Coffin on the Water

by Gwendoline Butler

  She went on keeping her fingers crossed. There was so much going on: a royal visit with the King and Queen and the two princesses. Someone had said Queen Mary was coming also. A masque to be performed by the local rep. And incidentally a strong rumour that the Delaneys were going bust and would be replaced by Michael Redgrave. The reporter, Julia Fawcett, who hoped to write plays, took a keen interest in this.

  Also the hunt for the Shepherd daughter. Her mother’s murderer was a local man, and Julia was preparing a piece, an obituary if you like, to be published when he was hanged.

  There was almost too much happening. ‘Thanks, dad,’ she said affectionately. ‘First with the news, eh?’

  Jack the Ripper is not a gothic figure, he does not walk the castles of the mind. He is industrial man, an urban murderer. He needs the streets, the tenements.

  In particular he needs the newspapers, the radio, because he wants to be heard.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Face of the Murderer

  Breakfast at Mrs Lorimer’s was tea and burnt toast with Mrs Lorimer crying quietly into her teacup. All over Greenwich women were about to ask themselves if their husband, brother, lover or parent was this terrible murderer of women. Each of them chose the man they loved and feared most. Mrs Lorimer thought she knew.

  The news spread very quickly from mouth to mouth, growing all the time. Soon there were four murders, five, six.

  Breakfast at Angel House was coffee and crisp, fresh toast. Stella made it and brought it on a tray to where Rachel sat enthroned in bed. When the telephone rang, Stella went into the hall to answer it.

  ‘Stella? I’m glad I’ve got you. There’s been another body in the river.’

  ‘Another? Yet another?’

  ‘A third. You’d better tell Rachel.’

  ‘Is it the same sort of killing? Are you sure? Where are you speaking from?’ She could hear noises which did not sound like a police station but did sound like Lady Olivia.

  ‘Lorimer’s. And I am sure.’ He looked down to see Eagle Scott give a toothy grin. ‘I’ve been told I have it from a totally reliable source.’

  He started to put the receiver down. A kind of keening noise was coming from upstairs. Unmistakable in origin.

  ‘For God’s sake quieten that woman,’ he said to his landlady.

  Mrs Lorimer took up a tray of tea and sacrificial toast. ‘Lady Olivia, dear,’ he heard, before the door closed.

  Stella said, ‘John – this means something terrible, doesn’t it? I can tell by your voice.’

  ‘Then you can tell more than I can.’ But he had had a bad feeling for a long time, and now it was back sitting like a big black bird on his shoulder. Like Mama Padovani, like Mrs Lorimer, he thought he knew the murderer. ‘Where will you be all today?’

  ‘Need you ask? The theatre. Rehearsing, fitting dresses for the Masque.’

  At these words a faint pleasure stirred in Coffin’s mind. ‘Is it true that Eddie Kelly fell in the water last time you rehearsed?’

  ‘True and somewhat; he fell in twice.’ Like the loyal little trouper she was, she did not reveal that Eddie’s toupé fell off in the water and had to be retrieved like a wet rat. Eddie had looked like murder and it certainly took your mind off sex.

  Eagle Scott looked at him eagerly. ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it? Will you see the body?’

  ‘Yes.’ He would if he could, but would he be pushed to the perimeter again? There was a glass wall all around him, like one of those bells inside which the Victorians placed flower arrangements.

  He had a sudden picture of himself sitting, a little mannikin, on a satin cushion. He was not alone inside the glass bell; he had a companion in there with him, as had become increasingly obvious. The murderer was in there with him.

  It was a hot day. Flags were already going up on houses in Greenwich. Pictures of the King and Queen, he in uniform, she in pale blue and pale fur, appearing in all windows. Every so often there was a picture of Winston Churchill, cigar and V sign complete. There were no pictures of Clement Attlee even where the householder had voted Labour. In Greenwich Hythe there was a solitary picture of Stalin. The elderly, almost blind widow who lived there believed it to be a portrait of General Montgomery. No one liked to tell her otherwise.

