Coffin in the Black Museum

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘Stay where you are, Stella, you’re in shock. I advise you not to move till I’ve finished taking your pulse. Charlie, water, please.’

  ‘Water nothing. Get off me, JoJo.’

  ‘Charlie, help, please, she’s struggling.’

  JoJo Bell had had a long-running role in a TV medical soap as Dr Freda Berry, since when she had taken on the honorary role of medical adviser to any company she played with. Her ministrations were greatly feared. JoJo was also Equity rep to the company, usually a job hard to fill, but JoJo, who had an interfering nature, seemed to welcome it.

  Coffin walked straight towards the refrigerator, leaving Stella extricating herself from JoJo’s clutches. I know that woman’s face, he thought, I believe she’s a doctor.

  The freezer door had closed itself. Coffin opened it to view what had upset Stella.

  Inside was a hand, a hand severed at the wrist. A hard, muscular, slightly grubby hand. A left hand.

  Next to the hand was a tuft of greying hair and two teeth.

  Coffin closed the door hastily.

  It looked as though he knew now where the head of Peter Tiler, local man, former caretaker of St Luke’s, had rested.

  Anything involving Stella and her friends was bound to be a performance, and the drama continued in John Coffin’s own towertop sitting-room.

  He had led Stella there to continue her recovery while the rest of the party had trooped up behind them. Somehow, a number of the cast from the Theatre Workshop had got there too and were now sitting around, some on the floor drinking coffee, others sipping red wine. A large pot of coffee and paper mugs had arrived from somewhere … ‘The deli round the corner,’ he heard someone say. ‘Stays open till all hours and will do anything for us. Absolutely stage-struck.’ It was good coffee. Coffin patronized the delicatessen himself, but had never had room service before.

  JoJo Bell, Charlie Driscoll and Lily Goldstone, these he knew, Lily by sight only but she was famous. Only here were others whom he did not know. What was he doing entertaining them?

  He looked about him. There were half a dozen of the cast of the Theatre Workshop troupe arranged in various postures around the room, and someone was coming up the stairs. He opened a window so that they could all breathe.

  ‘What about my room, my flat?’ Stella was saying. She was lying back on his sofa, pillows behind her head, looking pale and lovely. It was a shock, her expression was saying, but I am being brave and fighting my emotions, this poor weak body will endure. ‘I mean, will I be able to move in? Will I want to?’

  ‘I’m afraid the police team will have to spend a few days going over it.’ They were probably there now, judging from the distant but familiar noises he could hear through his open window. ‘No, you can’t use it just yet.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever want to again!’

  Charlie Driscoll had produced a bottle and some glasses. ‘Have some gin, dear. I always say you can’t go wrong with a gin.’

  ‘Not neat,’ said Stella. ‘Put something in it.’ But she reached out a hand and Charlie deposited the glass in it.

  Coffin thought she was giving the performance of her life, but he wasn’t sure what play it was. Not quite Shaw. Coward, could it be? Yes, more than a touch of Judith Bliss. With a slight but unconscious hint of Mrs Crummles?

  ‘She’s all shook up with what she saw,’ said Charlie sympathetically.

  ‘He might have been killed there!’

  ‘He might have,’ agreed Coffin. But he thought probably not. No sign of blood in the apartment.

  ‘But I’ve given up my other place.’ It was a wail of despair.

  He had a bed he could give her. He thought about it. He knew from his past that he and Stella together made a combustible combination and he was a distinguished policeman now, hoping for his K. Raffish behaviour ought to be put aside. But there was something inside him that always called to people like Stella and always would.

  Charlie put his arm round Stella’s shoulders. ‘I’ve got a spare room, love. You can stay there.’

  Coffin subsided. Probably just as well.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Charlie. Are you sure? Just for a couple of nights. Then I’ll go back. I’ve decided: I’m not going to be pushed out.’

  ‘That’s my brave girl.’

  ‘But I’ll need a new refrigerator.’

