The Coffin Tree

by Gwendoline Butler

  As they were finishing the meal, the telephone rang. Stella reached out a hand for the portable which lay on the table between them. ‘Hello? Yes, he’s here, I’ll hand you over.’ She gave Coffin a quizzical look. ‘It’s your friend Phoebe.’

  He knew how to field that one: ‘Your friend too … Hello.’

  ‘Listen, am I expected at this party tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, Geraldine’s. You’ve got the address?’

  ‘I don’t think I can come.’

  ‘I’d like you to. She’s an important lady. Well worth knowing.’

  He was very conscious of Stella watching him across the table.

  ‘How are you doing with Eden Brown?’ There was a pause. ‘Is she listening?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Phoebe in a quiet voice. ‘And the answer to your question is fine.’ But her voice suggested caution.

  He kept his voice low: ‘She seems to be anxious about a friend called Agnes.’

  ‘I can confirm that.’ Eden had been talking to Phoebe for almost two hours about Agnes, with more emotion than detail.

  ‘There was confusion at first whether Agnes was a real woman or a chain of shops.’

  Eden would weep for a chain of shops, probably more than for a woman, Phoebe thought.

  ‘But I now have addresses for three shops called Agnès Troubadour. I think they might be worth investigating.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘Timpson will be sending someone, but you could take a look.’

  ‘See you tomorrow then,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ll try to be there.’

  ‘Her voice sounded odd,’ said Coffin as he turned to Stella.

  ‘How odd?’

  ‘Thick. She might have been crying.’

  Phoebe went back to Eden; she herself had not been crying but Eden certainly had. Eden was in her bedroom, full length on her bed, with her face buried in the pillow.

  Phoebe sat down beside her on the bed and gently touched her arm. ‘Come on now, it can’t be that bad.’

  ‘I’m frightened. I might be going to die.’

  Death, thought Phoebe, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about that myself.

  ‘What about Agnes? I suppose she does exist?’

  Eden jerked her head round. ‘Of course she does. She’s a person.’

  ‘Why are you worried about her?’

  Eden didn’t answer, then said: ‘I told you: I can’t get in touch with her. And the police won’t help. They say adults are allowed to go missing.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Phoebe nodded. ‘It’s a way out that some people take.’

  ‘Tell me about her.’

  Eden shook her head: ‘I don’t know much, she was a business acquaintance.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you don’t cry for your bank manager. What was it with Agnes? Did you love her?’

  ‘I’m not a lezzie,’ said Eden with an angry jerk.

  Phoebe gently withdrew her hand. ‘Are you frightened for yourself or Agnes?’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘I understand about fear all right,’ said Phoebe, who was frightened herself.

  Phoebe was not the only one who was frightened that day, nor was Eden.

  Albert Waters was frightened and wished he had not made that joke about the Coffin Tree to the chief commander.

  ‘I think I’ll telephone him. He’s my man.’

  Fear was spreading like a disease. It was disease, a malady of the mind.

  The incident room dealing with the burnt body had quietened down for the night. Not much helpful information had so far come in, but what there was had been collated and passed around to the investigating team. The collator was just finishing up, talking softly to a young detective still typing up a report.

  Timpson felt that he was caught in what military tacticians call a pincer movement, and the chief commander was doing the pinching.

  If Henbit and Pittsy had been murdered – something he had been very unwilling to concede – and if Mary Henbit had been the body on the pyre, then it was one case, and he must extend his inquiry.

  But now, apparently, the burnt female body was an unknown woman and not Mary Henbit, the nice woman whom he knew. A relief but also an added puzzle.

  So the two cases were not connected. Not in his mind at least. But he could see that the chief commander still thought the three dead people were tied in a packet.

  If I am investigating the deaths of the two detectives, then I want more men.

  And if you are going to send us off looking for a woman called Agnes Page, then I want still more.

