Coffin Underground

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  His secretary’s voice was bright and cheerful. Give her a direct order and she knew where she was. She was also marvellously quick in carrying out what was asked of her. Coffin thought she would have made a marvellous soldier.

  He went back to his worktable at home in Church Row, confident that Sergeant Phyllis Henley would soon be captured by Jean and brought to him.

  He had several files of paper in front of him. There were some reports so confidential that even Jean might not see them; they were better kept at home. In the wall he had a specially constructed safe, for the installing of which official funds had been provided. Not even Paul Lane knew of its existence, although he was clever enough to have guessed it might be there.

  Jean rang back in about an hour. ‘Sorry I haven’t been able to get Sergeant Henley for you. She seems to have covered her tracks with skill. But her bike’s still there.’

  ‘Have you telephoned her home?’

  ‘Yes, no answer.’

  ‘What about her husband?’

  ‘He came in and went out again.’ Jean added: ‘Someone said it was their married daughter’s birthday, so perhaps that’s it.’ It was like Jean to think of a happy family reason for a slight disappearance. Drink, a quarrel or even illness would always come second with her.

  ‘Keep on trying.’

  ‘I expect she’ll get in touch with you herself, sir.’

  Yes, Phyllis Henley, the tough professional, would tell him when she had hard information, so he could only conclude she was still working on her lead. He had already summed her up as someone who hated to admit defeat. Paul Lane had warned him that Phyllis liked to play things her own way, and now it looked as though she did indeed.

  He wished she’d surface. He hated playing guessing games.

  Dust was beginning to deposit itself over his furniture, while the kitchen floor needed scrubbing where he had dropped an egg on it. A visit from Mrs Brocklebank was long overdue. He wondered if she had abandoned him for ever.

  He hoped she would be back. In a strange kind of way, they suited each other. There was a link, too. She had brought Sarah Fleming into his life, which was something he could not forget.

  In the late morning he left the house to walk down Church Row to the garage where he kept his car. He had a meeting to attend in London.

  The day had got hot and sunny, bringing out the flies. There seemed more around than usual. One great bluebottle circled his head, ignoring his efforts to brush it away.

  He liked the heat of the sun on his back, but somehow the day no longer felt right. It was not going to be such an easy day, after all.

  He strolled down the road, thinking, and not for the first time, what a remarkably quiet and empty road Church Row was. It was in bright sunlight on one side and in deep shadow on the other.

  As he got nearer to No. 22 he decided that Mrs Brocklebank had been neglecting her duties here as well.

  That famous stain was back on the front steps. Something must have got spilt on them. As he got closer he saw that there was a series of red drops with the characteristic trailing pear shape as of blood which had dripped from a wound. Or a knife.

  A patch of flies had been attracted. As he got closer still to the house the fly above his head left him to rejoin its fellows.

  The Chief Superintendent walked towards the house. He had seen flies behave like that before. Once in a dirty butcher’s shop in Hackney and once in another scene of butchery.

  The stains on the steps did look remarkably like blood. Mrs Brocklebank, had she been here, would no doubt have pointed them out with triumph. ‘Told you so,’ she could have said.

  He tried the front door. Locked.

  Looking down the basement steps which led to a paved area from which a door led straight into that kitchen which had secretly housed Bill Egan, he thought he could see that the door was ajar.

  Slowly he walked down the steps. The door stood open a few inches. He pushed it back against some pressure from inside. He put his head round the door.

  ‘Rhoda?’ he called questioningly. ‘Mrs Brocklebank. You there?’ He took a step into the kitchen.

  Then he stopped, drawing in his breath sharply.

  Sergeant Phyllis Henley lay on her side with her head on her hands. The key which she must have been holding had fallen beside her.

  She had her head on her hands, but neither was attached to her body. They were about a foot apart, by themselves, and lying in a pool of blood.

  She was cold, she had been dead some time. After he checked this, he stepped carefully back, touching nothing. The necessary telephone calls would have to be made from his own flat.