  Now Coffin could hear footsteps, voices and a car door opening. Strange how the noises carried on the night air. He could guess what the sounds meant. Only one query: the car would have been an ambulance and the footsteps more ponderous if what they had been carrying had been heavier.

  And that was what was worrying him. Why wasn’t it heavier?

  A hand could be popped inside a plastic bag and placed in a box. One man could transport a hand. So that wasn’t much of a problem.

  But where was the rest of the body?

  Some helpful soul had found his whisky bottle and was handing round nips. Strangely, all his unsought-for guests had come provided with something to drink from, mugs, glasses or plastic cups.

  He was in the middle of a party, made up of the Theatre Workshop team and sundry hangers-on. He knew few of the faces: Ellie Foster, a middle-aged but still handsome character actress, whom he had seen on television; Roger Clifford, a face he did not know, but young and good-looking; Deirdre Dreamer, tiny but wild-looking, what a colour to have your hair, was it orange or yellow? That youthful couple sitting next to each other, but not looking at each other, were Bridie and Will. They didn’t look happy.

  They were very, very young, and seemed to him to lack something of the brio of the rest of his guests. Not so sure of themselves, not able to put themselves across with the same conviction.

  Stella observed him and went some way to explaining.

  ‘They’re our locals.’ Seeing his questioning look, she went on: ‘It was part of the deal here. The Corporation gives a grant to Theatre Workshop and we employ a percentage of actors from the Drama School here. They have Equity cards and all that. They’re good kids.’

  ‘What’s the matter with them?’ he asked Stella, so young, so talented (or they wouldn’t be in Stella’s company) and in love. But obviously miserable.

  ‘I don’t know, it’s worrying all of us. It’s not us. We all get on beautifully, we like them and we think they like us.’

  The two young people now turned towards each other, and for a moment something glowed between them and as quickly was quenched. Will moved away, Bridie started to chatter brightly, too brightly, to JoJo, who could be heard advocating the soothing powers of camomile tea.

  Stella shook her head. ‘It’s not the way love is supposed to take you. Not at first; later, maybe. They’ve got the symptoms the wrong way round. Misery comes later. I suppose you think I’m being cynical?’

  He shook his head. ‘I was about to be even more cynical and ask if you didn’t think they were making rather a meal of it?’ After all, they were drama students.

  ‘No.’ Stella hesitated and seemed about to say something more. Then JoJo bore down upon her, advocating deep breathing as a cure for shock.

  Someone will kill that woman one day, thought Coffin, and took a sip of his own whisky. Soon someone was going to be asking him (if they knew who he was, which he doubted) for another bottle, dear chap, and then we’ll be off. Only they wouldn’t be off. They’d be here till he turned them out.

  Which he would be doing quite soon for Stella’s sake, she still looked white.

  He stood up, to find several pairs of hands reaching up to drag him down again. ‘Oh, don’t go yet, dear chap, the party’s only just beginning. Stay a while longer.’

  He had known theatricals on and off for over twenty years now, and they always took over one’s life. And he had never found a way of withstanding them.

  JoJo stood up, tall, firm and flat-chested. ‘Sh-sh, you fool. He lives here, he’s the host.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Lily Goldstone in a ladylike drawl. ‘I’m sorr
y.’

  He felt as if he was existing on two levels, up here all was gaiety and life, downstairs a murder investigation was starting. He was host at this party and in command of the Force dealing with the death. A man who had shut the refrigerator door, telephoned the correct desk and waited to introduce himself to the first squad car arriving before going upstairs. Stella met his eyes across the room. She got up from the couch and came across to him.

  ‘I’ll get rid of this lot. It’s my fault they are here, I was going to have a party in my empty flat and I suppose they think this is it.’

  JoJo called across the room: ‘Stella dear, bed for you. Doctor knows best.’ Somehow, she seemed to have control of a bottle of Chianti, this too from ‘the deli round the corner’, no doubt.

