave the present problem alone, he worried at it. If Stella came in again, he could talk to her and get his mind off it.

  Presently, he took a pad of paper from the desk by the wall and started to make notes.

  Why was this business special? It did matter to him, because Felix, whom he had respected as well as liked, whom he had seen as a man of the future, had been killed.

  There were three murders now to investigate. Felix and Mark, and this unknown woman. Who was she? Was she in any way connected with the deaths of the other two? It had looked almost certain to be Felix’s wife, but now … there might be no connection at all.

  He went to the window to stare out at the night sky where the clouds had rolled away from the moon, then he looked down towards the city, his city, which was certainly not sleeping.

  Coffin turned back to his pad of paper.

  Let’s assume, he wrote, just for the sake of argument, that it was murder. This, in spite of the confusing evidence of a woman being seen climbing up on the pyre or being pushed by another person. The informant seemed to change her story on each questioning. She had seen something, but what? Lying, fantasizing, or just mistaken?

  Evidence for that, he said to himself, is that Albert Waters says she is, to use his own words, as blind as a bat.

  Was she worth questioning again?

  He stood up and began to walk round the room. Inside him, the silent dialogue went on, and he wished Stella would come back to be an audience.

  If the victim on the fire had been murdered, was there any reason to believe that the killer of Felix and Mark was her killer? ‘Not till we know her identity,’ he said aloud. ‘We have to know who she is.’

  And if she was not the burnt body, then where was Mary Henbit? Was she still alive?

  And if everything hung together and it was one case, with one killer, what was the motive?

  ‘My starting point,’ he said aloud, ‘is that the money laundering in this area was being done through a chain of dress shops. I selected two men to work on it and report to me; I thought it good for their careers, but it now looks as though because of this work, they died. What does that make me?’

  Rhetorical question, needing no answer; he felt guilty.

  But he knew why he was taking it so personally. It was because only someone close to the two officers could have known what they were getting close to.

  Or if not known, then guessed.

  So he had to suspect his own force.

  The door below banged with that particular force that only Stella gave it; he went to the door. ‘Stella?’

  ‘Yes, who else? I’ve been shopping. And for food. You were short of everything from coffee to butter. Not to mention bread and animal food. I don’t know how Tiddles and the dear old dog have managed.’ Stella was the dog’s patron, because he had once saved her life. And from something even nastier: rape. They were allies.

  ‘Max helped out,’ said Coffin humbly, watching his wife run up the stairs; she was carrying two big carrier bags, and clutching her purse. Even in a light cotton dress, with a soft coat over it because it might rain, she looked charming.

  ‘That must have cost.’

  ‘Not too bad, we all ate the same. If I had fish, then they had fish, and if I had pasta so did they. Max made a special price.’

  She was level with him now, so that she could see his face. ‘You look terrible, what’s up?’ She put down the bags of shopping. ‘I had to go all the way into East Hythe to find some late night shopping … they close up early round here. Sleepy lot.’

  ‘Not always,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘I ought to have left the shopping in the kitchen.’ The sitting room in Coffin’s tower was at the top of the staircase, with the kitchen, where the view was not so fine, two floors below. He had not put a lot of thought into his kitchen; Stella was working on it, money would be spent.

  Coffin reached out. ‘I’ll take them.’

  ‘No,
give me a drink first and then I will cook.’ She smiled. ‘I promise you something good.’ She sat down in the big chair that faced the windows. ‘Wine, I think. Thank you … So, what is it? Is it me? Or sister Letty? Or your mother’s memoirs? Perhaps you’ve found a new horror there?’

  He laughed. ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘It’s the usual then? The job? Why don’t you give up and retire?’

  ‘I might do that. Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. But not until this business is cleared up. I feel betrayed.’

  Stella said: ‘By anyone in particular?’

  He sank back into his chair and ran over the names in his mind.

  ‘Let me think.’

  Stella nodded without speaking and sat quiet; she slipped off her shoes, sipped her wine and waited. From the look on her husband’s face, his thoughts were not happy.

  These were the men in a position to know what Felix and Mark might have turned up: Chief Inspector John Fisher, in charge of the team; Chief Inspectors Bill Edgar, who kept the records, and Teddy Timpson who had been one of the team for a few months; and Sergeants Hillingdon and Thwaite.