  He closed the door and walked up the steps. Mrs Brocklebank is right about this house, after all, he thought. It is a bloody house.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘She didn’t die easily,’ said the police surgeon to John Coffin. He was kneeling by the body, examining its wounds. He was an elderly Scotsman, a man of the north, who had worked all his life in South London and was now near to retirement; he had known Phyllis Henley for almost all of his career. Her work with children and women had brought them together often. He did not like his present task.

  ‘She wouldn’t; she was a professional. A tough police officer.’

  ‘She put up a fight.’

  Dr McIntyre’s examination had been a necessary, first, brief run-over, made without disturbing the body too much. Photographs, measurements, plans of the room would all be done in due course, each in its appointed order. The drill was well worked out and always the same, used for every murder. Special feeling would go into it now. This was the murder of a police officer, one of their own, no one would step aside.

  Coffin did not look at the severed hands, where he imagined the signs of a fight would show.

  But the doctor did not spare him. ‘Look at the left hand.’

  Coffin looked. He saw a deep incised wound across the angle of the thumb and the first finger, with another cut on the fleshy mound of the thumb. There were further cuts across the fingers where they flexed.

  Typical defence wounds,’ said McIntyre. ‘She was gripping the knife to ward off the attack.’

  ‘He came at her from the front then?’

  ‘Mebbe, I haven’t made up my mind. She has a stab in the back and the look of a woman surprised.’

  Coffin did not answer. He let Mac have his Celtic whims, everyone did; he was vastly experienced and had been right so often.

  ‘Now look you here.’

  The doctor had rolled up the dead woman’s sleeves to examine her arms. She had been wearing a light cotton shirt with a dark blue skirt. On the upper arms were bruises and abrasions. There was no bleeding, the contusions were subcutaneous, the skin had been protected by her shirt.

  ‘Those bruises were caused by her assailant gripping her arms during the attack.’

  ‘The killer must be marked too,’ said Coffin.

  ‘I should hope so.’ McIntyre pointed to the right hand. ‘There are cuts and bruises on the wrist and knuckles. There will be skin and blood under the nails. From the murderer. With any luck that will give you some help.’

  ‘If we know where to look.’

  ‘I shall be hoping you will soon,’ said the doctor severely. ‘She was a good lass and deserved better than this.’

  All around them was, once again in this terrible house, intense police activity. It was only recently that a police presence had been withdrawn from No. 22 after the Pitt deaths. Several rooms, including the dining-room and library, were still sealed.

  Now they were all back again, a scene of crime officer, a civilian this time, one whom Coffin did not know, the police photographer waiting to start his work, and a CID Inspector from the local police. A new team, in the old house, with a fresh crime.

  The doctor and Chief Superintendent Coffin stood aside as the photographer moved in to start his unenviable task of recording the remains. He too had known Phy
llis Henley. Their last work together had been with a dead child. He had not enjoyed that photo session either, but he disliked this even more.

  Did it make it worse when you knew the victim? When you had worked side by side? And he had to answer: Yes, it did.

  ‘How did she die?’

  Even as he asked it, Coffin thought it was a monstrous question to pose.

  Phyllis Henley was so obviously, terribly dead. But for professional reasons, he had to know the exact cause of death. There would be a report to write. One of the many reports that would be written. A report from the scene of crime officer, one from the police surgeon, another from the police pathologist, and a whole clutch, probably, from the numerous forensic scientists who would be involved. A lot of different disciplines were going to be dragged in.

  ‘Let the clever pathology chaps in their laboratory decide that,’ said Dr McIntyre. ‘She had a deep stab in the back, but to my mind that’s not the one that killed her. I mark the stab in the abdomen as the most likely one. But we’ll see.’

  ‘I expect you’re right.’

  ‘Likely. But we’ll bow to the experts.’ He never did, of course, and would fight for his own answer doggedly. Only he rarely had to; he had an eye; it was respected.

  ‘And how long has she been dead?’

  ‘Ach now, that’s harder. As you very well know, my lad.’