  ‘But I won’t get them,’ he said aloud. His head began to ache. Life was on top of him at the moment. He dreaded to go home to find what new bills were waiting for him. He frowned as he walked to his desk.

  He was not a stupid man, he had been a policeman a long time, and he could read the signs with the best. He had seen Coffin look at him, and he had felt himself look back.

  Rumours were going all round Swinehouse and East Hythe; Coffin might think that men were not talking but they were, he had heard the rumours that the Big Man suspected one of his force.

  He was not a man who talked freely to his fellow officers, and he was taciturn with the young detectives who were on this team. They didn’t like him and he knew it. They liked Archie Young, who could be jovial and friendly while never losing his grip, they respected and even feared the chief commander, John Coffin, and took pains to keep out of his way.

  He looked round the room, he needed to talk to someone. The collator, who was a curly-haired girl, was keeping her eyes down, while the young detective was putting on his coat ready to go.

  He had one confidant, his own brother, Frank. He put on his coat, collected his car from where it was parked – he would telephone Frank. Not from home, but from the nearest call box.

  ‘Hello, Frank.’

  ‘Ted? How are you, boy?’ Frank was a happy man who ran a small garden shop where he was content to sell seeds, bulbs, potting mixtures of various strengths as well as cut flowers. He was always poor but he and his wife had reared three highly successful children. The brothers were alike in colour and build, but Ted had the muscle.

  ‘I think he’s on to me.’

  ‘I told you not to get mixed up in it, you should have steered clear.’

  ‘Well, you know why, I needed the money. You’re lucky, your wife doesn’t demand new clothes all the time and dinner out every week.’

  ‘Take my advice, tell your wife and tell your boss man.’

  This was not advice that Timpson wanted to hear.

  The next day was Sunday and was the day on which Geraldine was holding her party.

  Although it was Sunday and the shops would be shut, this was a murder case and the investigation was not closed down altogether. A young detective constable was sent off to find the shop in Treddle Street.

  DC Darby took the trip to Treddle Street lightly, regarding it as a morning out. Also, it being a Sunday, surely he would earn points for being so punctilious?

  He had rung a friend in the Met and discovered that the shops in Treddle Street ignored any trading rules and remained open on a Sunday if they wished. There was also, he was told, a thriving Sunday street market round the corner in Peckery Street if he felt like a detour. Goods on the whole worth a look at but to watch his wallet. Darby decided he would buy his girlfriend a present if he saw anything she might like. He was very fond of her, but not good at expressing his feelings.

  He walked down Treddle Street from the Regent Street end. He soon saw the shop because the name Agnès Troubadour was inscribed in gold on the shop front. But the glass was dirty, the window empty and the door boarded up. It was not the only empty shop in Treddle Street, several businesses had gone broke in the great recession. Next door to Agnès was a sandwich and coffee bar which was open for business.

  He ordered some coffee and made his inquiry of the man in the white overall. ‘What happened next door?’
/>   ‘Went bust, that’s what.’

  Darby drank some coffee which had no clearly defined taste but was hot. ‘Tough on the owner. What happened to her?’

  ‘No idea, I wasn’t here then, this was a shoe shop. If you want more sugar, then it’s on the counter.’

  Until then. Darby had not noticed that the only thing his white frothy so called cappuccino tasted of was sugar.

  The party at Geraldine’s started slowly. They were what she called ‘her Sundays’, held on the second Sunday of the month, unless she was abroad or work prevented it. People accepted with alacrity, you met an interesting mix of people: actors, writers, lovely models and prominent businessmen, as well as the odd academic: Geraldine cast her net wide. She provided good drink and tasty food which you helped yourself to and then moved around the room with your plate. Nothing was formal and the flow of movement and conversation was everything.

  John Coffin got regular invitations but he did not always accept as a matter of policy: it did not do to get too close to someone like Geraldine.

  On this occasion, he got there before Stella who had gone to the theatre to take a call from New York about a new production. ‘We’ll meet there,’ she had said cheerfully. ‘I’ll try not to be late and don’t you be.’

