Coffin in the Black Museum

by Gwendoline Butler

  He ordered the whole floor of the crypt to be lifted, layer by broken layer.

  The first results came soon. A muffled exclamation from a pair of men working together, then silence.

  In this way was the third body discovered. Buried in much the same way as the second. Another woman.

  And yet another.

  Then one more.

  In all there were four bodies of women buried under the floor of the crypt. The time-span of their deaths had yet to be established, but it was conjectured by those doing the digging that they had all died within the last ten years. Maybe more, maybe less, but there would not be much in it.

  That was what the diggers and the observers said to each other, and they did not expect to be proved wrong. It was how it looked.

  John Coffin received the now almost minute by minute reports soberly. He knew that his new Force had a major investigation on their hands.

  He had another worry also, one which he shared with the medical scientists in the area. They were studying the wave of polio cases of varying degrees of intensity, the epicentre of which appeared to be the Black Museum. One after another of the victims was turning out to have been at the party in the Museum or to have been in close contact with those who had.

  It’s a funny old world, thought Coffin, who had to bear all this in mind, as well as the other things he knew of, such as the IRA cell said to be moving into his district, and the witches’ coven reputed to be working there already (white witches, they said, not black, as if that made it better), and the plans for a Royal visit with which the other two arrivals might or might not be connected. Take your eyes off it for a moment and it got away from you.

  *

  The bodies were now in mortuary drawers and labelled:

  Body One. Female, probably aged between twenty and thirty. Hair colour, fair. Height in life estimated to be 162.5 cm. (around 5 feet 4 inches). Weight, hard to estimate, but a small frame made a guess of 60 kilograms or about 130 lbs give or take a bit reasonable. Teeth in good condition but several extractions.

  Body Two. Female, probably under twenty. Hair colour, dark brown. Height in life estimated to be 160 cm. or 5 feet 3 inches. Small frame. Weight, a possible 62.3 kilograms (138 lbs). The left leg half an inch shorter than the right. Probably wore a built-up shoe.

  The pathologist noting down this fact raised his head and spoke his thought aloud: ‘That ought to make identification easier.’

  If she left a shoe around. Cinderella, come forward.

  Body Three. Female, probably between twenty and thirty. Hair, light brown. Height, 177.5cm. A tall girl, about 5 feet 10 inches. Large frame. 80 kilograms. (176 lbs).

  Body Four: Female, probably between thirty and forty. Hair, light red, probably dyed. Height, 165.0cm. 5 feet 5 inches. Weight, medium frame, estimate 64 kilograms (141 lbs).

  At this stage, there were few other personal details he could add. More might emerge later.

  CHAPTER 9

  On this bright summer’s day, some thirty-six hours after the discovery of the row of female bodies, Max had set tables under an awning outside his shop where he was busy serving coffee and breakfast to such as desired it. The bemused cast from the Theatre Workshop had assembled there for support and company. Charlie Driscoll, JoJo Bell (looking pale but bravely protesting she was better), Lily Goldstone in jeans and Katherine Hamnett shirt, together with Bridie and Will carefully not holding hands, were seated at adjoining tables. Deirdre Dreamer was not present: she was ill, the latest victim to the mini-epidemic, while another absentee, Roger Clifford, was away filming. Ellie Foster was present, but silently drinking whisky in her coffee with a determined look. A bad sign for her sobriety to all those who knew her well. Stella herself was there, looking white and shocked. What to do? she was thinking, and then, the next minute: I cannot believe there’s a connection. And I told Johnnyboy about the pot. Or urn. Well, I told him a bit, even if not all. Johnnyboy, or John Coffin (who had always hated being called Johnny), was not present, nor did she expect to see him. She had heard him leave his apartment in the tower at an early hour that morning.

  Upon this little band had fallen the worst of the shock of the bodies in the crypt of St Luke’s. All rehearsals had been cancelled, crash barriers set up on the road outside the church while police teams had moved in.

  The barriers were there with a reason, already the crowds stood two deep, and several TV camera teams had arrived. A hot dog stand and an ice-cream van had trundled into position. The theatre group felt they were lucky that Max had reserved the tables for them, but on the other hand they were in the public eye.

  They were performers, they loved publicity, but this was too much. ‘We’re a spectator sport,’ groaned Charlie. He cuffed away a small girl who had crept through the crowd and attached herself to his leg.

  ‘Papa, Papa!’

  ‘I’m not your papa. I shouldn’t think you’ve got one. You were fathered in a forest, my dear.’ Charlie did not like children. ‘Stella, do something. Protect me. I am your responsibility.’

  ‘Take no notice of her, she’s a midget from the Adlon Circus School. She’s looking for publicity.’

  It was indeed the case that the TV cameras were swivelling their way. The Tideway Morning TV team had the reputation of liking a ribald joke. Stella recognized one of their outfit and she suspected that Charlie did too. He knew the joke was on him, and probably why. Surely his last boyfriend had worked for Tideway before leaving in a huff for the fresh fields of New York? He and Chris (the lad had been called Chris) had worked on a soap for Tideway, in which they had played father and son. Stella had been in a few instalments herself, but she was no good on TV, couldn’t do it and looked too fat. Oh God, that word again. Fat, fatter, fattest, the very word was like a knell.

