A Grave Coffin

by Gwendoline Butler

  11

  ‘My dear,’ said Stella. She came up and took his hand, holding it gently. ‘Dearest, I am so sorry.’

  Coffin said awkwardly, as if the very words hurt him, ‘They will tell me more when they know it.’

  Stella patted his hand. ‘I’ll get you a drink. Come on, Gus.’

  The dog reluctantly moved from across Coffin’s feet, where he had planted himself as a gesture of support for he knew not what crisis. He followed Stella while she poured out a strong whisky and soda, then followed her back as she handed the goblet over. The smell from it was repugnant to his nose, but he understood it was enjoyed by his master.

  ‘Thank you.’ Coffin took the glass.

  ‘This killing … was it meant for you?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Did Phoebe know there was danger?’

  ‘She knew.’ Phoebe had certainly known. He drained his glass.

  Stella was silent. She walked up and down the room; it was hard news to take in. She had never been sure if she liked Phoebe Astley until recently when she had realized Phoebe was a woman to like and respect. ‘Killed? Are they sure that she’s dead?’

  Coffin said briefly: ‘It was an explosion, tore the room inside out. She’s dead all right.’

  It could have been him, Stella thought, it could have been my husband. Phoebe died in his place.

  ‘What have you been doing that makes someone hate you so?’

  ‘I’ve never been sure that it was personal,’ Coffin said. ‘I think I am just a nuisance.’

  ‘Pretty rough way of dealing with a nuisance.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But then the people who arranged it are not very nice people.’ The memory of Harry Seton flashed into his mind.

  ‘It can’t be easy to arrange, an explosion like that,’ said Stella.

  ‘Ah, you see, there is money involved. Money can do a lot.’ He went to sit on the sofa, he put his head on his hands. Stella came to sit beside him. She too looked at the floor, there seemed nothing else to do.

  The carpet needed cleaning, probably beyond Mrs James, better to get in a professional cleaning firm. That was the worst of having a dog, they did bring in the dirt. She gave Augustus a critical look at which he wagged his tail. He was an optimist, never distrustful and appreciated any attention.

  ‘They’ll let me know when they know anything more,’ said Coffin, to no one at all.

  Phoebe Astley went a long way back in his life, into that period when he and Stella had drifted far apart. Phoebe was part of his life in an interesting way: they had never been in love with each other, but had a long, affectionate (and just occasionally something warmer than that) relationship which was now a steady friendship. He trusted Phoebe and there were not many people in his world that he did trust.

  She had been working in Birmingham; he had persuaded her to come into the Second City.

  Someone would have to tell Eden, her friend with whom she shared a flat. But that could come later. There were parents too.

  ‘Is Eden in the theatre tonight?’ he asked Stella. Eden worked in the wardrobe, caring for the clothes of the performers, sometimes designing them and even making them.

  ‘I expect so. Leave her tonight. I’ll tell her myself tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, that would be best. If you don’t mind doing it.’

  ‘She had to be off anyway, as I now remember: she was driving to Chichester to talk to a friend in the wardrobe there about borrowing some costumes for Macbeth. She won’t be back till the small hours. Or she may even stay the night.’

  ‘I booked the room in that hotel,’ said Coffin. ‘In my name; Phoebe just walked into it.’

  ‘I’m surprised the hotel let her.’

  ‘I don’t know what she said; I suppose she explained it somehow.’

  Gus stood up, giving a series of little yaps.

  That’s the doorbell.’ Coffin stood up. ‘I’ll go down.’

  ‘Do be careful. Just in case.’

  She stood at the top of the winding staircase as Coffin went to open the door. Listening, she could hear voices. A man. There was a little rumble of conversation, she heard a couple of words: ‘planted under the bed,’ came through to her, another short even quieter few words, then the two men came upstairs.

  ‘Oh, Archie,’ she said with relief. ‘Thank goodness it’s you.’

  The chief superintendent came across to kiss her cheek and give her a consoling hug.

