A Double Coffin

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘And did he destroy it?’

  ‘That I couldn’t say, but I shouldn’t think so, would you?’

  Coffin was silent for a second. ‘Thank you, Stella.’ He paused. ‘And if you should see Dr Clara you might suggest that she hand over the tape … Just guessing, of course.’

  She was asking to be murdered, that girl Jaimie, he thought as he put the telephone down. Might be worth looking into her background. She came from a large, comfortably off family but abuse and misery could happen even in such a family.

  George Darcy was looking at him from across the room; Coffin nodded at him. ‘Come over.’

  Coffin was used to standing alone at these functions, drinking the strong brew that was the favoured tipple, and waiting for someone to talk to him. Men drew back, no one wanted to seem to be currying favour, subservience was not the name of the game. Presently, if he waited, one of the more senior uniformed officers would take up his duties and walk over to talk. The CID men being by nature more free-ranging souls would probably ignore him altogether.

  You didn’t make friends by clawing your way up the promotion tree. He totted them up: Archie Young, he was a friend, George Darcy could become one. And Phoebe, goodness knows what she counted as, but she wasn’t here yet, anyway.

  She was arriving though. Even as George Darcy came towards him, Phoebe pushed through the door. She was laughing and talking to the woman who came with her, no one Coffin knew. She raised her hand to Coffin but turned aside to get a drink for herself and the visitor.

  Darcy saw Phoebe too. ‘Got a message for Astley; she sent a piece of fabric to the Department of Fashion at the university to see what they could add to what forensics had to say, and when I went along to see what the verdict was on that jacket, the research assistant, Dr Mary Farr, passed the word along on that too. It’s an interesting place down there; have you been, sir?’

  ‘I went once when it was opened.’

  ‘Had an open day, didn’t they? Took my daughter, she fancied the course, but she chose dentistry in the end, don’t ask me why.’ Thoughtfully, he said: ‘Of course, she was going out with a dentist student then, that may have been the reason.’

  ‘Did she marry him?’ This was a party, you couldn’t just talk work. Some gesture to social behaviour had to be made.

  ‘No, hasn’t married anyone. We’re old-fashioned now, sir, you don’t marry.’

  The courtesies having been observed, they got down to the business in hand.

  ‘What did you get from Dr Farr?’

  ‘On style, cut and technique she dated in the first two decades of the century … we had already been told that, but Dr Farr has been working on a group of journeymen tailors who lived in Spinnergate in that period – Edwardian and just later. They were Jewish workers, immigrants very often; she believes this is one of their jackets. It seems that they often put their names inside, and she has found, in the seam of the right sleeve, just by the cuff, a tape on which can be read the name J. Silver. He had a room in Spinnergate High Street, and he appears on local records until 1922. He died or moved away.’

  ‘Confirms what we thought. The jacket is genuine and the name of the owner is genuine.’

  ‘We shall have to talk to Richard Lavender, sir, and his housekeeper. One or other of them must know more than they are saying. Coincidences do happen, but …’ And he shrugged. ‘Not acceptable, sir.’

  ‘Lavender is very old and frail,’ said Coffin slowly, burdened as he was by the knowledge of Lavender’s past history and all of Phoebe’s present doubts on the old man.

  ‘He’s got some explaining to do. And he could be more mobile than he looks.’

  ‘He had reason not to like the girl,’ Coffin admitted. ‘Did you find anything she had written on him in her office?’

  ‘Not a lot, a few notes. I don’t think she had got very far.’

  ‘She might have had a lot on tape.’

  ‘We ran through what there was,’ said Darcy. He was not slow to pick up what the Chief Commander meant. ‘You think there is another tape that we haven’t got?’

  ‘I think there is another tape which contains material on Martin Marlowe and his sister and also on Richard Lavender.’

  ‘Two for the price of one,’ said Darcy cheerfully.

  Coffin, who yet liked Darcy, thought he was the sort of man who would have gone to a public hanging with good cheer.

  ‘Where is this tape, sir?’

  ‘I am hopeful,’ began the Chief Commander when he saw Phoebe Astley with her companion was bearing down upon them.

