‘Did they give you one?’ Boy detective, junior reporter. Quite a career structure, this lad was building.
‘No. Got a Saturday job, though, sorting back issues.’ He danced a sort of jig.
‘Suppose you’re still on the detection game as well?’
‘Oh yes. Rather. Looking up the back files on Mrs Esthart, too.’
Later, Coffin was to wonder if Eagle Scott was really a sort of phantom who appeared only to transmit information, then disappeared again. Someone with supernatural powers it would be as well to keep an eye on.
‘Thanks, Eagle. You’ve been a help.’ He passed a coin across. ‘Keep in touch, Eagle.’
You bring me ideas. In fact, two.
‘Where are you going, boss?’
That boy went to too many American gangster films. He looked at his watch, nearly midday. He bade a mental goodbye to the check he was doing on the cheap lodging-houses of the area and decided to pursue his own inquiry.
A bus ride to the Kentish Mercury offices near Deptford Broadway and a lot of thinking to do.
No one on the crowded bus was talking about the murders, but much conversation was about the shortage of potatoes, the nastiness of the bread and the wet summer.
As he entered the quiet, dark, front office of the Kentish Mercury, he felt a sense of relief. He was doing the right thing.
He introduced himself and produced his credentials. He wasn’t hiding who he was, and explained his purpose.
‘Oh yes,’ the pretty, dark girl behind the counter was anxious to help. Curious too, but asking no questions. The war was still close enough for the instructions, Careless Talk Costs Lives, still to mean something. ‘You can see what you want. Recent editions will it be? Just say.’
‘No. Not recent.’ He liked the face, she wasn’t as pretty as Stella but her face had a solid sweetness to it. ‘No, not recent at all. Fourteen years back.’
Her eyes opened wide as she listened to what he wanted.
‘Oh yes. I can find them. But you’ll have to wait. And they’ll be dirty. We had a rocket across the way and we got all the dust.’
‘I’ll wait.’
He lit a cigarette, drew up a chair, ready to take what came.
After a quick look at him, the girl produced a cup of coffee. ‘Here. No sugar, we’re short, but the coffee is good. I make it myself.’
He sipped it while he waited. The sun had come out to warm his back.
Eventually the girl appeared to lead him to an inner room where a stack of dusty, yellowing papers were laid out on a table. ‘You can work here. I’ll bring you some more coffee. You’ll need it.’
It was quite a pile, the Mercury was a weekly, but paper had not been rationed then, in those pre-war days. He tried a joke:
‘I should have brought something to read.’
He drew up a chair to the table and started work.
As he had expected, the Mercury had covered the tragedy of Rachel Esthart and her son thoroughly over the weeks.
The case had fallen into three parts. The first when Rachel Esthart and her son had been missed from their home. No direct comments in this part about why she had disappeared, but strong hints of a quarrel with her husband. The headlines in this early chapter were such as ACTRESS DISAPPEARS, or THEATRE STAR MISSING FROM HOME.
The pictures of Rachel looked more dated than he would have expected. It really was a far away scene, that pre-war world. Seemed more antique and dead than Queen Anne.
The second stage could be briefly headed: Where is the child? Rachel had been found, wandering, apparently amnesiac and shocked. But she was alone. This stage ended with the discovery of the drowned boy.
The third stage began with the inquest on the boy. Subsequently came the series of events which might be called the Trial by Ordeal of Rachel Esthart. Did she drown her son? No, the verdict was accidental drowning, apparently supported by the medical evidence. Well, then, everyone was asking what had Rachel been about when her son was drowned.
John Coffin now knew the answer. Or the answer according to Rachel. She had let him drown. But he thought behind this terrible confession must be some other trauma of which even Rachel herself might not be aware. But he would not play psychologist, that was not his purpose.
The reports were full and detailed, containing many pictures, some photographs, some line drawings.
There was an interview with the policeman who had handled the investigation in Oxfordshire of the missing boy. Rachel had turned up in Burford. The boy’s body had been found in the Thames near Lechlade. Inspector Malcom had handled the case, but the first policeman to view the dead boy had been Police Constable Charles King. From his description you could tell the body was in a bad state, so that if Rachel refused to admit it was her son there was a reason. PC King, a family man himself, as he said, had sounded upset.