  ‘I happened to be in my office when the news came through … I don’t know any more yet, I’m afraid.’

  Coffin had followed him in. ‘What did happen?’

  ‘She went into the room, was near the bed, and the bomb went off. In her face. It must have been triggered by some tremble device. Probably under or in the bed … they don’t know yet, although the explosive people are there.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Just about an hour ago.’

  So it was hot news. Coffin thought.

  ‘She had checked into this room, booked in your name, said you had booked it for her.’

  ‘About right,’ said Coffin. ‘More or less how it was.’

  Archie Young was carefully avoiding Coffin’s eyes. He went on: ‘She gave the Spinnergate address, so the Newcastle police rang us to do the home-news bit … and one of the uniformed lot recognized the district.’

  Read on from there, Coffin thought.

  ‘Does that mean that Eden knows?’ asked Stella. ‘They shared the Spinnergate flat.’

  ‘No, not yet. She wasn’t there, no one was.’

  So the uniformed chap sent with the sad message came gratefully back, spared the task that no one liked.

  ‘I’m glad to have heard so soon.’ Coffin was aware that Archie Young was discreetly asking no questions about why and how Phoebe Astley had been sent off to Newcastle.

  ‘Phoebe was having a few days’ leave, apparently,’ said Archie, again with that careful disinterest that showed Coffin he either knew or guessed a lot. He knew that Phoebe had Coffin’s confidence, and saw that he himself would have to wait until he was told much. Should have got on to Phoebe myself before the dear girl went, he thought.

  Stella offered Archie Young a drink. ‘Coffee, or wine or whisky?’

  He accepted the coffee. ‘There should be more news soon. I just thought I’d drop round and tell you what I knew.’

  Coffin nodded. ‘Thanks, Archie. I will tell you more about why Phoebe was there, but later. Not now.’ He accepted some more whisky and gave a sharp kick at the sofa.

  Gus looked relieved that the kick was not at him, but he moved away to sit under the table in a prudent withdrawal.

  ‘Not anger, dog,’ Stella told him, ‘just misery.’ But she thought there was a touch of anger, that most painful of angers: anger at self. No way out, my darling, she told herself, you are just going to have to live through this.

  ‘Of course it’s anger,’ said Coffin. ‘I’m angry with the sod who put the bomb there, and I’m angry with myself for letting Phoebe in for it. I’m even angry with Phoebe for being there and getting herself blown up. No one’s grateful for the victim and don’t you think it. I’m in a rotten mood, and the dog is quite right to be frightened of me.’

  ‘I’ll be frightened of you myself if you go on like that,’ said Stella.

  Archie Young finished his coffee and observed that he would join the dog under the table if he thought he could get under. ‘Being a big man, I can’t.’

  A small laugh rippled round all three of them, lightening the mood.

  ‘I’m off then,’ said the chief superintendent. ‘Don’t bother to come down the stairs.’

  ‘I’ll come. That door can be tricky. Part of the old church and warped.’ Coffin was brisk. ‘But we love it.’

  ‘Sure you do.’ Archie thought if it had been his, he would have had it removed and something new that worked better put in its place. You could get very nice plastic doors that loo
ked old and had some style. ‘Perhaps you could fit a steel sheet behind it. Just for protection.’

  They walked down the staircase in silence till they got to the great old door. It did have security locks, Archie observed.

  ‘I have something for you,’ Archie began. ‘It’s from Phoebe … a letter …’

  ‘A letter?’ Coffin’s expression changed, and then he said quickly, ‘Thanks for bringing it.’

  ‘She gave it to me before she left, said to give it to you if she got into trouble …’

  ‘And you did. Thanks, Archie.’

  The chief superintendent hesitated as he stepped out into the dark. ‘You haven’t had any more intruders hanging round?’

  Coffin shook his head. ‘No. I’d have let you know. No one was found.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have done a proper search at the time?’

  ‘Not worth calling out a full search crew plus helicopter with heat-sensitive equipment. Couldn’t justify it.’

  He watched Archie Young walk away, then he went back up the staircase to Stella.

