The Coffin Tree

by Gwendoline Butler

  He did not speak to them, apart from a brief greeting, and let the chief inspector and the detective who had come with him explain what was going on. He himself walked quietly about the house. There were two rooms on the ground floor as well as the kitchen, and each was furnished simply: one as a dining room and the other as a comfortable if shabby sitting room. He already knew that Waters had spent most of his money on his ambitious building; someone had said that he probably wanted to get into the Guinness Book of Records for the best home builder. The rooms were not particularly tidy but they were clean enough and the sitting room smelt less damp than elsewhere, suggesting it was the room in which he had really lived. A large television set stood in one corner of the room, next to the fireplace, and facing a battered leather armchair which looked comfortably used. There was a small table by it with a pipe and tobacco on it and a newspaper. Across the room by the window was a small desk.

  Coffin looked thoughtfully at the desk but said nothing, knowing that it would be searched again for any signs of Agnes, and for any clue to her contact with Albert Waters; it was not wise to irritate Archie Young by too much interference, he was aware of being already on the edge.

  ‘Not much there,’ said one of the forensic experts, following his gaze. ‘We’ve had the drawers out and so have the scene of the crime team. Not much, just a few personal papers and not a lot of them.’ He nodded towards a small pile of envelopes and scraps of this and that, newspaper cuttings, old postcards and more than a few bills.

  He went out into the kitchen, where the smell of damp was strong. A wet patch on one wall suggested a leaking pipe. There was a bucket with a cloth in it, as if Albert kept it there in case of trouble. Coffin touched the cloth, it was dry and stiff so he had not used it lately. Perhaps it was something to do with his building works, but Coffin thought he could smell disinfectant. He had a picture of the old man on his knees, mopping the floor. He picked up the cloth, underneath the clean smell of pine, he thought he smelt vomit. So someone had been sick? Perhaps Albert himself. There were certainly enough horrors around to make anyone sick.

  He opened the kitchen door to take a look at the garden. Not the garden of a man who was interested in flowers or vegetables or a smooth patch of lawn. There was grass but it had a chewed-up look which was clearly the result of Albert’s creative building. His latest and last piece of work was hard to make out, all that was to be seen was a wooden frame that might have been going to be anything from the Ark to the substructure for a replica of St Paul’s Cathedral. From what he had known of Albert, he guessed that the inspiration was running dry. Maybe even Albert had got bored with pretending.

  He shut the door, walked through the kitchen, briefly observed the men still at work in the living room and went up the stairs. Albert had obviously used the stairs as a combination of filing cabinet and clothes depository. On almost every step were old newspapers, folded shirts and pants, dirty shirts and socks – he kept the two separate as far as Coffin could see, but otherwise took no interest in order.

  No, that’s not the case. Coffin told himself, there is a mad kind, of order here, the order of a man who lives for himself, according to his own rules. And this was just about the impression he had formed of the man.

  Obviously no wife or woman in the household. Had he ever married? The sort of fact that Young would have turned up, but what was clear was that she was either dead or long since departed.

  Melancholy thought, was what Coffin decided, as he got to the top of the stairs. Is that what some men, most men, came to when they were left alone? And if so, would he, if Stella was gone?

  That was a thought better not dwelt upon, so he moved on from the bare little upper hall with its pictures of the river Thames of long ago with barges and tugs and battered tramp steamers as much a part of the past as old Albert himself.

  He went into one bedroom; empty except for an unmade-up bed. All the cupboard doors were open, so a search had been made here which had tumbled a few dark brown blankets to the floor. The smell of damp was in here too, underlined by the peeling wallpaper by the window. Coffin shut the door behind him.

  The second bedroom had been where Albert slept. This room was neater, with the bed tucked in, and although there were piles of clothes on both the floor and the two chairs, yet they were so arranged as if Albert knew how they were and meant them to be so. The police searchers had disarranged them somewhat, but he could see that each deposit had been made up of a complete set of clothes: underpants, socks, shirt and trousers. The jacket on the chair nearest the bed clearly did duty for each outfit. In a cupboard on the wall, a dark blue suit hung next to a grey tweed, but they had the neglected air of clothes not worn for a long while. Drawers underneath had been opened and left open, but they contained nothing except pyjamas, and more vests, pants and shirts from which the strong odour of mothballs arose.

