Coffin drew back into his room. Rebecca and Michael were not being cooperative. Whatever they had been overheard to say in the library, they were not yet willing to talk about it.
From Archie Young’s gait, and the head-up, I-will-not-be-beaten attitude of both young people, he could guess how the conversation had gone.
Students enjoyed obstructing the police and talking about civil liberties. But he thought he could trust Archie Young to get what he wanted. It might take time, not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but he would get there.
But you had to wonder what those two were hanging on to that was so sensitive.
There was only one piece of information that could be so hard to handle: they knew who had killed Amy. Or thought they knew.
But they claimed that they had loved Amy. Then why not speak? Who was so important in their lives that they would keep silent.
Martin Blackhall?
His father? Yes, certainly, a very powerful figure in their world.
He sat there, considering. They would come across with whatever they knew in the end, he had a lot of confidence in Archie Young. Or he might move in himself. They might trust him.
He switched back to his own interview with them. Angela’s name had figured. That girl, he’d almost forgotten her. But she was there all right, embedded in the case like a fly in amber. In the amber the fly was dead. Angela very much alive.
The pile of work did not seem to have become much less in spite of the day’s labours; he put his back into work (and so, to do them justice, did Andrew, Fiona, and Lysette), but fresh material always piled in. There was too much to attend to in too little time; pay, working conditions, the relation between his police authority and the central government, new British and European legislation on a multitude of matters. Everything landed up on his desk.
Would he mind so much, giving up?
He tidied things up, because Lysette who would be on tomorrow liked a tidy desk, locked his drawers and made ready to move. WALKER was going home.
He had got his overcoat on when the telephone rang. He looked at it, considering: the call had come through on his private line. Very few people had that number.
‘Stella told me this number,’ said Maisie Rolt. Her voice was husky. ‘I didn’t want to speak to a secretary.’
Coffin waited.
‘I’ve heard now how Josephine died. Worse than I thought.’ Maisie’s voice was sad; death was a visitor in her own house, but she was not going out to meet it.
He answered it the best way he knew. ‘I don’t think she suffered.’
‘But before, when she made it all ready … What must have been in her mind then?’
‘Yes, that’s always the hard part to take.’ He was wondering what she wanted. Not just sympathy.
‘I’ve been questioned.’
Getting there, he thought.
‘One of your men, nice young man called Amesbury. He thought I might have had a note from Josephine, a suicide note. I hadn’t, of course. He had a look round, perhaps there was a note somewhere … There wasn’t anything. Or not much. A case of clothes, but he didn’t bother with that. Josephine had a locker here and there was a diary in it, I doubt if there’s much in it, I think it was a Christmas present and she never used it, but he asked to take it away. I said yes, but Rosa—’
Ah, here it comes.
‘She was there?’
‘Came in. She refused to let your man have it. Said she was Josephine’s literary executor … Bit of a scene.’
‘Where is Rosa now?’
‘She’s here.’ Possibly within earshot.
‘Did you know about this?’
‘No, no idea.’
‘But you’re not surprised? You don’t sound surprised.’
‘Not at the way Rosa reacted, she’d always gone for Josephine and they have been very close lately. As if they shared something.’ So Rosa was not listening.
Coffin thought about it. ‘And Josephine? How was she?’
‘Off the record?’
‘Off the record.’
‘She had been in a very strange state for some time.’
‘And you think Rosa knows?’
Maisie chose her words carefully. ‘I think whatever it was that troubled Josephine, Rosa probably knows and may be part of. I don’t understand what being literary executor to Josephine in the context of Josephine’s life can signify, but it seems to mean a lot to Rosa.’
‘Well, thanks for telling me.’ A question had to follow, he could feel Maisie waiting for his next move. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘What you can to protect Rosa. She may need it. She says the police are after her for something else. They think she was the attacker of Martin Blackhall. They’ve got a witness.’
Some irony here, he thought, considering how Rosa and Co. felt about him.
‘I can’t interfere.’
