The bones of the upper arm and the hand were exposed. Nothing else.
‘Moved by an animal, probably,’ said Phoebe. ‘It happens.’
‘Perhaps there is only the arm,’ said one of the diggers.
‘No, we will find the rest.’ She was confident.
‘What made you start digging here?’ asked Marriot.
‘I heard there might be a body.’
Marriot looked at him curiously. ‘Someone with a long memory.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Found a plague pit, once,’ said Marriot. ‘By the Tower. Nasty. Even the rats didn’t get inside there.’
‘How long do plague germs hang around?’ asked Coffin absently, watching the veil of earth thinning … here were bones, he could see the brown and yellow gleam.
Marriot shrugged. ‘Not as long as believed, but we didn’t risk it – I wore a mask … Men, women and children all jumbled together in that pit … just thrown in. Not nice.’
He produced a flask and offered a medicinal draught to Coffin and Phoebe, both of whom refused; he took one himself. ‘Damned cold out here.’ He walked around stamping his feet.
Phoebe produced a flask of a different sort of her own. ‘Want some coffee, sir?’
Coffin accepted a mug; they stood side by side, drinking. The cold wet work was really being done in the pit at their feet, but the smell of damp earth was chilling. Coffin moved restlessly, wandering into the trees, from where he could see the lights of his own home – they went out as he watched. So Stella had gone to bed.
Things moved faster once the skull was uncovered. The neck, the vertebrae of the spine, and the legs were exposed. The legs were drawn up, one arm rested across the ribcage, the other had been buried with the arm extended. The hand on this arm had been the one whose fingers had protruded.
Marriot looked at what he saw appraisingly: ‘Buried with the left arm sticking up. No animal interference here. Rigor must have already set in when the body was buried.’
He continued with his survey while the others – Coffin, Phoebe and the diggers – stood in a group watching. Marriot was on his knees, looking but not touching.
Then he stood up. ‘Well, that’s it. Can’t tell what the cause of death was for sure, but I think strangulation, the hyoid bone was broken. There’s injury to the skull as well.’
‘Is that all?’ asked Coffin, who was beginning to have his own ideas.
‘Well, it’s a man, probably not young. Were you expecting a man?’
‘Wasn’t expecting anything,’ said Coffin into the pause that followed.
He looked at Phoebe, and nodded. They moved aside into the trees to talk; the diggers and Dr Marriot watched them. Marriot had another drink and considered a cigarette. Mustn’t drop ash and contaminate the murder scene. If it was a murder scene. Still, a chap didn’t bury himself. Especially if he was already stiff.
Phoebe raised her eyebrows in query. ‘Who?’
Coffin shook his head: ‘The dear Lord knows who he is. And shall we ever find out? There were signs of clothes here and there, I thought, possibly something will come out of it. I’m not hopeful.’
‘Edgar Wallace would find a train ticket or a diary underneath the bones, buried in the soil but still readable.’
‘Oh come on, Phoebe, we will be lucky if those poor scraps of cloth even give us much of a date.’
‘The bones can probably be dated,’ said Phoebe.
‘To a decade or two. I doubt if anything will ever be established about this one.’
‘Have to try, of course.’ She gave Coffin a hard look. ‘What do you mean about this one?’
Coffin said, in a thoughtful, abstracted voice: ‘Let Marriot go, I think, don’t you?’
‘If he has much more whisky he won’t be able to stand up. Not his first drink he had here with us.’
‘I noticed that myself.’
‘And, sir?’ Because there was an ‘and’, she knew him well enough to be sure of it.
The Chief Commander looked across the open grave to where the diggers were standing. One of them was sitting down and the other two leaning against trees; all three had the air of men who had had enough and would be glad to go home. He felt a certain sympathy for them.
Beyond the group was another patch of rough uneven ground that interested him.
‘Over there, Phoebe … I think a dig there must be next. There may be nothing there, but I don’t feel like leaving it.’