  ‘Did he have anything else to say? You were a long time there at the bottom of the stairs.’

  Coffin was evasive. ‘Oh, you know Archie, he can be long-winded sometimes …’

  Stella took his hand, which felt cold and dry as if the warmth had gone out of him. ‘I don’t know what to say about Phoebe, except that I am very, very sorry and will do anything I can to help Eden. Did Phoebe have’ – she hesitated – ‘a lover or any man close to her?’

  ‘Eden will know,’ said Coffin.

  ‘Right. Then Eden will tell him. Or her?’

  ‘Phoebe liked men, not women, as far as I know.’

  ‘I’m not being prurient, or probing, it’s just it’s easier to do the right thing if you know a few details.’

  ‘I think you always do the right thing, Stella,’ said Coffin with love. ‘I’m glad …’ He stopped there.

  With some amusement, Stella said: ‘What are you glad about?’

  ‘I’m glad I have you.’

  ‘Something happening like this, Phoebe dying, makes you cling to what you’ve got. I feel the same. You realize that all the time what felt like solid ground to walk on is just a crust that could open up at any time. Often does, too,’ she added, ‘and when one person falls into the hole, you know you could be the next. I’ve been in a hole and climbed out. So have you. But the black hole that got Phoebe, that’s different, hard to climb out of, that one.’

  ‘I’ll hold on to you,’ said Coffin. ‘Stop you going over the edge.’

  ‘Do the same for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He studied her face, the eyes shadowed with fatigue. ‘You go to bed. I’ll clear up down here.’

  Stella yawned. ‘Leave it till tomorrow.’

  ‘I feel restless, I think I’ll go for a walk.’

  ‘Taking Gus?’

  Coffin knew he would have to, the dog was already wagging his tail, white and elegant like a plume.

  ‘Watch out for the prowler. I suppose Gus will protect you,’ she said doubtfully, for although Gus had a splendid bark and was always keen to attack, he was small. If he was a lion dog, then it was a very small lion. He would fight, though.

  ‘I don’t suppose he is still around, but I will be careful.’

  Stella listened until she heard the front door close behind him, then she went to the window to look out. There was no moon, and the darkness soon swallowed up the two figures. At intervals, she caught a flash of light.

  So he had taken a torch with him.

  Sensible. But was good sense the only reason?

  Sometimes I distrust the motives of my darling husband.

  Coffin walked towards a comer where there was the stump of an old tree which had been turned into a seat in honour of an aged actor, Henry Ascot. There was a brass plaque bearing his name.

  Coffin sat on the seat. Gus beside him. He opened the letter which Archie Young had brought him. He knew this was the real reason for the chief superintendent’s visit.

  He hesitated for a moment, looking at the envelope, which was thick and white with his name typed on it. He did wonder a bit about the circumstances in which it had been handed over to Archie Young, but he knew that Phoebe and Archie had a friendly relationship. Nothing more than that, they liked each other and worked together well.

  Gus was giving a soft bark. ‘Cool it, Gus,’ he said absently as he opened the envelope, managing to cast light on the letter with the torch at the same time. It took some juggling, but he did it.

  Dear John,

  I knew the day would come when I would write this letter. I think I knew you were dangerous from the first moment I worked with you. Intuition, I suppose, or precognition – I did have an Irish grandmother. Of course, I did not know the exact nature of that danger, I guess I thought it might be emotional. Well, I daresay you knew it was that too. We came very close, in those days before Stella came back into your life, to love.

  I did anyway, but I realized very soon when I came to work in the Second City that I must not show it. It was not spiritual, this love of mine, very physical, which made it all the harder to hide. I was never sure if I did.

  When you sent me off on this job, I smelt danger, physical this time. Well, you more or less told me of it. I decided if I did not come back, I would send you my love.

  Love and love,

  Phoebe.

  He put the letter back in the envelope, then he turned off the torch to sit there in the darkness. He sat there for some time trying not to think, while wishing he was back in the days when you took a cigarette out of the packet and lit it, then sat there puffing it. This did not take your troubles away but it gave your body something to do while you were miserable.