‘Stella said …’ She did not finish the sentence, but she didn’t have to: Stella said you could.
Thank you, Stella.
But of course, he did interfere: a silent, accusing procession of Paul Lane, Archie Young, and the hardworking Amesbury (among others) lined up to remind him of this fact. He interfered all the time, always had and probably always would.
Anyway, this case was personal. He had James Dean to thank for that.
‘She’s loaded with something. And I think it has something to do with Josephine and the girl Amy, but what I don’t know. You may get it out of her.’ There was a pause. ‘I have a lot of time for Rosa. She was abused as a child. Probably by her father, or some older man in the family circle. She hates all men.’ Maisie retained her sense of humour. ‘You’ve probably noticed.’
She’s going to hate me more, Coffin thought, when I ask some of the questions I am going to ask.
‘Keep her there. I’ll be round.’ He paused. Someone was at the door. ‘Wait a minute.’ He turned away from the telephone. At his door, Sir Thomas had appeared. After him came two uniformed officers. He looked as though he had battled his way through them and could do so again, if he had to. Coffin turned again to Maisie. ‘Don’t go away. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Sir Thomas said: ‘I want your help.’ His voice said he demanded it. ‘Two of my students are here being questioned. I should have been told. I should be here.’ He was pale and angry. He would defend his own to the last.
‘They aren’t juveniles, you know, but yes, I agree that as a courtesy you should have been told.’ Not asked to sit in on the interview, however.
‘Yes, yes, I was told, but I didn’t know they were going to be taken in for questioning.’
Coffin took up his coat. ‘I’m going that way, let’s see what is happening. I can give it about five minutes.’
The death of Amy Dean was right back with them and top of the list.
Ten impatient minutes later, he was talking to Chief Inspector Archie Young. ‘So what did they say?’ If they had said anything, by the look on the Chief Inspector’s face, he had not got far. Beenie and Mick looked flushed, harassed and unhappy. Young gave them a baleful look.
‘They have said that Amy was under the influence of someone older.’
‘Who?’
‘We’re stuck there.’ He shrugged. ‘But Star Court House comes into it.’
‘Ah. So you think they are lying? Or is that all they know?’
‘They are being what I might call oblique. Giving us something at an angle.’
Mick said: ‘We’ve both of us told all we can. Amy had someone. That’s all either of us knows.’ Mick, usually such an ebullient lad, looked at Coffin with the expression in his eyes that he had seen in Bob’s, dog’s eyes saying: I’ve done all I can, it’s up to you. Help me.
Coffin was careful to give nothing back in return. ‘Let’s leave it there for a moment, even if you’ve got nothing.’ Something or nothing?
‘No, it’s not nothing. And I’ll get it from them. I shall have to let them go for now, Sir T
homas is with them, but I’ll be back for more of the same.’
Coffin believed him. Star Court House had a meaning in the context of this case, but as yet he could not tell what. Perhaps Maisie Rolt and Our General could enlighten him.
Star Court House in the rain, grey and damp, did not look welcoming, but it was home to the women and children who needed it. Someone had been tidying the garden and a big clump of yellow chrysanthemums had been tied up to a stake, where they looked uneasy as if the hands that had tethered them were new to the job.
He rang the doorbell twice before the door was opened by Maisie Rolt. She looked tired and thin, as if the disease she had been resisting for so long was suddenly gaining on her.
‘Sorry to be slow. I was on the telephone.’
The hall was warm and quiet. Coffin had half expected to be greeted by the child he had met before. No sound of voices or noises either.
‘Very quiet,’ he said.
Maisie gave a half smile. ‘We’re a bit empty just now. It happens sometimes.’
‘What’s become of the boy I saw last time?’
‘Teddy, was that? No, it must have been Darren.’
‘Could have been. His mother seemed to act a kind of watchdog.’ She had watched him, certainly.
‘Oh, they’ve moved on. We’ve been able to find her a place to live. A kind of halfway house, you know, a safe house where she can stay for a bit until she gets something more permanent.’