  Geraldine had been one of the first residents in the converted warehouse, even before it had become fashionable, so she had had first choice. She had chosen the whole top floor and had got an architect to make it over for her into a living space, with a platform for her bed. Not much privacy but a lot of free air. The furniture was sparse, but what there was had been designed for exactly the spot where it stood or lay and was expensive. An air of spontaneity but nothing by chance. Coffin thought it exactly mirrored his hostess’s character.

  When Coffin arrived, the large light room overlooking the river was already crowded. He saw several people he knew, including Sir Ferdie who was holding court across the room. Phoebe slid into the room behind him. He got her a drink, and let her look around the room.

  ‘Nice place. She must be rich.’

  ‘I suppose she earns a lot.’

  ‘And spends it too.’

  Phoebe looked flushed, one cheek was slightly swollen. ‘It’s this tooth,’ she explained. ‘I must get it fixed.’ She took a long drink as if it would ease the pain. Coffin, who knew the strength of the cocktails that Geraldine mixed, watched her with some alarm; he himself was drinking white wine.

  Presently he saw Stella crossing the room towards him. Geraldine moved to get her drink. ‘Champagne, Stella?’

  ‘Yes, lovely.’

  ‘I’ll bring it to you.’

  Stella kissed her husband on the cheek, and smiled at Phoebe. ‘Nice to see you again.’

  Always remember, Phoebe said to herself, that she is an actress.

  Stella turned to Coffin: ‘Oh darling, there was a phone call for you before I left: a man, I think he said his name was Waters, he wants to see you. Something to tell you. I didn’t quite know what to do, didn’t turn him away, of course, but I suggested Inspector Timpson, I hope that was right?’

  ‘I’ll see him,’ said Coffin. ‘I know who it is, I’ll go round tomorrow.’

  Geraldine pressed a goblet of champagne into Stella’s hand. ‘Come along then, Ferdie,’ she said. ‘I can hear you padding behind. You want to talk to Stella.’

  Sir Ferdie did pad, thought Coffin: he walked softly but heavily. Watching Stella with Ferdie, he drew Phoebe into the window. ‘What do you make of Eden Brown?’

  ‘She’s in trouble,’ said Phoebe; she too was watching Stella with Sir Ferdie. ‘I think he’s a bit of a shark, that one, but your wife seems to be getting on all right with him.’

  ‘She likes to flirt.’

  ‘That’s an old-fashioned word.’

  ‘In some ways, Stella is an old-fashioned lady.’ And of course, she knew that a light, flirtatious manner was what Sir Ferdie wanted. He was well known in academic circles as a womanizer who rarely followed through.

  ‘I need to see Eden.’

  ‘I think you should.’

  Coffin went over to his wife. ‘Is it all right if I leave you here?’

  Stella took it well, she might complain later but she never let him down in public.

  ‘I’ll look after your lady,’ said Sir Ferdie with a courtly bow.

  Stella smiled. ‘I suppose it’s work.’ She surveyed the room, over by the window was a well-known writer, closer to hand was a TV presenter. ‘There are people here I would like to speak to. Don’t worry.’

  She was perhaps less pleased to see who went with him.

  ‘Stella didn’t like us leaving together,’ Phoebe said in the lift.

  Coffin was easy, he knew his Stella, she might enjoy a scene afterwards about Phoebe but deep inside she trusted him.

  Eden’s apartment was a cheaper image of Geraldine’s place: it was in a converted factory, but a very small one and the conversion was not so well done. There was the one large living room with the huge window and balcony overlooking the river, but already it had a tired look. The carpet on the floor came from the Indian continent but was from a factory and not handmade. The walls had been colourwashed by Eden herself, who had left them streaky.

  Phoebe let them into the small hallway. ‘Wait here, let me prepare her for you.’

  Coffin walked to the window to look out. There was the Thames, cleaner and emptier than it had been for many generations, there were even salmon swimming in it somewhere.