  Just for a moment he felt a flash of anger: what a number of ways women had of making a man feel ashamed.

  Phoebe had stuck a knife in which she had offered with love, but had meant it to hurt.

  Then he was ashamed again: she hadn’t meant it that way, she just wanted to tell him that she loved him. And he had loved Phoebe. But only in the small, limited way that was all he had been capable of in those days.

  They had met in disgusting circumstances at one of the messiest and bloodiest killings he had ever seen, a kind of butcher’s shop. Phoebe, a young and raw detective, had gone outside to be sick.

  Why this should have endeared her to Coffin was not clear to him, but he had been both touched and sorry for her, not usual states of mind for him in those rough days when he hated himself and the people next to him in that order.

  And to that younger, unhappy, unpleasing Coffin, the best way to comfort a woman was to take her to bed. Pleasure for you and sympathy for her.

  Looking back, he was not proud of that young fellow, not so young, either; old enough to have better manners.

  And the thing was, she had laughed at him. If he had thought he was the great consoler, he wasn’t.

  Not an episode he was proud of.

  He had buried the memory, forgotten it, he thought; he had become Phoebe’s superior officer, promoted her, praised her, and rebuilt their relationship as friendship. Not even close friendship, but a detached, respectful relationship because he respected her professional skill. And Phoebe? Well, if it wasn’t quite what she expected, he had just taken it for granted she did.

  With pain you can either smile and pretend it isn’t there, burst into tears, or sit there and think about it.

  Coffin sat there to think about it, while Gus grumbled quietly at his feet. The most difficult thing was that he could never share the pain with Stella. They had reserves, the sort of marriage where you ‘tell each other everything’ would have been intolerable to both of them. But the Catholics had it right, he thought: the purging of guilt by confession gave easement to the spirit.

  ‘Shall I confess to you, Gus, will that do? Shall I say to you that I regret my selfish, boorish, masculine self-satisfaction?’

  Gus, pleased
to be addressed, wagged his tail. Thinking, as any dog would, that this was a preamble to a walk, he got up.

  Coffin obliged him. ‘Right, let’s walk.’ Together, they walked towards the road, dimly lighted by Victorian lamplights which the preservationists had insisted upon retaining. Beyond, lay the old churchyard which was even more dimly lit. This park was one of Gus’s most enjoyed walks. The smells there were ancient, varied and luscious. A bouquet on them that he found nowhere else in the Second City, except for an interesting area around Spinnergate tube station to which he rarely got, so that exact analysis was not easy to him. The smells there were not as ancient as in the old churchyard, sometimes vividly new, but none the worse for that.

  Gus ran ahead into the darkness where Coffin followed him, occasionally flicking on his torch, still thinking. Under one of the big trees which still loomed above the tombs, Gus was sniffing at a branch that was on the ground. The trees were old, and since several winter gales, needed the attention of a good forester. It looked a big branch to have come down.

  ‘Come on, Gus,’ Coffin called, walking forward. The moon was up and a soft wind was blowing the clouds apart, making it easier to see where he was going.

  Beyond the churchyard wall the ground sloped first gently and then as if gathering speed more sharply to the canal. There were several holes in the wall where it had crumbled away. It looked romantic and was probably dangerous.

  Coffin stood there at the wall looking down at the water which was moving sluggishly in the wind. His thoughts were not cheerful.

  On the muddy path which led to the wharf, with its old buildings now crumbling like the wall, there were a few tracks.

  ‘Those bloody children on their skateboards, but no, surely not. They’d be in the water and drowned before they could stop. Perhaps they had, perhaps there was a dead child floating in the water. He had death too much on his mind.

  Harry Seton gone, Phoebe dead. Who next?

  He was the obvious candidate because he now knew who was at the heart of much of the terrible happenings all around him. And with the name, he knew the motive. He knew why he had been sent off on the enquiry.

  Ask Coffin, he thought sardonically.