The London end of the investigation had been in the hands of Inspector Billy House, whose name was still treasured among South London policemen as that of a grand eccentric. Sergeant Black and a young detective called Banbury had their names mentioned.
There was a picture of Rachel, of her husband, very handsome, in a matinée-idol style. Also one of Eddie Kelly, looking very young and boyish. Very Handsome, too.
John Coffin replaced the papers and said goodbye to the pretty girl.
It might seem crazy, but he thought he had found what he was looking for. He needed a bit more research. Just for his own sake there were some questions to ask.
And there was a marvellous bonus. In the post-August Bank Holiday, 1937, edition of the newspaper he had found a picture of William Alfred Clarke, Butcher, photographed outside his home with his prize greyhound, Wellington. His address was given: 23 Abbey Gardens, Charlton.
Clutching his notes, John Coffin emerged into the sunlight. A memory of a man called Will Summers, talking to him stirred. He had spoken to Will Summers (who had seen the first body in the water) and got the impression that Will was telling him something.
He had forgotten all about it, but now seemed the time to find out. It was always tricky finding a lighterman on the river, they came and went with the tide, but luck was with him. He located Will in a pub called the Trafalgar Tavern. He was sitting alone, drinking from a pewter pot.
Will looked up, showed no signs of recognizing John Coffin (although Coffin felt reasonably sure that he had), and returned to his beer.
John took his own pewter pot over and put it on the table. ‘Hello.’
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘That’s right.’ He sat down. ‘Something to ask.’
Will remained silent, so John went on. He sipped his beer and quietly went over the conversation he had had on that first day with the man; where necessary, he consulted his notes. Will remained expressionless. ‘And so,’ concluded John, ‘I somehow got the impression you were telling me something.’ Will did not dispute it. But he did not add to it, either. ‘So what was it? Come on, now, I mean to know.’
Reluctantly Will said, ‘Saw one of you lot around the place earlier on, week before, didn’t I? More than once. Struck me as odd. A look at the river – anyone might – not too often, though.’
‘One of us A policeman, then? So who was it?’
‘Can’t tell you his name,’ said Will with a blank face. But there was a look in his eyes that spoke for him.
Coffin stood up. ‘Thanks. You already have.’
The Padovani was closed when Coffin walked past on his way to Angel House. A notice on the door said simply:
Closed owing to absence of the proprietor.’
So it looked as though Papa Padovani had been taken in as well.
The Padovani might be closed, but Angel House was opening up. Curtains were drawn back, and the rooms inside were undergoing a spring-cleaning.
He did not have to ask for Rachel Esthart because she opened the door to him. ‘Poor old Padovanis,’ she said. ‘Your lot seemed to have collared them all.’
‘Ma as
well?’
‘No, she’s in bed with a migraine. Florrie is ministering.’ She was wearing a dark blue dress with penny-sized white dots, achieving, without effort, an up-to-date elegance.
‘Where’s the dog?’ The old Rachel always carried her pet.
‘In the garden.’
‘Things are changing round here.’ A coldish wind was blowing through all the open windows. At least the old Angel House had been cosy. This new one felt as though it might be going to be brisk and nipping.
‘Just an airing. Not before time. This is work, I suppose, not social?’ Coffin nodded. ‘Well, I’m telling you: Vic Padovani is not a murderer.’
‘We don’t know.’ And it was true, he did not know what evidence Vic was busily hanging around Vic’s neck. The black-market shoes, the beetroot wine stain on the cards. He’d known the girls, or two of them. There might be more circumstantial evidence he was not aware of.
But only circumstantial, murders like these had no witnesses, no alibis, and circumstantial evidence could be wrong.