  ‘It’s not that they don’t understand,’ said Stella to John Coffin. ‘They do, but it’s their way of shutting out death. They’re a bit high tonight, anyway, because we had the usual lousy rehearsal. Hence my idea of a party. Strengthening morale, you know.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You don’t really. You can’t, unless you know what it’s like to be in the profession. It’s like being in an army always under attack. You hang together for support.’

  ‘Police work is not unlike that.’ He sounded rueful.

  The front-door bell tolled its mournful peal. In period for the church it might be, but he was not going to be able to live with it.

  No need to open his door, because not one of his guests belonged to a breed that closed doors behind them.

  Detective-Inspector Young, his Sergeant and a uniformed officer came in together. When calling on such as John Coffin, you came in strength; protocol and good sense demanded it. He was said to be an easy man to work with but no one ventured on disrespect.

  ‘We came straight up, sir, seeing the door was open.’

  All three of them were observing with quiet interest the party taking place.

  ‘Quite right, Inspector.’

  ‘We’ve done for now. Gone over the place, removed the fridge and the remains. I’m afraid we’ll need the place to ourselves for a few more days.’

  Coffin nodded. ‘Of course. That’s understood.’

  ‘And tomorrow we’d like a statement from Miss Pinero.’ Not to mention one from you too, sir, he added to himself. He contented himself with smiling at Stella, whom he knew by sight, having sat through several of her films and watched her on television. He was not a theatregoer and thus had missed her Juliet and Amanda.

  One by one the party were slowly disappearing down the stairs, murmuring their thanks to their host. They too were mindful of their manners. Also, the police were bad luck.

  JoJo Bell pressed him by the hand and said: ‘Take my advice and practise deep breathing. You need to relax.’

  Lily Goldstone smiled and said nothing: she had learnt to measure her words. Stella was just behind her.

  ‘You off too, Stella? No need to unless you wish. You could stay.’

  ‘No, I’ll go with Charlie, he’s got quite a comfortable spare room, I’ve stayed in it before. He’s everyone’s friend in trouble, is Charlie.’ She gave a thin smile. Charlie had taken her in when her husband threw her out. Or had she thrown herself out? She was never sure. Anyway, there had been a tremendous scene with suitcases on the pavement and furs flung out through a window, and a taxi-driver looking on with interest. That time she had gone back. Still, it counted for good with Charlie.

  ‘As you wish.’

  Not as I wish, she thought, I wish I could stay, I think I love you again, you clever beggar, but I do what is wise for here and now.

  Later might be different.

  ‘You have given me your hospitality, John, twice now. In your Black Museum and tonight. Because it was my party.’ Her turn to sound rueful. ‘Let me return your hospitality. We’re having a rehearsal of all three acts of Hedda tomorrow evening and it ought to be worth seeing. Lily is marvellous.’ She looked towards that strong-featured lady who could look beautiful beyond words and who could look plain. Tonight she looked plain. ‘Say you will.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  Stella lingered. ‘Go ahead, Charlie.’

  ‘Right you are, love. I’ve got a taxi round the corner in Wenlock Street.’

  When he had gone, weaving slightly, he was a famous drinker but jolly with it, Stella said: ‘I’ve been trying to pluck up courage to ask. Do you know whose hand it was?’

  ‘Probably.’ It was almost certain, he thought, that it was a pair to the one in the urn and that both, one had to suppose, belonged to him who had owned the head.

  Hesitantly Stella said: ‘I did get a look at the hand … It was not a woman’s hand.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it wasn’t anything to do with Rosie Ascot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the head?’

  ‘Provisionally, the head has been identified as a man called Peter Tiler.’ He saw Stella’s face whiten. ‘Yes, he was caretaker here at St Luke’s.’

  ‘I knew him. Not a nice man.’ Slowly she said: ‘I think I have something to tell you. But tomorrow, please?’

  She leant forward and kissed his cheek, then turned and followed Charlie.

  As she moved away, he called: ‘Stella …’

  She turned. ‘Trust?’ she said.

  It was a phrase pulled from an earlier part of their relationship when she had so often asked for trust and then so often not deserved it, but had at bottom, as he now recognized, been loyal.