  Phoebe was soon back. ‘She’s putting on some clothes. She knows you’re a copper but she doesn’t know exactly who you are. She wants to talk.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Don’t be too rough.’

  Phoebe would always see a side of him that Stella never would; but he nodded. A nod meant nothing and he needed Phoebe’s support.

  ‘I suppose she now knows what you are?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Phoebe grinned. ‘She thinks you’re my boyfriend.’

  Eden was taller, thinner and blonder than he had expected, but about the right age: early forties. The age when you’ve had a success and lost it and are struggling. Failure is hard to bear then. You’d do anything to get back again. He could understand that she would be ready to do anything without asking too many questions. Just the sort of woman some criminals would be looking for, and no shortage of them, he thought sourly.

  He looked in her eyes which were vacant, as if all emotion was retreating backwards into fear. She was jelly, squeeze her and she would give him what he wanted.

  He didn’t even have to squeeze very hard.

  ‘I know I’ve got to talk to you, Phoebe is right, she seems to know the world better than I do. I thought I did, I was the big successful career girl but I know now how wrong I was.’ She bit her lips. ‘When my own business went down the drain – I had a small design and couture business, and my boyfriend left me, he was only in it for the money and when I couldn’t go on paying for his smart suits and cars and weekends away, he upped and left. I was broke and suicidal …

  ‘I don’t think you would ever have killed yourself,’ said Phoebe, ‘but I know what you mean.’

  ‘Anyway, it didn’t come to that. I met this woman at a dress show. I tried to keep in with the world, you see, and I was applying for jobs, I’d seen her around so I was willing to talk. She told me the same thing had happened to her but she had been introduced to this venture capitalist who was willing to put up money; he worked through a bank – she thought he might do the same for me.’

  It was fine at first, she went on, and she thought her life had started again, but very soon she realized she was nothing more than a manager and one who had to obey the rules, and it didn’t take long for her to start wondering.

  ‘Then I began to worry; I think I’d known all along really but I didn’t want to think about the idea that mine and Agnes’s shops were set up on criminal money and used to launder large sums.

  ‘Then Agnes became frightened and hinte
d that she knew about murders and was frightened for herself.’ Eden shivered. ‘Now she’s gone and I don’t know where. Her shops are neglected, her chief assistants don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Who is Agnes Page?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think it’s her real name, I don’t know who she is or where she is.’ Eden shuddered. ‘But she knows where I am, and so do our hirers … I don’t know if I am right to talk to you, I may be risking my life.’

  Coffin said: ‘Have you got a letter or something she handled?’

  Eden thought about it. ‘She never wrote to me … Wait a bit, she left a compact here, and I never gave it back to her.’

  Coffin held out his hand.

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  While she was out of the room, Phoebe said: ‘Confirms what you thought.’

  ‘Confirms that the two men had been murdered, but I already know that much. I don’t know who killed them or what part this Agnes woman played. I want to know that, and I want to find her.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, as Eden came back into the room, holding out a small powder compact in a suede case. ‘Good, thank you.’ He took it carefully. There might be fingerprints. ‘Thank you. I’ll be in touch. Don’t worry too much.’

  Phoebe showed him to the door. ‘Stay with her,’ he said. ‘She needs watching.’

  Phoebe held back. ‘I’ve done part of what you wanted. I want a few days’ private time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Private, as I said.’

  ‘You can be a nuisance, Phoebe. Stay with her tonight and give me a call before you go off.’

  As he went away, he was not unsatisfied.

  He had the bill from Agnès, a powder compact and the corpse had a finger.

  When he got home, Stella was already there; she gave him a reproachful look.

  Coffin laughed and hugged her. ‘I wasn’t worried for you. Perhaps a bit for Sir Ferdie.’

  ‘He said he was going to get an honorary degree for me,’ said Stella with a satisfied look. ‘It’ll be my first one.’