‘Where’s Rosa?’
‘In my sitting-room. She’s been helping me in the garden, good therapy although she’s not got what you could call green fingers … It’s along here.’ Maisie led the way down the corridor, then up a short staircase. For the first time, he noticed that she was moving awkwardly as if in pain. ‘Here we are.’
He had not been to her sitting-room before and it was a mark of how far he was getting into the secrets of Star Court that he should see it now.
‘You could do with a lift,’ he said.
Maisie gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Do with a lot of things. A new leg for me wouldn’t come amiss.’ She pushed open a door. ‘Here we are.’
Her room was small, overheated and full of furniture. Rosa was standing by the window as if she was preparing to jump out of it.
‘Here we are, Rosa,’ said Maisie. ‘I told you he’d come.’
The announcement did not seem welcome.
‘I didn’t want to see you. It was Maisie’s idea. I’m only doing it to please her.’
‘Come on now, Rosa,’ said Maisie. ‘You’re doing it for yourself. You don’t want to go to prison.’
‘I’ll manage.’
‘I can always leave,’ said Coffin obligingly, although in fact he would have been loath to leave this sight of Rosa rampant.
‘I won’t go to prison, get off with a fine. Might even get a medal. Commendation for bravery, that’s what you pigs get, isn’t it? I thought I was saving her, I didn’t know he was the dear, innocent prince who was defending her. That’s my defence, and that’s what I shall say.’
‘You nearly killed him,’ said Coffin.
A small smile flicked across Rosa’s mouth before she returned to being stonefaced. ‘So what?’
Coffin turned to Maisie Rolt. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’m afraid Miss Maundy doesn’t like me very much.’
‘Too right,’ said Rosa.
‘Shut up, Rosa,’ said Maisie in an equable, matter-of-fact voice, no anger towards any one, and perhaps not much emotion either. ‘In spite of what she says, Rosa did agree to meet you and does wish to speak to you.’
‘Only for Josephine’s sake,’ said Rosa fiercely. ‘Not that you did her much good. Dead, isn’t she? You ought to be satisfied with that.’
Coffin was silent. Got me there, he thought.
‘Josephine left a diary. It’s a notebook, anyroad. You lot want it. I want it. I want it. I own it. I’m her literary executor.’
‘At the moment, it counts as evidence.’
‘I have to protect Josie, no one else will.’ She was swelling with emotion like a toad. ‘Maisie said you’d help.’
Coffin blinked. ‘But you didn’t believe it? What’s in the diary?’ Nothing much, Amesbury had said.
‘It’s not the diary—’ began Rosa. ‘She didn’t put much in that, not the sort to pour her heart out—’ Then she stopped, and flushed.
‘So what?’
‘Josie trusted me … I am her literary executor, no papers should be looked at or touched except by me. And I don’t give permission.’
Coffin looked interested. ‘Did she have some papers to leave?’
‘Is it that box?’ said Maisie. ‘The one in my safe? The one you gave me, Rosa? It’s wrapped up and perfectly all right, you should have asked.’
Coffin said: ‘I’d like to see this box.’
In a fury, Rosa turned upon Maisie. ‘Damn you!’
Coffin, looking in Maisie Rolt’s eyes, saw that she had known all along about the box and had always meant him to see it. She had not long to go and meant to preserve that truth.
CHAPTER 15
Towards the end of that day
Maisie Rolt’s safe was in the wall of her sitting-room behind a picture. It’s protective powers were symbolic rather than real, Coffin decided as he looked at the ancient structure.
‘I don’t keep much in it,’ said Maisie. She reached inside and removed what she wanted. ‘Here you are.’
She had attached a label. Jo’s PROPERTY HELD FOR SAFEKEEPING. ‘I put that on to make sure. You never know, I might not be here.’
Josephine’s parcel was wrapped in brown paper fastened with string. Underneath was a further wrapping of tissue paper.