  Every available policeman, both plain-clothes and uniformed branch was working. All leave was cancelled, and as Sergeant Tew said bitterly (it was his wedding anniversary and a treat for him and his wife had been planned), you had to be mortally ill even to get a dinner break.

  There was no fresh evidence about the missing Sybil Shepherd. The murderer of her mother continued to affirm he knew nothing. Tom Banbury was beginning to believe him. He put the case aside temporarily, thus leaving his energies free for other activities.

  He made the self-comment that he seemed to be considered a safe man in dealing with the royal family. He gave himself a wry good mark. In the course of these duties he flushed out several old friends. He was almost glad to see them: con men and pickpockets were not killers. Violence was anathema to them, all they wanted was a little quiet money.

  A dull anger sat inside his stomach, causing him pain which he communicated to those he worked with. Alex Rowley felt it most, but Coffin came in for his share. Chief Superintendent Dander recognized the mood, he had met the pale shadow of it in his wife. His own mood became harder.

  He went into yet another conference with Warwick from which both emerged silent and grim.

  Details about the new victim were coming in quickly. She was a married woman, mother of one child, whose husband had been in Germany in the army of occupation, and she was believed to have left home for a lover. She had been identified by her sister and sister-in-law, who had come to the police station in Greenwich together. The husband was there now being questioned. He was obviously a prime suspect.

  Except for certain matters that Warwick and Dander were, as yet, keeping to themselves.

  It was midday, on Monday, after the discovery of the third body. Dander was thirsty. Also angry with himself.

  ‘A drink? At the Ragman’s, across the road?’

  The Ragman was the local name for the Duke of York pub. The origin of the name was wrapped in mystery.

  ‘If you like.’ Warwick wasn’t keen. ‘I suppose they’ve got some beer?’

  They’ve usually got it when no one else has.’

  Even beer was in short supply. But policemen could usually find some. Publicans knew whom to look after.

  ‘Is it time to talk to Banbury? Have a word?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘No, I know Tom Banbury and you don’t. We’d do no good. And might do harm. Besides …

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you think he knows what’s up?’

  Warwick sipped his beer. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes. For sure he does.’ Be a fool if he didn’t, a professional policeman as he was. ‘You’re right. We’ve kept him out. On the edge, but he knows what’s going on.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ve got a suspect.’

  Both men had separately and together interviewed the husband of Eileen Gaze and the parents of Shirley Cowley.

  The point in common that all the women had was The Padovani, and the Theatre Royal, Nelson Street.

  At the Theatre Royal, Nelson Street, Joan Delaney was discovering with relief that returns were not down, the inhabitants of Greenwich were not giving up the theatre on account of the murder (perhaps they felt safer there), and that the rest of London was apparently anxious to take seats. The telephone never stopped ringing.

  She decided to postpone the production of Twelfth Night and put in Night Must Fall.

  If horror was what the fans wanted, they could have it.

  Meanwhile, the Masque was coming on well. Eddie had learnt to manage his boots and his hair, there was no danger he would fall into the river again, while Stella was enchanting.

  She herself was to play the Queen, a much more taxing part, and a tr
eat she deserved after all her self-denial that season in bringing in outside stands from London and letting Stella and Bluebell show off. The audiences loved them, but she knew they were showing-off.

  They might go bankrupt, but, by God, they would die in style.

  Besides, on that issue, she had plans.

  Joan forgot the murders. She had no worries about Albie who had worked by her side every day, almost never out of her sight, and slept at night in their old double bed as he always had.

  About Eddie Kelly and Chris Mackenzie, whom she had some reason to think had almost certainly been otherwise disposed, except as touched her theatre, she did not care at all.

  They were two days into the investigation of the new deaths, plus Lorna Beezley, now centred on a suite of special offices in the Greenwich police station with a newly installed Nissen hut (ex RAF stores) in what had been the school playground. The main school building was undergoing major rebuilding and there was brickdust everywhere. There were similar sub-offices on suitable spots in Greenwich Hythe and Greenwich Strand. It was a circus, with an air of slight madness about it, but an organized one.