  He picked up one shirt and the sleeve of the perished material tore away even as he did so.

  Funny chap, he thought, he concentrated on a few of his clothes while letting the rest rot away. Still, there but for the grace of God. Don’t finish that thought, hang on to the thought of Stella and their evening at the theatre.

  Thus prompted, he left the bedroom to go back downstairs.

  Archie was standing in the middle of the room by the table.

  ‘Was there a wife?’

  ‘Yes. He was a widower, seems to have been so for years.’

  ‘Temperamentally suited to it, I’d say. Any children?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Find out.’

  ‘We are doing, but he was a recluse and a bit of a mystery man.’ Archie stood back from the table. ‘Here are all the documents we can find, and as you can see, there is not much there. A few postcards that are more than ten years old and date back to when he was working, and they don’t say anything much, except it doesn’t rain in Spain and the beer is cheap. Or welcome to Sunny Black-pool. There is his passport, which incidentally he hadn’t used since nineteen-eighty when he went to Malta for a week, and his birth certificate. Oh, and his pension book where he had a month owing to him. Nothing else. Not much is it, for a life?’

  ‘Too little, entirely too little.’ He let his fingers rest on the small pile. He picked up the birth certificate which told him that Albert had been born in nineteen-twenty in Deptford and that his father had been a merchant sailorman, and his mother’s maiden name was the unusual one of Pilgrim. ‘I think someone, the murderer presumably, has been in and cleared out this house too. What do you think?’

  ‘I think so too.’

  ‘It’s interesting and perhaps helpful: because it means that Albert was important, just as Agnes was. It also shows us that the killer was well informed and could move fast. I don’t think Albert was upset and anxious until he knew that the body that burned was Agnes Page. I think he vomited then. It may have been the cat next door or his killer, but I guess it was him. The news went straight to his stomach, then he telephoned me.’

  ‘So he did.’ Young looked troubled.

  ‘But the killer knew he knew and either knew or guessed he wanted to talk to me. How was that?’

  Young’s lips tightened. ‘Just guesswork, as you say.’

  ‘Some positive knowledge around though: I think Albert knew of the identification of Agnes Page with the burnt body and either he told the murderer himself, or the killer knew anyway. How was that?’

  ‘It was talked about,’ said Young uncomfortably. ‘The press do get on to things.’

  Coffin nodded. ‘Too many leaks, Archie, too many leaks.’

  He looked at his watch. He had thirty minutes in which to meet Stella. ‘Tighten things up,’ he ordered, and it was an order, not a polite request. ‘Talk to the neighbours here and see what they know about him and his lifestyle, and I don’t mean the obvious things like his building hobby and where he drank his beer. He’s lived here a long time, they’ll know.’

  ‘Around here, they’d just as s
oon not let you know anything.’

  Coffin ignored this. ‘And fingerprint everything here and at Page’s place. If we find a print of hers here or one of his there, then I want to know.’

  He walked away to his car, thinking of the strange man who had lived in this half-dead house, thinking too of Stella and glad that he still had her. Hang on to Stella, he told himself, for that is where life is.

  It would be nice to know where Phoebe was, that was another worry at the bottom of his mind which sometimes came to the top. A few days off for a personal matter, she had said, but he hadn’t believed that: she’d been working and wanted to come back with a big bone in her mouth to surprise him, that was her style. But time was running on. And prolonged silence was not like Phoebe, he would have expected a telephone message or a fax or sudden appearance; Phoebe went in for drama when she was in the mood, he remembered that well.

  Stella was waiting for him in the foyer of the theatre; since it was a hot night she was wearing a thin, soft chiffon dress that looked pale and misty. Also exceedingly expensive, which he believed it to be. She had murmured that the designer, a famous name, had made a special price for her.