  ‘Make a guess.’

  The pathologist will be here soon. Let’s leave it to him.’

  ‘You were here first.’

  There are so many variables.’ McIntyre shrugged. ‘It’s been a hot night, with not much draught down here. She’s well clothed. I’d like to make a body puncture and wait, till I committed myself.’

  ‘Come on, Mac. Why do you always make difficulties?’

  ‘Rigor is passing away.’

  ‘I noticed that when you moved her arm.’

  Already it was easier to talk about Phyllis Henley as a body.

  ‘So I suppose death could have taken place about twelve hours ago.’ Hastily he added: ‘Give or take a bit. It could be an hour or so longer.’

  Coffin nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  It was now after midday. Sergeant Henley had spoken to him about ten-thirty last night. She could have been killed not long afterwards.

  ‘Is there anything else you’ve noticed?’

  Dr McIntyre shrugged. ‘Nothing you won’t see for yourself. You’ve observed the key?’

  The key to the basement door of No. 22, which had rested by Phyllis Henley’s dead hands.

  ‘I have.’ And asked himself how she came by it. ‘Wonder where she got it?’

  ‘That’s your business, not mine.’ Dr McIntyre was slowly removing his rubber gloves. He had done all he could, he would make his report, and Phyllis Henley’s body would become someone else’s study.

  ‘What did you mean by her being surprised?’

  ‘Just that. She may have felt safe here, been surprised to have been attacked. Or her attacker may have been someone she did not expect. It’s just my impression, you know. Ignore it.’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Thanks for mentioning it. Might be important.’

  Dr McIntyre was packing up his bags. He always brought two, ancient black leather bags that had seen long service, into which he packed with great method all the gloves, tweezers, thermometers and rulers that long usage had shown him he needed. These bags were known in the district as Mac’s Packs. Out of one of them he drew a small notebook, in which he proceeded to write.

  ‘My expenses.’

  But Coffin knew it was much more than that. He was said to keep a tally, an account of all his cases. In its way, this was a famous book.

  ‘Going to write a book, Mac?’ It was the traditional joke, someone always made it, it might as well be him now, although laughter was far from both of them.

  ‘Mebbe, mebbe not. But this is an entry I would have been glad not to put down.’

  Coffin heard feet coming down the staircase from the upper floor of the house. He recognized the voices of the local CID inspector and of the Home Office pathologist.

  ‘I’ll be off,’ said McIntyre hastily, making for the outer stairs to the street from the basement. ‘Say my bye-byes for me.’ Between him and the famous pathologist now arriving, there was no love lost.

  Coffin stayed on, spoke briefly to the two men, who were polite but not cordial, and departed in his turn.

  He telephoned Jean, who already knew the news, and had cancelled several of his local appointments, including the one with Chief Inspector Salter who had been ‘so anxious to see him’ and who was probably even more anxious now, and told her he was preparing to leave for London and his meeting. Life had to go on.

  He had a brief thought for Sergeant Evans now in Essex, collating cases of bloody murders connected with fantasy games. ‘Any call from Essex?’ he asked.

  ‘None, sir.’

  In the brief walk from No. 22 to his own flat he had pulled from the back of his mind a conviction that had been forming there without much conscious thought on his part, just something he knew.

  He washed thoroughly, standing under his shower while the hot water poured over him. Nothing could wash away the beastliness of that house or the horror of the sight of Phyllis Henley’s body, but he felt the need to try.

  He was dirty, guilty, guilty as hell. It was his fault she had died. No matter that it had been police business, and that someone had to do it, he had personally selected Phyllis Henley yesterday. Chosen her as she sat drinking tea and eating chocolate biscuits and enjoying her small triumph.

  He had never hated himself more.

  When he was dressed, in a clean shirt and a fresh suit, he telephoned Inspector Lane.

  He plunged straight in, not bothering to enter into any explanations, knowing that Paul Lane would be thoroughly informed of the death of Sergeant Henley. News like that travelled.