  Chief Superintendent Dander and Inspector Warwick presided over a meeting in which all the information coming in was pooled and discussed with the investigating policemen, now a large team.

  Attention was focused most sharply on the two new victims Shirley Cowley and Eileen Gaze, a married woman of twenty-five, and the only one of the three to have borne a child.

  Smoking was allowed.

  The air was heavy with Player’s and Gold Flake within the first ten minutes. Dander was reputed to smoke Balkan Sobranies but never did so in public. Instead he chewed on a dead pipe which he used like a musical instrument.

  The tune he was playing was one they all knew, a complicated little melody in a low key.

  How were the victims killed? How had their identities been established?

  The points came quick and fast; each girl had been strangled, then attacked with a knife. Repeatedly stabbed, mutilated. In each case the instrument had been a pointed blade, sharpened on both sides. In each case the manner of attack had great similarities.

  Eileen Gaze had been dead for some two weeks before the other girls. She had died almost as soon as she had disappeared from her home.

  Coffin heard a voice, his own, say, ‘Is it correct, sir, that no card was found on the body of Mrs Gaze.’

  Warwick was succinct. ‘No, no card was found. There may have been one that was washed away, but the forensics have no evidence – pin holes and such – to suggest there was.’

  Eileen Gaze had died well before the others, but held no card addressed to Rachel Esthart. This was the great difference.

  The thought that came was interesting, but terrible. The black creature, bird or beast, on his shoulder stirred.

  Warwick’s brisk catalogue continued: what contacts could be established for the dead woman in the big wide world of London, such as what boyfriends, employers, enemies and neighbours? It was for them to find out. Even the man she sat next to on the No. 10 bus if they could trace him.

  Did they know each other? And if so, where and how and at one point did their paths come close and cross?

  There was a map of Greenwich, Greenwich Hythe and Greenwich Wick. Marked on it were points where the girls had been known: different colours for each girl.

  Yellow for Lorna Beezley

  Red for Shirley Cowley

  Blue for Eileen Gaze.

  The yellow and red dots were concentrated more or less in one area, with more perhaps in the Hythe for Shirley who had lived there, but the blue points were all over the place.

  Eileen had got about a bit.

  Which was what her sister-in-law had complained, and the police could now confirm.

  From his seat tucked away at the back of the room from where he could see the board and the back of Alex Rowley’s neck, Coffin thought: pattern of their lives, that’s what I’m looking at. Jazzy little affairs, too. Shirley’s looked like a comet with a couple of tails, Eileen’s more like an octopus.

  Dance halls, cinemas, shops and hairdresser, these were places they had frequented.

  Did their paths cross anywhere? Warwick had asked the question and now answered himself.

  ‘Yes. They crossed at several points.’ Coffin saw the back of Alex’s neck go red.

  ‘There were at least three places where all three women went.’ Banbury pointed to the map. ‘The Padovani Restaurant in Church Row, the Theatre Royal, Nelson Street, in Lower Greenwich Street, and the Rose-dream Dance Hall in the Woolwich Road. They may have met, they may not. As yet we don’t know.’

  Shirley and Eileen had danced at the Rose-dream, where Lorna Beezley had sometimes played in the band. She too loved to go dancing. Shirley had served food at The Padovani where Eileen and Lorna had eaten and drunk. All of them had sat in the audience to watch the company perform at the theatre, and Shirley and Lorna had gone back-stage. Possibly Eileen had as well.

  Coffin focused again on what Warwick was saying:

  ‘The killer, the multiple killer of all these women – because we are, at this moment, assuming one killer to be responsible – is someone with pronounced characteristics. He will be weak, but might think himself strong, and will probably have inherited a difficult relationship with both his parents.

  ‘I say we must go looking for someone who has been damaged by life. Someone angry, hurt, feeling inferior, but inside him conscious of being superior. That is the man we are looking for.’

  Warwick had delivered himself of the most profound intellectual statement of his life, and he was as red in the face as Alex’s neck: a striking match.