  She greeted him with a kiss, did not mention that he was late and had kept her waiting, but said: ‘You haven’t shaved.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve been busy.’

  There was a surge of people around for a moment, greeting Stella, nodding to him; when they’d gone, Stella said: ‘You’re having a bad time, aren’t you?’

  ‘You could say that. Shall we go in?’

  ‘This is sympathy I’m offering.’ She moved ahead of him. ‘Let’s go into the bar. I’ve ordered drinks, they’ll be waiting at my table.’ Stella had a special table in a corner which was always reserved for her. ‘It’s particularly good of me to be sympathetic considering that I’ve had Eden Brown ringing me up and talking to me about Phoebe Astley.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be bothering you.’ He could see that she had ordered champagne which must be a good sign. There was no denying he would prefer to keep Stella and Phoebe apart in life and as subjects for conversation, but events seemed to be driving them together.

  ‘Seems she’s getting letters for Phoebe she can’t send on because she doesn’t know where to send them. Also bills. Lots of them apparently. Did you know Phoebe had bills?’

  ‘We all have bills, they’re a fact of life.’ And Phoebe had given the impression of being hard up. ‘I’m sorry it’s worrying Eden and I’m sorry she’s worrying you, but I don’t see what I can do about it.’

  He picked up the bottle of champagne, but the bar waiter, one of Max’s sons-in-law, hurried forward to open it. Stella gave him one of her sweetest smiles and a marginally less sweet one for Coffin.

  ‘I think you could.’

  ‘No one worries about Phoebe. She can look after herself.’

  ‘I hope you don’t talk about me like that.’

  ‘Certainly not.’ He was getting into deep water here.

  ‘Good. But I can look after myself too.’

  He realized he could not win this battle and should not even be fighting it.

  ‘How I talk about you has no connection with anything I might say about Phoebe Astley. I work with Phoebe, I am married to you. And as a matter of fact, I don’t talk about you.’

  ‘Oh.’ He could see Stella considering that remark. The waiter had moved away and was smiling at them from a distance. He was clearly one of the ones that worshipped Stella.

  ‘But I think about you. A lot.’

  Stella smiled. ‘Bless you.’

  ‘Let’s stop thinking about Phoebe Astley, and enjoy the champagne and then the play. What is it, by the way?’

  ‘Beckett’s End Game and then a short Pinter.’

  ‘Ah.’ He would have preferred a hearty comedy, but this was a student performance on which prizes and scholarships rested, and serious plays were what student performers always went for.

  Stella looked at him with sympathy, she knew his tastes, and held out a hand. ‘Hang on to me and I’ll see you through the evening.’

  He took her hand with pleasure. ‘Being with you is all that I want.’

  But even as he spoke, Phoebe, eyes closed, was drifting, darkness around her. Pools of darkness moving into deeper darkness. The darkness seemed to move, it smelt.

  Across the room. Coffin was not pleased to see Geraldine Ducking, resplendent in her usual red for battle – velvet this time. He looked away quickly, but it was too late, she waved and started to come towards them.

  ‘Damn!’

  Stella turned round to look. ‘Oh, Geraldine, good. I like her. How she dresses! That one must have cost her!’

  Geraldine was smiling happily, refused any champagne, told Stella she looked a living dream, and said to Coffin, ‘I hear you are in trouble.’

  ‘So you’ve said before.’ He thought she had been drinking, there was a glitter about her eyes, and although Geraldine was reputed to carry her drink well, everyone has their limits.

  ‘You can’t trust everyone, you know.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, I’m not talking about Timpson … he’s history. But what about your lovely aide, Phoebe Astley. I’ve heard she’s got lost.’

  Coffin didn’t answer, he saw Stella looking at him gravely.

  ‘I’ve also heard that she’s got bills, needs money.’

  Eden Brown again, he supposed, full of information and complaints.