  Edgar, Hillingdon and Thwaite had done the most work and been operational in the fullest sense. The other men were there as padding (although it didn’t do to call it that) and to liaise with officers of similar rank from the Met and the City of London police, or the nameless men sent in by the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street.

  One of these men, God help him, might have been involved and protecting themselves or the person who had been dragged into it.

  He didn’t want to believe it, but it could be so. This was why he had called in Phoebe Astley. And might have thrown Phoebe to the wolf. There might be wolves, but he preferred to think there was just one hungry wolf.

  Because Felix Henbit had been interested in Minimal, he had sent Phoebe to sniff around Eden Brown and the shop. Then Eden Brown had walked into the frame, asking the police to look for her friend Agnes Page. Find out about Agnes, he thought, because Stella says she does not exist as a person, and Eden Brown seems to think she does.

  ‘Anything I say in this room, you must keep to yourself.’

  ‘You know I will.’

  ‘Well, first: the woman who was burnt is not Mary Henbit.’

  Stella drew in her breath. ‘That’s a relief. So who is it?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘And Mary? Where is Mary?’

  ‘I don’t know that either.’

  ‘But you are afraid?’

  ‘I am afraid,’ he agreed.

  ‘But we do have a missing woman: Agnes Page, though you say she is not a woman but a shop.’

  Stella put down her wine, her face was full of animation. ‘That’s what the girls said: Agnes Page was a dress shop, several dress shops, in fact: one in the West End, one by the Tower of London, and one down here in the Second City. They think there might have been others but Ellie said she used to buy her bras in the one in the West End. They were not really expensive and you felt good in one.’

  Coffin said bluntly: ‘There’s a woman who keeps calling the police saying that Agnes is a woman and is missing.’

  The cat came into the room, looked at Coffin and then Stella, and leapt on to Stella’s lap. She stroked the furry head. ‘I’m puzzled. Does it matter? Is it part of this affair?’

  ‘I think it might be.’ He added: ‘Also, I’ve had a talk with an old man who I think is lying.’

  He’s really worried, decided Stella. She accepted all the facts he had thrown at her, if it was helping him, good. ‘All this matters?’

  ‘To me, desperately.’

  Stella had no hesitation. ‘You’ve got plenty of action men: get them to sort out what Agnes is, a chain of shops or a woman.’

  She stood up. ‘I’m going downstairs to cook supper.’

  Coffin rose. ‘I’ll give you a hand with the bags.’

  ‘Don’t bother … You get on with it up here.’

  ‘Thanks, Stella. You have helped.’ He realized with happiness what comfort and relief Stella would bring: she opened his mind up again when it had been painfully bogged down.

  ‘And what about the old man, the one that was lying?’

  ‘Albert Waters? I shall leave him to sweat, because I think he is frightened as well as lying.’

  Stella stood at the door in silence for a moment. ‘You really are a hard man.’

  ‘Yes, sometimes. I have to be; it’s the job.’ He went over to kiss her, she turned towards him and lifted her face. For a moment they stood closely together, then she said ‘Supper,’ and drew away.

  He heard her talking down below to the cat, who had, of course, left with her, and reprimanding the dog who was barking softly. What a joy it was to have her – darling, darling Stella.

  Just at that moment, the doorbell rang loudly. Stella ran down the stairs to open it and he stood listening. He could hear a woman’s voice and Stella replying.

  Since Stella was an actress, her beautiful deep voice travelled well; he heard words of thanks. ‘It’s so good of you. Oh, my husband will be very pleased.’

  A lighter voice was answering, whose words he could not hear. But Stella again. ‘Oh, do come upstairs and show him.’

  Coffin groaned. Oh, Stella.

  He stood up again, waiting. If he didn’t sit down, then this unexpected caller might go soon. He wanted a quiet few hours with his wife. Alone.

  He could hear Stella still talking as they came up the winding stairs and then she came into the room, ushering before her a young woman in tight jeans and a white shirt. She was smiling nervously but it was an engaging, hopeful smile, so that Coffin found himself smiling back.

  ‘This is Ellie,’ said Stella, ‘and she’s got something for you.’