‘Tonight?’
‘I think so, don’t you?’
Only one answer to that, Phoebe knew, and that was: Yes, sir. She moved towards the diggers, aware that they would not be pleased.
‘Would you like to tell them, sir?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘Go ahead, Phoebe.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said under her breath as she plodded through the mud, ‘thank you, thank you, sir.’
Coffin walked out to the road where the police cars lined the kerb. The small crowd who had been observing had long since departed to their dry beds, but the journalist remained. She was sitting under the tree, a raincoat over her and a waterproof hat on her head. Clutched protectively to her chest was her telephone on which she spoke at intervals. No one was at the other end at this hour but it looked more professional if she spoke. She stood up when she saw the Chief Commander.
‘Have you got anything for me, sir?’
He frowned. ‘Still here? You ought to have gone off long ago.’
‘Not while there is something going on that will interest my editor.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Still going on. Lights, noises, people coming and going. You there, now that’s a sign of how big it is … I know who you are, sir.’
‘I don’t know you.’
‘Elaine Spring. Spinnergate and East Hythe News.’ She was very young, no more than eighteen or nineteen, with long yellow hair and soft brown eyes. It was probably her first job.
‘Well, Elaine, there’s nothing to say now. If there is anything, then a statement will be made tomorrow.’
‘It is tomorrow already,’ said Elaine, not a girl without spirit. ‘Well into it, too.’ She showed her steel: ‘All those lights, all those policemen, all the coming and going, show it’s important … There has to be a body.’
Coffin was silent. A body or two, he thought. ‘Hang on, and I’ll see that if there is anything to report, then you get told.’
‘Will I be able to photograph?’
‘I am afraid not.’
A light flashed in his face. ‘Well, I have got you, sir,’ she said with spirit. ‘And that will please my editor. I might get a by-line out of it yet. Chief Commander.’
Coffin laughed and walked away. Pretty girl.
Elaine adjusted her camera, which was not the newest, smartest gadget – she couldn’t afford that – but a touch old-fashioned. She adjusted her thoughts as well: I like him and he liked me, I’ve heard he is just a touch susceptible. Good.
She ran after him. ‘Sir, is there anything on the Guy Fawkes murder?’
Coffin shook his head and walked on. So that was what they were calling it? Poor Jaimie, no dignity in her death.
Phoebe Astley was waiting for the Chief Commander as he walked back through the old churchyard. ‘I think we may have something.’
‘Already?’
‘Not too deep … Nothing to see as yet, but one of the men clearing the soil says he felt something underneath.’
The first two digs were already covered with canvas to await more attention tomorrow. Dr Marriot had already departed, Phoebe said. ‘Wanted to be off before we found something else for him.’
We wouldn’t be doing this, Coffin reflected, if it wasn’t for the moral and spiritual force of a very old man. Was it worth it? Or should the dead be left in peace?
So far tonight, they had an empty coffin, the bones of an unknown dead man who might be a casualty of one of the Great Wars when bombs fell on London, and now … well, what was co
ming?
‘Here we go,’ said Phoebe, pointing forward to where once again the gentle quiet removal of the topsoil was going on. ‘Keep your fingers crossed.’
When Phoebe spoke in platitudes like that, then Coffin knew she expected results.
He stood in silence, watching.
With late dawn, when it was still raining. Coffin came home; he entered quietly, climbed the stairs to the kitchen where he made a pot of coffee; he arranged a tray with toast and honey, then carried it up, still being quiet, to the bedroom.
Stella was asleep, her cheek on her folded hands – she looked calm and happy. The cat was on her feet, he too was peacefully asleep; he woke up, looked at Coffin out of one wary eye, then went back to sleep.
Coffin touched his wife on her shoulder. ‘Wake up, Stella, love.’
Stella opened her eyes and yawned. ‘Heard you come in.’
‘Did you now?’ He smiled his disbelief.