‘Could we have a talk?’ Rachel made an inarticulate noise. It occurred to Coffin, she wasn’t good at writing her own dialogue. Or her own parts. It sounded like, No, I don’t see why, but he ignored it. ‘Going right back. Some questions to ask.’ Then he thought again. ‘No, no questions.’ He took her by the hand and led her into the next room and sat her down on a chair. This is a great and gracious lady, he told himself, treat her like one. ‘Just talk, ma’am, if you will. Tell me what it was like?’ She looked at him, huge, pale eyes. Tell me what it was like, as you remember, when the boy was found. It’s the killing ground, ma’am, that’s what we call it in the army. From what you tell me of that time, we may help Vic and find the killer.’ Then he added honestly. ‘I’m just guessing.’
He hesitated, then said: ‘To begin with, tell why you think it happened to you? What started it off?’
She was silent.
‘I know they say you quarrelled with your husband. That there was violence between you. That you were drinking. Drugs, too, perhaps? But that’s not all. It’s connected with Edward Kelly, isn’t it?
He knew he’d struck home. ‘He was your lover?’
Slowly Rachel said: ‘He was not my lover: he was my husband’s. Eddie was seduced by my husband. I don’t blame Eddie. Or not much.’
The cork was out of the bottle.
Where she had once forgotten, now she remembered all. Out of the deep-frozen memory, it all came pouring, newly minted, fresh. Every detail.
A vivid description of the dead boy whom she could not recognize, even his clothes were stained and dirtied beyond knowing. Yes, she recalled the policeman in Oxfordshire. Not the older man so clearly, but the younger one. He’d been sympathetic, he had a son himself. The wife was a termagant though, a natural bully. ‘How did I come to see the wife, I wonder? She must have given me a cup of tea or something. I think people tried to be kind. Yes, I remember so well. Now.’
Coffin prompted her. ‘And in London?’
‘Oh yes, and poor Tom Banbury. So young and so taut. He was miserable, you know. Brought up unhappily. I don’t think he has ever forgiven me. Hates me.’
‘No, oh no. Not that,’ said Coffin.
‘It’s all my fault.’
There it was again, that self-obsessed side. She needed to be slapped out of it.
‘No. You won’t like this, Rachel Esthart, but it is not your fault. I’d call you crucial but not essential to the murders. The murderer knew you and your troubles years ago. He never forgot you. I’d say you fascinated him. But you did not cause the murders. Nor did your son, God rest his soul. You are only the icing on the cake that was baked in another oven.’
You are part of the furniture of the murderer’s mind, Rachel Esthart; in the end, it was nothing to do with you.
‘What about the cards, then?’
‘I’m not sure. A bit of fun, I think. The murderer’s little giggle.’
Slowly Rachel said, ‘The cards were so like my own. Do you think they were my cards? I could have missed some.’
‘No,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Not yours, but chosen perhaps because he could have known you had such cards. They’re common enough but I just have this feeling.’ The feeling that nothing this murderer did was by chance. He wanted to involve Rachel Esthart, to degrade her any way he could, a slow, spiritual murder. He’s inventive, this murderer.
‘But that means –’ She stopped.
‘Yes, he is someone who knows you. Sees you.’ Then he added gently, ‘But that always seemed likely, didn’t it?’
There had been no stain on Rachel’s supply of cards. But he knew how the murderer’s cards could have found a stain.
‘What about the seagull?’
‘I’m not sure about the seagull.’
For a moment disquiet stirred within him as he remembered the seagull. That suggested more than spiritual murder.
The two chief policemen concerned with the investigation, Dander and Warwick, were talking over a glass of beer in Dander’s local.
Stripped of the persona which their young policeman Coffin had deposited all over them like paint, the qualities which he thought he saw, they were two tired, troubled, middle-aged men. They had been considering the forensic report delivered that day which dealt with the deposit scattered on all the victims.
Brickdust, cement, and a powdering of plaster and rust.
On each victim similar deposits had been found. Identical fragments had been found on the clothing quietly abstracted from the locker of a prime suspect.
It was true that many Londoners might have a similar deposit on their clothing just now, because of all the rebuilding. But deposits are as individual as fingerprints to the trained eye. The murderer was thus marked; he had left his spoor behind.
‘So what do we do? Go in and get him? All the evidence is circumstantial.’