  ‘Paul? Get hold of Topper and send him round to Rhoda Brocklebank. If he can’t find her at home, tell him to look in the public library in the afternoon. If that’s no good, he’s to try the Red Trafalgar when it opens. She ought to be in one or the other. Then he’s to get her to admit that she gave Phyllis Henley the key to No. 22. I’m sure that’s where Phyllis got it from. He’s to get a statement about their meeting. Tell him that.’

  ‘Right.’ Lane was short, sounding angry.

  Paul Lane’s almost silent acceptance of the message told Coffin, if he had not known before, how deeply everyone felt the murder of Sergeant Henley.

  When Coffin returned from central London late that night, he looked in at the TAS office. Lane was still there, hunched over his desk. He muttered a greeting.

  Coffin turned over the papers and messages that Jean had left on his own desk. Nothing from Evans, who might still be in Essex. ‘Did Topper talk to Rhoda Brocklebank?’

  ‘Yes. And she did give the key to Phyllis. Claims she asked for it.’

  ‘What else? She must have had something to say about their interview.’

  ‘She says the sergeant just asked her questions about Nona Pitt, and then about Terry Place.’

  Probing, Coffin thought. Following instructions, doing what I asked. He felt more guilty than ever.

  ‘Phyllis leave any record of the conversation?’

  ‘She probably left notes. She may not have had time.’

  ‘She telephoned me from a public call-box somewhere. It may have been the Red Trafalgar.’

  She could have sat there writing her notes. He didn’t think so, though. Where had Phyllis gone, in between leaving Mrs Brocklebank and telephoning him? It might explain why she had gone to No. 22 later that night.

  ‘If her notebook was on her body, then you will be able to see it when forensics have finished with it.’

  ‘Yes.’ He could see delays and frustrations here. Salter would not be cooperative and would have passed the word down the line: Don’t be over-eager to help the bastards in TAS.

 
And here on his desk, just under his hand, was another message from Jean to bear out this thought: Chief Inspector Salter is very anxious to see you.

  When Coffin got back to his own flat, all he found there in the way of post was an enigmatic postcard from his sister Lætitia: she had sent him a view of Edinburgh from the air, with a message scribbled on the back: I am going to the law. With love from Letty.

  It was incomprehensible, and, he thought, a little alarming. What did she mean?

  ‘Damn,’ said Coffin and went to bed. Not a good day, one of the worst.

  He was a man who had started out in his career simple and full of hope, but his life had been so marked by violent and terrible happenings that his character was now seamed and rocky like a mountain face which had been opened up by movements of the earth, then partly sealed by lava flows. He was healed, but underneath there were still one or two bruised nerves.

  The death of Phyllis Henley touched these nerves into life.

  One thing, however, was very clear: if the murder of Phyllis Henley was connected with the death of the Pitts, as it surely was, then neither Terry Place nor Edward Pitt nor Nona Pitt were guilty.

  He must look for his killer elsewhere.

  Oddly enough, this thought was cheering. He had always found that once you knew where you were wrong, then you had taken a great step towards being right.

  The picture of Christopher Court driving away from Church Row flashed into his mind.

  Never! he thought. And then: Maybe?

  When Sergeant Evans returned from Essex next morning, he had a load of material and a headache. He had come in early, not having been to bed, and placed his information on Coffin’s desk. Then he had gone off to have a full breakfast in the canteen.

  This might have been a mistake, he now reflected, as he seemed to have indigestion. But it might just have been anxiety.

  ‘I hope I’ve got what the boss wants,’ he said to his friend and rival, Geoffrey Topper. ‘His instructions weren’t that clear.’

  ‘You’re meant to use your intelligence,’ said Topper.

  ‘I always do that, but I’m not a mind-reader.’ Topper laughed unkindly and Evans threw him a mock bow. They were sometimes like two young puppies. ‘I mean, he can be a bit too elusive. Now you see him, now you don’t.’ He looked around the room as if Coffin might be hiding there.