‘But I was so comfortable …’
Coffin poured the coffee, a cup each, and pulled up a chair. Stella sat up, drew a pale-blue silk bedjacket over her shoulders, and took her cup. ‘Still raining, is it?’
‘Still raining … drink your coffee.’
She looked at him over the rim of her cup. ‘So what has happened? Tell me.’
Coffin told her. He told her about the first two early discoveries: the empty box, and the man’s skeleton.
Then he told her that in another site, not so far away from the other two, there had been found bones.
The bones of a woman, fragments of clothing, a necklace and a brooch. Not valuable.
And between her hips, the shadowy remains of the bones of a foetus. She had been with child when she died. Not easily recognizable by the lay eye since the bones of a developing embryo do not come head and feet first, but the police surgeon knew what they were. Seen them before, no doubt.
‘How hideous,’ said Stella, calling up a picture. ‘How pitiful. How hideously pitiful.’
The telephone by her bedside rang. For a moment, they both ignored it, but it rang and rang again.
9
A dark figure had flitted through the streets of Spinnergate that night while the police team still worked in the old churchyard. The quiet figure watched until they packed up. They were gone now, home to warm houses. A heavy November mist hung over the river with fingers spreading all over the area; it was patchy, some streets obscured while others were almost free of it. Around St Luke’s the air was relatively clear.
The figure looked at the lights in the tower where Coffin and Stella lived, saw that someone was at home, was actually seen by the family cat but not recognized, and passed on. You couldn’t break into that tower easily even if you wanted to, and this figure did not. Just checking.
A brief look was accorded the churchyard because the dead here had been dead a long time. It was interesting and worthwhile, however, to know what the police were doing. The figure stayed under a tree across the road to stare for a while and then moved on.
A person who kills because of love can never be blamed, the dark wanderer said quietly. Love gives licence. It must do. Think of Shakespeare and what goes on there with lovers. No one condemns Romeo or Juliet, nor do Cleopatra and Antony come in for too much criticism.
Pass over Othello.
‘Jealousy has a human face’. So William Blake said, and he was a great poet too.
The dark figure flitted on, unnoticed, hurrying towards the now famous car park. Or infamous.
It was still cordoned off, much to the annoyance of those motorists who used it either to go to the hospital or the large store.
The dark figure slipped underneath the tape, noticing with scorn that there was no police officer to be seen. Of what use was a length of tape?
The killer had enjoyed the tour.
Gut ist der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser.
Sleep is good, death is better.
Heinrich Heine
10
Coffin answered the telephone, his coffee cup in his hand, which he was proud to see was steady even after his second rough night.
‘Sorry to ring so early, sir.’
‘Darcy, have you had any sleep these last two nights?’
‘Some, sir, but you know how it goes when a case starts … everyone moves as fast as they can. And as a matter of fact, I think we are going into one of those times when no one sleeps much.’
Coffin drank his coffee, while keeping one eye on Stella and thinking that Darcy was talking too much. Strain. It did tell, however professional you were. To oblige him with confirmation, his own left hand set up a tremor.
Damn – he controlled the muscles. ‘Darcy … I missed that.’
‘I was just saying that I was surprised when forensics came up with something so quickly; they usually take their time down there.’
Up there. Coffin thought, the Forensic Department of the Police Scientific Bureau of the Second City was on the top floor. The Flies in the Sky, they were called when working coppers were angry with what they felt were delays and procrastination and which the scientists called checking the facts.
‘However, what they came up with on the jacket was so interesting, I thought you would want to know as soon as possible. In the circumstances … It’s so strange, isn’t it, sir, when just the name you do not expect comes up? Although the connection was known, the name was there …’
‘Come on, man,’ said Coffin into his cup of coffee. Stella was moving around the room now, she was listening, trying to make out what was going on. So am I, Coffin thought.
He put the coffee cup down. ‘Yes?’ he said hopefully.