‘Personal observation.’ Watch him, he meant.
‘Yes.’ Dander drank some more. ‘We’re in a privileged position.’
‘Sorry.’ He sounded sincere.
‘Oh, don’t think I mind.’ And yet he did. Professional pride came into it. Loyalty, too. What kind of a policeman enjoys the destruction of another? ‘Poor old Tom Banbury.’
Warwick was silent, he was not so personally involved. All he wanted was a case that would go to the Director of Public Prosecutions and stand up. Of course, it had its unpleasant side. He thought Dander was overdoing the charity bit.
They sat in silence. Dander said at last, ‘It’s hard on the young ones.’ He was thinking of the war, of dangers faced, death survived. The person who went into battle wasn’t the same one who came out. You just couldn’t tell what violence given and endured could do to a man. He’d look out for the young ones. It was really part of his job, and he ought to take it more seriously. He liked that cocky young one with the unlikely name. ‘Better get home,’ he said without enthusiasm. He had nothing much to get home to.
Stella emerged from the little hut set aside as a dressing-room in the grounds of the Naval College. It had been a disastrous rehearsal down on the barge. Chris’s music, played on a flute and recorder, had sounded weak, Eddie had quarrelled with Chris, Chris had quarrelled with Albie, Stella had quarrelled with the wardrobe-room girl, and on the theory of it never rains but it pours, Albie had been bloody to all of them. Everyone had stalked off in a temper.
It had been a tense, restless day with people crowding her all the time. The police had been around the theatre asking questions about the black-market shoes which they had all been buying from Vic Padovani. She had seen Alex talking to Bluebell, who was in tears. Stella herself had escaped to her dressing-room.
This brought her to a faint worry: the letter she had written to her best friend had gone from her make-up box. Silly of her to keep it there.
In this letter she had named a man she feared. But he couldn’t be the killer.
She was on her own. Outside the gates
of the old palace she saw a small boy with a box Brownie trying to photograph her. She gave him a radiant smile and a piece of her chocolate ration. It was all a game; she knew there was no photograph because you couldn’t get film. The RAF had it all. But it was practice for when she had fans.
Then she walked straight into the arms of a man.
‘Whoa, Stella,’ he said. ‘Watch where you’re going.’
‘Just walking home.’ She was half glad to see him, for she did not like the dark, and half not, for she was not seeking his company.
‘I’ll come with you. You’re all jittery.’ He took her by the arm.
‘I’ve been quarrelling; it always upsets me. I need calming down.’
But not permanently, not for ever.
After his talk with Rachel Esthart, John Coffin looked for Alex, whom he could not find, so he left a couple of notes. He tried to talk to Stella at the theatre, but Bluebell came to the phone instead to say breathlessly that she could not find Stella. ‘She’ll be back soon,’ went on Bluebell happily. ‘I’ll tell her you want her. Everyone’s after her today.’ Bluebell had already answered one query. ‘But I know where she is: rehearsing a scene for the Masque on the barge with Eddie Kelly.’ She giggled. ‘Rehearsing to Chris’s music. He’s down there too. And won’t the fur fly.’
‘Stella fond of Eddie, isn’t she?’ asked Coffin with sudden intuition.
‘Was, dear, was. You are out of date. It’s been Chris for some time now.’
And where does that leave me? Coffin asked himself with a desolate feeling. Where, really, have I ever been?
A bus ride and then another tram ride took him to the road where Tom Banbury lived. A quiet suburban road with rose-bushes in the front gardens behind the laurel bushes.
Tom had the roses, unkempt, and the laurel hedge, uncut. John Coffin had never been there before, and would probably never go there again, but it was about what he had expected. It’d been a proper home once but never would be again. Not with Tom in it.
He didn’t know that Tom Banbury was at home but he guessed it. There was a look to the house as if a sour, silent presence sat inside it. And he knew what created the impression: nothing psychic or anything like that, a straight physical effect. The curtains were drawn back, but unhandily so that no window matched, while a lean, long-nosed tabby cat sat on the doorstep, mouthing silently.
Coffin on the Water Page 17