  ‘Sir, hi; George.’ Phoebe was wearing a smart tweed suit of black-and-white check and was in a vibrant mood. She turned to her companion, a sturdy middle-aged lady in workmanlike slacks and a thick sweater. This is my friend, Rosemary Earlie, she is an expert on local history, and she has been helping me with my searches of the local newspaper.’ Phoebe said: ‘I believe I am getting some positive ideas, but they may not be ones we expected. I have a bit more work to do and then I will come to you with it. If I am right, it deepens the puzzle of old Lavender.’

  ‘Deep enough already,’ muttered Darcy into his beer. ‘Can I get you drinks, you two.’

  Phoebe gave Darcy a sharp look, but she said thank you, yes, beer for us both. Then she turned to Coffin.

  ‘But Rosemary has been a real help.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. Miss Earlie.’

  ‘She is an archaeologist working with the Spinnergate Preservation Society.’

  Coffin held out his hand which Miss Earlie took in a strong grip. ‘Not much left to preserve, is there?’

  ‘More than you might think.’ Miss Earlie had a deep, firm voice.

  ‘Roman and so on?’ Coffin was wondering why Rosemary Earlie had been produced. He looked at Phoebe with enquiry.

  ‘Roman, certainly, but I am more interested myself in later periods.’

  Phoebe broke in: ‘I’ll tell him, Rosie, he’s quite an intelligent chap really. John, a row of houses just around the corner from where Richard Lavender lived as a child were hit by a bomb from a zeppelin raid in that war … the ground was more or less cleared and a small warehouse was run up over the top. It has now been knocked down in its turn …’

  ‘More or less cleared?’ asked Coffin.

  ‘He’s quick, isn’t he, Rosie? Yes, some interesting remains were left … there is what remains of the basement kitchen of one of those houses.’

  ‘Seems very well preserved,’ said the archaeologist. ‘Just covered in and left to the dust. A bit like Pompeii in a way.’

  ‘The family that lived there probably knew the Lavenders.’

  Where does that get us? thought Coffin. I am not looking for historical artefacts.

  Across the room, he could see George Darcy edging his way through the crowd of his colleagues, he was frowning and abstracted, ignoring any greeting thrown at him as he passed.

  He came up to Coffin, and muttered in his ear. ‘Can I have a word, sir? Outside, I think.’

  Phoebe stepped back. ‘Come and get a drink, Rosie.’ But her face was watchful. She wanted to know what was going on and meant that she should, too.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Rosemary Earlie, who found police ways and manners of interest. She was observant of how people lived, whether alive or dead.

  ‘Death and destruction,’ said Phoebe lightly. ‘Have to be, I should think.’ But she meant it. ‘George Darcy does tend to take things heavily.’

  Outside the door, George Darcy got it out quickly: ‘Just got a message: it looks like another murder.’

  ***

  In a few short sentences, Darcy explained: Old Lavender, Janet Neptune … found in a garage. At present in Spinnergate Hospital.

  Yes, the Chief Commander ought to have been told before. Sooner, soonest.

  ‘It’s a bit of a cock-up, sir. You ought to have been told sooner … but it seems the old man sat there by the body, not doing anything. And then the first thing to do was to get him
to hospital. Her, too.’

  ‘All that side is under control?’ Coffin enquired. ‘Who has talked to Lavender?’ The two men were on their way to Lavender’s apartment.

  ‘Sergeant Bishop from Spinnergate West, he has the CID desk there at the moment, he comes under my control … but there wasn’t much point, the old man being virtually speechless – he was in shock. He will come round, they think.’

  Coffin was silent. Then he said: ‘I blame myself.’

  Darcy found no comment to make on this since he did not understand it. ‘There was blood on the old man,’ he said.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Not a lot, but enough. Not his blood, there is no wound on him.’

  ‘And of course, he can’t say where it came from.’

  ‘Not at the moment, sir, no. He will be able to talk later, but whether he will make sense …’ Darcy shrugged.

  ‘He’s not senile.’ Coffin was sharp. ‘Or he wasn’t a few days ago.’

  ‘I think he’s not clear what he’s been doing. He has muttered a bit, apparently.’

  ‘Saying what?’ asked Coffin, still sharp, as the lift bore them up to the top floor where Lavender lived. A WPC let them in. She knew both of them by sight.