‘It’s a very old jacket, old in style, old in years, very well worn … Stained, as you know. In dealing with the stains, which seem to be mildew and Thames clay, they brought up the faint remains of a name written inside. Old-fashioned marking ink: the name is Edward Lavender.’
Silence. He let the name sink into Coffin’s mind.
‘Edward Lavender was Richard Lavender’s father,’ said Coffin.
‘I checked.’
‘Thought you would.’ Coffin was thinking. ‘Have to question the Grand Old Man himself … It might be a good idea to have the jacket checked by the Museum of Fashion in the university … Could be a modern jacket, faked.’
‘Could be. Doesn’t look it, and the faker would have a funny sense of humour.’
‘It wouldn’t be a joke,’ said Coffin. ‘I don’t think we have a joker here.’
‘Not joking here, either, sir.’
‘Never thought you were.’
‘I will go to the museum myself … as soon as forensics release it.’ Darcy considered aloud: ‘Lavender’s father, eh? Well, the coat’s been around a long time … If genuine, we always have to remember that … Unless we see the old man coming back to life wearing it; don’t believe in revenants myself, sir.’
‘Grab it, tell them you want it, I want to see it myself,’ said Coffin. ‘Might be important … I will call on Richard Lavender myself.’
‘Tips suspicion the way of Bradshaw.’
‘It’s more complicated than that, Darcy. Remember the name was not visible, we hadn’t seen it, it had been obscured by the years.’
‘He wouldn’t have used it if he had known the name was there. He wouldn’t have used it if he had known there was a name there we could bring up,’ said Darcy obstinately. ‘But Bradshaw is in and out of Lavender’s place – he could have used it not knowing it would point to him.’
‘I can’t believe that a clever man like Dr Jack Bradshaw would choose to use a jacket like that.’
‘We don’t know what choice he had, sir. We don’t know the circumstances of the killing.’
‘The dressing-up of the body is bizarre enough,’ said Coffin.
‘Just camouflage to get the body out from where she was killed and into the street.’
Coffin was sceptical: ‘And what did he wear while he pushed it along?’
‘Went in the car; he’s got one of those big old-fashioned shooting-brake affairs. He used that for most of the way, and did it in the dark, of course.’
‘You’ve got it all worked out.’
‘I think I have, sir.’
‘I am trying to imagine Jack Bradshaw doing all that; it doesn’t seem in character.’
‘He’s in love, sir, crazy, maddened.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I have questioned him, sir, and he admits it. You know how it is, if passion comes late to a man like that, he can find it hard to handle.’ Darcy said quickly: ‘I’ve had to ask him to turn in his car so we can look it over.’
‘I don’t suppose he liked that.’
‘No, he said he needed it to get to his own home near Oxford … Apparently, although he often stays in Spinnergate with Richard Lavender while he is doing the book, he has his own home in Oxford, and also a small flat in Greenwich.’
‘Of course. He is a serious figure, Darcy, a well-known man in his own academic circles.’
‘I know that, sir, but I don’t think it rules out a crime of passion.’ Darcy added: ‘He was not the father of the child, by the way. Marlowe could be; he hasn’t been told. But Bradshaw could have done it out of a kind of anger. It’s how I see it. He asked to see you. I think he sees you as a protector, sir.’
‘I can’t be that,’ said Coffin in a decisive voice. ‘I am neutral.’
‘You are coming over, are you, sir?’
‘Yes, straight away. I want to see that jacket again for myself.’
Stella said: ‘Neutral, eh? You have never been neutral in your life, thank God. You always take sides. It’s why I love you.’
‘It’s nice to know.’
You have to pay for that sort of knowledge, he thought, and he wondered what price Stella would exact. He looked at her now, dishevelled and pink from sleep, but inwardly totally composed. He couldn’t be so, he wanted her too much, and this was not the time to attempt possession. It was always ‘attempt’, he knew that, had learned early in their relationship – Stella was the free one and he was the captive.
A Double Coffin Page 12