  He still did not answer but sipped his drink. ‘No comment, I see,’ said Geraldine. ‘I note that and draw my own conclusions.’

  She looked so pleased with herself that Coffin felt a strong desire to deflate her. ‘You are wasting your time, Phoebe Astley is working under my supervision.’ And God help me, I hope I am right; come back quick, Phoebe.

  Geraldine seemed prepared to go on. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

  He shrugged. ‘Believe what you wish, Geraldine, but print anything and I’ll get an injunction to stop you publishing. Won’t do you any good, Geraldine.’

  ‘And I admired you, and was going to do an article on your wonderful career,’ said Geraldine sorrowfully. ‘I’m a working woman and have to get my stories.’

  ‘I’m not one.’

  Stella followed Geraldine’s departure with interested eyes. ‘She was drunk, I think. I’ve never seen Geraldine that way before. What have you done to her?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing to her and nothing to Phoebe. I wish she’d leave me alone.’

  ‘You are touchy.’

  ‘At the moment, yes. Forgive me, I don’t want to spoil your evening.’

  ‘Is it the murders?’

  ‘In part. Four deaths, Stella, and a royal visit hanging over me.’ He didn’t tell her about the other thing, because in the present circumstances, it might come to nothing. Lady Coffin, he would like to be able to call her that, let her wear a glory he had given her.

  ‘Are all four deaths connected?’

  ‘It has to be so,’ he said with sad conviction.

  ‘But could one person do all four murders?’

  ‘This one could.’ Faceless, nameless killer but vicious. ‘The different ways of killing are unusual, murderers usually stick to a formula, but this killer is exceptional. Each murder is a new murder to him, and not a repetition. He’s not a serial killer, not a mass murderer, not a man obsessed. And that means the motive is solid and real: self preservation, and/or money. This killer does not want to be caught, he is not sending out tacit pleas: Catch me, like some of them. This is a case of personal survival, and no one else considered.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘He may have had some help, though.’

  Stella said: ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I’m guessing. But I guess that Albert Waters gave some help, possibly without realizing exactly what he was doing. But he did realize when Agnes Page was identified as the body on the fire, and that was when he became so frightened that he was sick, and when he
telephoned me. And that was why he was killed.’

  The first warning bell for the performance rang: Five minutes, ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats, but Stella did not move.

  Coffin stood up. ‘Come on, we’d better move.’

  Still Stella remained seated. ‘They can’t start without me, I’m one of the judges … Are you really in trouble, as Geraldine said?’

  ‘She’s trouble,’ said Coffin with conviction.

  ‘No, but what about you?’

  He put his arm under her elbow to draw her to her feet. Darling, darling Stella, her flesh felt cool and sweet.

  ‘I am in a guerrilla war,’ he said. ‘With little knots of enemies.’

  ‘Will they win?’

  ‘No, you don’t win a guerrilla war unless a very strong army comes in to help you, and that won’t happen.’

  At least, he trusted not. The Home Office, his police committee, some hostile politicians, now that was an army, but, he had to hope it kept out.

  ‘Let’s go in, love.’

  Stella smiled at him, put her head up high, and walked steadily forward. A little rustle of applause greeted them.

  To his surprise, he enjoyed the performance; the students were so keen, so anxious to perform well, and – he had to admit it – so talented, that it would have been a stony heart that did not rejoice with them.

  The air conditioning was on high, but it was still hot in the auditorium. Geraldine Ducking was seated two rows behind them, and two rows behind her was where Eden Brown was sitting. She had come because she needed company and a theatre full of people seemed about all she could get at the moment. A seat away was Ellie Farmer and next to her was her friend and fellow hoofer, Phyllis Archer. The girls had had a good evening so they felt happy: they had said, good evening, to Stella Pinero, caught the producer’s eye, had a free drink of champagne at whose providing they did not know, but not their own, and found the Beckett play puzzling but had enjoyed the Pinter. The playwright was present in the theatre and although they had not managed to speak to him, they felt lustre had been shed upon them.