  ‘Seemed to blame himself … thinks he did it.’

  ‘You seem to have heard quite a lot in your telephone call.’ Coffin was still sharp, sharper, indeed.

  ‘Bishop thought it was important for me … and you, sir, to know as soon as possible.’

  Coffin acknowledged this with a quick nod, and a request to see Lavender’s bedroom. Still in a mood, Darcy accepted, and tried to be calming back.

  ‘This way, sir.’

  ‘SOCO’s been in,’ said the WPC, aware she was stepping in troubled waters and anxious to get a foot on solid ground.

  Coffin accepted this without a word. ‘Photographs?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And the garage downstairs.’

  Coffin parted the yellow tape that had been placed across the bedroom door. He could see the bed, with the blankets thrown back, the top sheet had fallen across them, displaying the blood.

  A long streak of it.

  ‘Not a lot of blood.’

  Darcy nodded. ‘So I was told. Some on his pyjama jacket and more on his hands, apparently. All dried.’

  ‘And he has no wound?’ Coffin was talking aloud, needing no answer. ‘Get the bloodstained sheets down to forensics as soon as possible. And his pyjamas.’

  He stood there looking at the room, then he turned on his heel to take a tour of the flat.

  There was a certain amount of disorder everywhere, as the old man had blundered around in it in the dark. Or in his sleep. But the worst mess was in Janet Neptune’s room where the blankets and sheet were twisted together in a heap on the floor. The looking glass on the dressing table was cracked, and a bowl of flowers overturned.

  ‘She got out of bed, or was dragged out, and then there was a struggle,’ said Darcy.

  ‘Could be.’ His tone was neutral, detached. Coffin was walking round the room, trying to assess it all. A muddle, but what sort of muddle?

  ‘Looks that way to me.’

  ‘Been photographed?’ the Chief Commander asked the WPC.

  ‘Yes, sir. There’s a lot more to do, they are coming back to do an in-depth survey.’

  She had the jargon. Coffin thought. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Bailey, Avril Bailey, sir.’

  Coffin smiled at her. ‘Been here all the time? I thought so. Hang on a bit longer, I’ll see you get relieved.’

  ‘I don’t mind, sir.’ She was cheered, the water had been stormy but she had walked on the water, she had done the right thing. People said the Chief Commander was a nice man, and in spite of that first grim look, they were right: he was a nice man. ‘I’m all right.’

  Coffin turned to Darcy: ‘The hospital now, George.’

  Darcy too was relieved, he too had put his feet on the right spots, so it seemed. He was George now, first-name terms. But he would still watch his step.

  ‘Seen all you want to, sir?’

  ‘I’ve seen what I want, yes.’ He was already running down the stairs. ‘Have the stairs been looked over?’

  Darcy had to admit he did not know, nor if the lift had been examined.

  ‘Should have been.’

  The sharp mood was back, and Darcy wisely kept silent; he had the uneasy feeling that he was not seeing what John Coffin had seen.

  ‘Think there was a real struggle in that place?’ the Chief Commander asked as he got into the car.

  ‘You don’t?’ Darcy said.

  ‘No, and no and no.’ Coffin was silent and then said: ‘When Dick Lavender was found beside Janet Neptune, he thought she was dead. He has since muttered about murder. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s what I was told.’

  ‘But she isn’t dead, is she? Wounded but not dead.’ Coffin spoke to the driver. ‘We can get on now. To the University Hospital.’ This was the preferred name of the old hospital, now part of the new university.

  ‘I suppose he thought he had killed her.’

  ‘I’m sure he did. I’m sure he did think so.’ Coffin waited for the car to start moving before getting hold of the car phone. ‘Give me a minute, George … Stella?’ Stella, for once where he wanted her to be, at home, answered his call. ‘Stella, can you tell me where Martin Marlowe was last night?’

  ‘He did his performance, you know that, I’ve told you.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I don’t keep an eye on my actors,’ said Stella tartly. ‘But as it happens I do know that he was at a birthday party with one of the cast which seemed to go on all night, judging by the hungover way most of them were behaving today. But Martin has since done a matinee and a full evening show.’

  ‘Thank you, Stella. Keep an eye on him for me.’