  Warwick was answering a question: ‘Yes, we have some suspects, but no positive names.’

  Lying bugger, thought Coffin. You have a name. Must have. I have myself. But he did not blame his senior officer for not naming names.

  The meeting broke up without him having contributed to it, but he had not been meant to, and had not been trying.

  He stood at the door looking at Alex Rowley. Tom Banbury brushed past them.

  ‘Cut off to work, you two,’ he said brusquely.

  ‘He’s angry,’ said Alex.

  ‘Upset more.’ Coffin had long since decided Tom Banbury was a more emotional man than he’d realized at first, always a lot more going on underneath than you thought. ‘The Shepherd case dug into him.’

  ‘Think so?’

  ‘Yes. I could see it. Didn’t see it at first, but I do now. Me as well. And you, too.’

  Alex did not answer.

  No reply given and none expected.

  He was in a wicked mood himself, thought Coffin.

  Leaving Alex to his own plans, he slipped out the back way through what had once been the caretaker’s flat, in the days when the place had been a school. An iron gate led straight into a side street.

  As he got there a police car drew up, Vic Padovani got out with two plain-clothes detectives from Inspector Banbury’s élite.

  John Coffin drew back behind the gate. He didn’t want Vic to see him. Nor did he wish to meet Vic’s eyes.

  Damn, he thought, did it have to be Vic?

  He needed to talk things over with someone. Not Stella, not Alex, not yet.

  He loved Stella, but he could not involve her in this, his own private investigation.

  If it came to Dander’s or Warwick’s notice that he was running a little private operation of his own he would probably be drummed out. No, that was an archaic army expression, not to be used.

  But you had a responsibility to a pal.

  All right, you suspected a chap you’d served with of murder, a series of nasty murders; but you also had a duty to see if you could clear him. It was better, in the peculiar circumstances, to be unobtrusive, and to any former dweller in Hookey Street melting away into the background was easy.

  He had come to Greenwich in a hopeful mood, looking forward to finding a brother or a
sister; intending to set up a good relationship with the boss, Tom Banbury, and make good pals like Alex Rowley. Finding Vic Padovani there had looked like a bonus. Falling in love with Stella had been unexpected, a joy, whatever came of it.

  But now it was all going sour. Murder was not just the affair of the murderer and the victim; no, it infected all it touched. He felt as sick himself as anyone.

  Going about his business, he found himself later that day looking in men’s outfitters, Purdey and Son, Happy Rise, Blackheath, established in 1880.

  My grandpa would have been alive then, he thought, wonder if he ever shopped here? Dimly he recalled a spry, lame old fellow wearing a smart bowler. The rest of his clothes might not have been elegant but, as he put it himself, he liked a smart titfer.

  Anthony Edens were more the thing now; Coffin contemplated their suave sleek lines wistfully before he decided they would not go with his ears. As well to be honest about your faults.

  ‘Mr Coffin, sir!’

  It was Eagle Scott. Yes, clearly Eagle Scott today and not Paul Shanks.

  ‘Good name for a detective, sir.’ He was in a cheeky mood.

  ‘It’s Cornish,’ said Coffin briefly. He disliked jokes on his name.

  ‘You Cornish, sir?’

  ‘No. Don’t you ever go to school?’

  ‘Dinner-time, sir. Just on my way back.’

  Glib little beast. Probably playing hookey. He wasn’t the person to confide in, too young by a quarter of a century, but he was a lad with a golden touch for murder. Some future there.

  When you’d met him things happened. So it was now. Nothing planned, not a purpose, the boy just had a natural gift for moving things on.

  Perhaps it was telepathy or telekinesis or one of those strange things they investigated at Duke University in 1946.

  Or even something to do with time. Coffin had read Dunne’s Theory of Time, and been to see Time and the Conways at the Theatre Royal, Nelson Street. He hadn’t understood it but he’d enjoyed it.

  ‘Just been down to the Kentish Mercury to get a job as a junior reporter.’ Eagle Scott, né Paul Shanks, had abandoned any pretence of going back to school.