Coffin undid it slowly, watched by Rosa, protective and fierce at the same time. She ran her fingers through her dark brown hair which she wore in a square bob. It was the most feminine gesture Coffin had seen her make, but he observed that her hands, although short and powerful, were well kept, the nails trim and clean. Rosa had her vanities, then.
She took the box from him. ‘Let me, this is my job.’ She hung on to it for a moment. ‘I’m not sure if Josie would have wanted this.’
For a moment Rosa did nothing. As patiently as he could manage, Coffin said: ‘Unless Josie made a will naming you as her literary executor, then it means nothing. Even then, the will would have to be proved. Is there such a will?’ He looked at Maisie, who shrugged.
‘Josie said it to me,’ said Rosa. ‘Gave me charge of her papers. Verbal contract, that means something.’
‘It’s got to be opened. Come on, open it.’
Rosa unpeeled the tissue paper which was yellowed and brittle as if years had passed since Josephine had wrapped up the box.
Inside was a tin, the sort of tin that biscuits are packed in to keep them crisp. The edges were sealed down with sticky tape.
Rosa looked at Coffin, her eyes doubtful. ‘It’s private.’
‘Open it.’
Rosa peeled away the last of the wrappings. She still hesitated.
‘Now the lid,’ said Coffin.
Inside several pages of newspaper were folded. A stuffy dry smell floated out. Coffin took the box to the table by the window. With careful fingers he took out the newspapers and laid them on the table. They were as brown and friable as autumn leaves.
Underneath the dried-out pages were the flattened remains of a moth, wings tight about its body. A pinpoint head could just be made out. Coffin left it where it lay. The shape of its body was marked on the underside of the bottom piece of newsprint, and oddly, it looked stronger and darker than the moth itself. In its way it was a certification of the years that had passed.
He found there were pages from three different newspapers. Two local, the Easthythe News, and the North Thames Times, and one London evening newspaper: the old Star. None of them existed any longer.
Josephine, or whoever had collected the newspapers, had cut round one story, nipping throug
h advertisements for cough cures and headache remedies and double glazing for windows.
THE BODY OF A GIRL DISCOVERED IN WOODLAND. This was the Easthythe paper. The other local paper had gone for a grimmer headline: STRANGLED BODY FOUND IN LOCAL LOVERS’ WOOD.
The London paper had simply said: BODY IN THE WOOD.
But in each case it was the same story. A girl’s body had been found in the woods, named in the two local papers as Pickerskill Wood.
He heard Maisie draw in a sharp breath as she leaned over to read. Rosa said nothing, but stared down at the table, her lips moving as she read.
Not that there was much to read. Not one of the newspapers had much to report. The body of a young girl had been found lying in Pickerskill Wood. It had been there some time before being discovered by a couple. Lightly covered with leaves, there had been no real attempt to hide the body. She had been strangled. But before her death she had been roughly treated, for there were bruises on her arms and face. Some bruises were old, some new.
The newspapers were all dated within the same week in May, 1970.
Moth and girl had been dead for over twenty years.
‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked Rosa.
She shook her head. ‘No, not me. 1970? I couldn’t read then.’
‘What about you, Maisie? Heard of it? And of any connection with Josephine?’
‘I knew there had been a tragedy in Josephine’s life,’ said Maisie reluctantly. ‘It was part of the myth about her: that something terrible had happened.’
‘Myth?’
‘I suppose I mean I never quite believed it,’ said Maisie reluctantly. ‘I thought Josie liked to cloak herself in a bit of drama.’ She studied the newspaper cuttings but without touching them. ‘What this girl meant to her, I don’t know.’
Daughter, niece, cousin, neighbour? Coffin asked himself. But he could find out. The case would have left some records somewhere.
‘Have these papers been packed up all that time?’ Maisie asked Coffin.
‘Some years, but not necessarily that long,’ he said absently. ‘Modern paper yellows quickly … Pickerskill Wood?’ he said. ‘Know where that is?’
Cracking Open a Coffin Page 20