  Darcy let a moment elapse before he said: ‘What’s on your mind, sir?’

  ‘Just clearing the ground.’

  Clearing your ground and muddying mine, Darcy thought. I don’t know what to make of it now. Nor of you, sir. This must be what chaps mean when they say you can see through a wall, but you build the wall yourself first.

  The University Hospital was an old hospital with a new name; it had once been a poor-law hospital, taking in the indigent and sick, but various social reforms had put a new hat on it, provided more funds, a few new buildings, including an operating theatre and a paediatric department. It also had a flourishing clinic to deal with sexually transmitted diseases. ‘Very much an expansion area,’ the cynical, worldly pathologist Dennis Garden had said. As part of the new university with a medical school, the hospital had gone up in the world. It had status and a much enlarged staff. It had been much loved always in the neighbourhood where it was deemed almost a bit of luck to die in the old Pickle Road Hospital, as it once was, and it was a piece of luck that came the way of many in the old days. Rates of survival had definitely gone up.

  Richard Lavender and Janet Neptune were both in private rooms on the same floor, the fourth, the top floor.

  ‘The old man first,’ said Coffin. The door was guarded by a uniformed constable sitting on a hard chair; he was talking to a nurse. He looked up, and recognized both men, standing up and saluting. Always be polite to top brass was written on his heart, his father having been a successful soldier.

  ‘Nurse here says that Mr Lavender has woken up. I was to tell Sergeant Bishop as soon as that happened, he needs to talk to him.’

  The nurse protected her patient. ‘I am not sure if he is up to much questioning at the moment. You will have to clear it with the doctor.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else,’ said Coffin, opening the door to Richard Lavender’s room. At once, a voice, surprisingly stronger than might have been expected, called him to come in.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better. But I am glad to see you. Thank you for coming, I knew I co
uld trust you. You know what has happened?’

  ‘I know there has been an accident.’

  ‘Kind of you to call it that, but I hope I am able to face facts.’ There was desolate sadness in Dick Lavender’s voice. ‘I killed her. There was blood on me. I dragged her from her bed and killed her.’

  ‘Supposing I told you Janet was not dead.’

  ‘I would thank God that I did not kill her.’

  The nurse was fussing at the door. ‘Doctor is on his way,’ she called.

  Dick Lavender went on talking, almost to himself but his eyes on John Coffin. ‘I heard noises in the night, banging, shouts … I thought it was a nightmare. Then when I woke and saw the blood on me, I knew it was real. But it was not my blood. I had got up, attacked Janet.’ He paused, as if puzzled. ‘She wasn’t in the flat, though …’ He passed his hand over his face. ‘I couldn’t find her.’

  ‘You did find her, though.’

  ‘She was bloody, the blood was hers. Her wound, her blood on me. I had no wound, I did not bleed.’

  ‘You are bleeding now,’ said Coffin. ‘Bleeding inside you.’ He came close to the bed, and put his hand on Dick Lavender’s thin cold fingers, which moved to grip his tightly.

  ‘You tell me I did not kill her?’

  ‘You did not kill her,’ said Coffin. He took his hand away and moved from the bed as a severe young doctor appeared at the door.

  On the corridor outside, Darcy said: ‘I noticed that you said he did not kill her, not that he did not try.’

  In a sober voice, Coffin said: ‘For what happened to her, I blame myself. Stupid, stupid girl.’ He marched off down the corridor, leaving a perturbed George Darcy to follow him.

  I think I could write a book about this man, George Darcy said to himself, as he followed. What should I put in it: sharp mind, pleasant manners except when crossed, can control himself but doesn’t always. Oblique way of talking, asks questions but probably knows the answers himself before you do. Sees further into the mist than you but sometimes leaves you staring into it without help.

  As now, he added, as he marched after Coffin’s retreating figure – he seemed to know where he was going.

  Do I like him? Yes, I do.

  Along the corridor, Janet Neptune’s door was marked by a WPC who was sitting with her legs stretched out in front of her and looking bored. She yawned, and then yawned again. There was an empty cup and saucer on a tray on the floor. As soon as she recognized the two men she leapt to her feet, giving the tray a kick so that it went noisily rattling down the corridor.