  Ellie gave Stella a shy, hopeful smile, as of one who dares to call a star a friend.

  ‘Stella said …’ another look and a smile at Stella, ‘she said you wanted to know about Agnes … Well, I found this in my bag.’ Ellie swung her big shoulder bag in front of her, opened the zip and began to dig inside. Even a brief glance showed Coffin that it was loaded with possessions: he saw a hairbrush, a spray lacquer, a box of tissues, an apple, a packet of clean tights, and a bar of chocolate. Ellie stirred the mixture around and came up with a small piece of paper. ‘I found this at the bottom of my bag,’ and she held it out.

  ‘Thank you,’ as he took it, and congratulations, he thought, it must be quite a feat to find anything in that bag.

  He looked down: it was a handwritten bill for six brassieres and briefs. The billhead said: AGNÈS TROUBADOUR.

  Ellie surveyed him with satisfied pride, like a cat who had produced the best kitten. ‘I knew I’d shopped there.’

  The address was Number three, Treddle Street, Wl, and another address in Knightsbridge and Kensington – three shops in all. ‘French,’ said Coffin, noting the accent on the name.

  ‘I’m not sure how French,’ said Ellie in a doubtful voice.

  ‘Not very French at all, I should think.’ Coffin was studying the address: ‘Treddle Street. That’s one of the little streets behind Regent Street, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I was in a show at the Haymarket at the time so I did a bit of shopping up there. You see, she had quite a few shops then, they came before the Agnes Page shops in the Second City, but I knew I recognized the style as hers, the shops had the same look.’

  The bill was dated almost a year ago, much crumpled with a smear of lipstick on one side. Coffin wondered about the archaeology of the contents of Ellie’s handbag.

  ‘Thank you very much, this is useful.’ Was it? He wasn’t sure but he wasn’t going to snub this nice young woman.

  ‘I expect you think it was a great number of bras I bought, but you see, it was the year bosoms went pointed; she had such lovely cone-shaped bras and I got them for nearly all the cast.’

  ‘They are all the same size,’ said Coffin before he could stop himself. Stella gl
ared at him: some things you do not say.

  ‘We are all 36B. We always are.’ Ellie was earnest. ‘Some of us may pad a bit.’

  ‘Handwritten bill, that’s unusual.’

  ‘Ah, that was the shop, you see, it was meant to be old-fashioned. There was a padded sofa and a lovely smell of potpourri, and the bills were written out with a quill.’

  ‘Someone spilt ink on this one,’ said Coffin, looking at various streaks and smudges.

  ‘Yes, she got it all over her fingers too.’

  ‘Stay and eat,’ said Stella, as he had known she would. But to his relief, Ellie said no, she had to get home, she was having some friends round.

  Stella showed Ellie down the stairs, giving a clear signal to her husband with those eyes which Kenneth Tynan had called the most expressive orbs on the London stage.

  ‘Get on with it,’ she had said earlier, and her gaze now said she meant it.

  So he telephoned Timpson, who was still in the incident room but on the point of leaving. He sounded grumpy at being caught there when he might, with better luck, have been safely at home, so missing the call altogether.

  ‘Find out who Agnes Page is, the name keeps surfacing. Identify what the name means. It might be a shop.’ Then he added: ‘If she exists at all as a person and not a shadow, she might be the burnt body.’

  ‘That’s a new idea.’

  ‘It just came to me,’ said Coffin falsely. ‘The name has come up as that of a missing woman. We may have found her.’ The bill that Ellie had given him lay in front of him. ‘It may be worth checking at a shop in Treddle Street.’

  ‘Sir.’ Timpson was gruff. ‘Fine, I’ll see if we can pin the two together … But what about the deaths of Henbit and Pittsy. If it’s murder, then who is taking it on?’

  ‘I shall oversee it,’ said the chief commander. ‘Archie Young will be in charge, and will keep me in touch. But I want your team involved. I see these cases as all one.’

  As he put the telephone down, he wondered grimly how Timpson was taking the request, and whether it was one he had been fearing?

  Stella had grilled a steak and prepared a salad; she liked to grill anything that could sit flat under the flames because she could watch it cook. Boiling an egg, however, where the cooking went on in a silent manner inside the shell, presented a problem she never mastered. So she never boiled eggs.