  It was not a night for sleeping, after an hour of restless moving around his towered home, he went out to walk. It was something he liked to do, a new habit since his move.

  His new province, in which he was responsible for keeping the Queen’s Peace, stretched on both sides of the River Thames, touching Wapping and Poplar on one frontier and reaching towards Bermondsey and Rotherhithe on the other. To the west he looked towards the august presence of the City of London itself. But Leathergate, Swinehythe and Easthythe were a substantial entity in themselves.

  Beyond his responsibilities lay the Surrey Docks, the Mill wall Dock, and the great group of Royal Docks, famous names all, but he had in his care the Great Eastern Dock, a splendid Victorian creation. In addition, in St Saviour’s Dock, he had possibly the oldest Dock of all, tracing its history back to Norman times, perhaps even earlier; historians talked of Roman remains.

  If he walked far enough to the south, he could trace out the area where the Dockland University was to be built. The Drama School, from which the Theatre Workshop had drawn two players, was to be an important constituent part. The Principal of the University had already been chosen and was known to Coffin. He was a tall, lean, eager man for whom Coffin had a lot of sympathy. He had a job likely to be as exacting as Coffin’s own.

  He guessed that both of them knew they were an experiment and that if the experiment failed then they were both expendable. The City of London itself had a great and ancient history. The Lord Mayor and his Aldermen could look back on a history of self-government going back to the time of the early English kings. The very name Alderman was Anglo-Saxon. But this new City of which he was a part was still in the making, it had to create for itself an identity and a tradition, which it might not succeed in doing.

  The University existed at the moment more as in idea than a reality, with a skeleton staff and few buildings. To a certain extent this was true also of his own Force.

  In a few years he might be out of a job. So would the Principal of the University, both of them would see their institutions disappear or melted down into other institutions. Whereas the Lord Mayor would survive because he was a rich business man, who would come out of it with a life peerage and might even prefer it that way.

  Coffin walked on. He himself lived on the south side of the river but close to the Thames. St Luke’s Mansions was in Press Street, with its suggestion of the eighteenth-century navy and its press gangs. They had certainly operated around here, and perh
aps many a man had sought sanctuary in St Luke’s. He walked down into Bread Street, turned into Lighterman’s Walk, now lined by new bijou residences with carefully plain faces and luxury kitchens. He passed the corner of Tapestry Close and entered Fleming Place. The houses here were remodelled Victorian tenements, once slums, now full of extremely smart but tiny apartments, with no animals allowed where once cats, mongrel dogs, rats and mice, not to mention fleas and lice, had sported in spite of the best efforts of the then inhabitants to keep clean. A jacuzzi to each bath here these days, although the former flat-dwellers had waited for the ‘cheap’ day at the public baths.

  A police car travelling slowly down Viking Street went even slower to get a look at this solitary walker out late on a summer night. He was recognized, saluted, and the car passed on. He knew that they had his photograph in all stations so that he was known by sight and marked. Security went that way these days. His codename was WALKER, and this he knew too.

  He had moved now on to a cobbled walkway facing the river. Fancy’s Wharf, it was called. Fancy had been a mid-nineteenth-century importer of furs and skins from North America and had built this wharf to receive his sealskins, beaver, fox furs and sables. The big handsome warehouses that had lined the wharf, and which Hitler’s bombers had failed to do more than dent, now contained some of the most expensive dwelling places in his whole bailiwick. To live on Fancy’s Wharf was to say you had arrived.

  The Lord Mayor and his wife, Bert and Agnes Fraser, had one such apartment, as had Little Billy’s parents, Keith and Deborah Larger.

  John Coffin glanced up at the gaunt but elegant façade of the Fancy warehouse where a few lights still shone. It was the place above all he would have chosen to live if he could have afforded the price.

  Behind one of those lights, Little Billy lay, reading a play, in defiance of his parents’ orders demanding lights out before ten o’clock. But they were absent themselves at a party, and he was in the care of the au-pair, who, as it happened, had given him his supper and quietly departed for a disco.