  ‘She’ll get more than that from me. Hop it.’ Morosely Charlie drank some coffee and crumbled a roll. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I was in panto in Torquay with a troupe of performing monkeys? Robinson Crusoe, you can put anything that moves and raises a laugh in Crusoe. Or so our producer thought. I’ve never hated anything in my life like that pissing troupe. She has a distinct resemblance to the leader of that little lot.’ Another small creature had succeeded in making her way through the crowd. ‘My God, here’s another of them. They’re a troupe.’

  ‘Papa, papa!’

  ‘Push off.’

  ‘Can’t you see they’re pulling your leg? Someone has been watching Der Rosenkavalier.’

  Charlie was no opera-goer and did not take the allusion. ‘I believe they’ve been paid to do it. Go away, you nameless horrors.’

  One of his small assailants said: ‘I’m Lotty, she’s Trishia. Buy us a drink and we’ll stop.’

  ‘It’s too early to drink.’

  ‘Just white wine. I don’t count that.’ Lotty pulled up a chair and clambered on to it. She was a lively-faced lady with bright red hair and the face of a clown.

  ‘You shouldn’t be doing this sort of work,’ said Charlie irritably.

  ‘Why not? I’ve got my Equity card, the same as you, and I bet I get more work.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be difficult.’ Charlie looked towards the shop. ‘Oh, all right, wine it is, then.’

  Little Billy, who had managed to insert himself into the act, trotted away to do his order. He was there so much that no one took any notice. Sometimes they saw him, sometimes he felt invisible.

  ‘Things aren’t so bad,’ said Stella, determined to cheer up her company. ‘The police say we can get back into the Workshop tomorrow and the rehearsal can go forward. First night won’t need to be postponed or anything.’

  ‘Unless we’re all in the nick.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Stella burst into a peal of delicate laughter, culled, if that was the word, as she realized as soon as she gave vent to it, from her performance as Judith Bliss years ago. She had been acting that part too often lately, she must give it a rest.

  ‘Stella duckie, do you have to be s
o bright and cheerful?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Charlie, I can’t bear you when you are so full of self-pity. Buck up.’

  ‘Buck up, she says. Corpses all around us, the police breathing down our necks and she says buck up.’

  ‘They can’t suspect us of killing any of those poor girls.’

  ‘There is still the murder of Peter Tiler,’ Charlie reminded her sourly. ‘Someone did him in, and with several of us admitting he tried to blackmail us, I would say we were prime candidates for that one.’

  ‘But all those other bodies …’ began Stella.

  ‘Stella, I know you are not a great brain, but I should think that even you could see that there does not have to be a connection between their deaths and Peter Tiler’s.’

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidence,’ said Stella stoutly. ‘All the deaths have to be part of the same process. And nothing to do with us. Those girls were killed long before the Workshop was even thought of. I shall say so if I’m asked.’

  She did not reassure Charlie.

  ‘Put a rope round my neck, won’t you, while you’re about it? I grew up round here. Don’t forget that. So did a number of others of your cast. There is a policy of employing actors with local connections, remember? JoJo Bell went to school here, Bridie and Will still live here, even Lily’s old grandpa ran the local cinema before they all went up in the world. I hear he’s still alive.’

  ‘Connections, connections,’ said Lily, projecting her voice like Regan attacking King Lear. ‘How dare you? As a good Marxist, Grandpa would not dream of doing anything so capitalist as killing four girls.’ It was from her grandfather that Lily got her politics.

  ‘I’m not accusing your grandfather of anything.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The rest of us now, that might be different.’

  JoJo, still looking weak and tired but protesting she was fine, fine, and that her life had been saved by large doses of vitamin E in liquid form, murmured that she had been ten when she left the district and although her brothers still lived here, they were not murderers, and women did not kill women.

  ‘You believe so?’ asked Charlie ominously.

  ‘Charlie,’ said Stella in warning. ‘Watch what you’re saying.’

  ‘Well, it’s irrelevant, what JoJo says. Women do kill women. We don’t know yet who these poor creatures were and why they killed. But we do know how the police mind works. They’ll pick on one of us. So that’s what he was blackmailing you about, they will say. So that was why you killed him. To hide all the women you’ve done in. Perverted sex, that’ll be their line, and whether we’re male or female or just mixed up like me won’t really count.’

  Bridie gave a little scream.

  Stella patted her arm. ‘Don’t worry, dear, he’s just being silly. You have got a nasty tongue on you, Charlie.’

  ‘I see things straight.’

  With dignity, Stella addressed such of the cast of Hedda as was assembled. ‘I want you all to know that I believe you all to be innocent.’ And to herself she said: ‘Because I suspect someone else.’

  She knew her cast, knew that they were just acting out their fears, and knew also that their performances in Hedda would not suffer. For the moment, Max’s shop was their stage, and in different degrees they were enjoying their performances.

  But she was well aware that there was another drama going on behind the arras. ‘I’ll have to tell John about who was carrying the urn. He will probably say it means nothing,’ she said to herself. ‘But I’ll find my moment.’

  Offstage, John Coffin was preparing a paper he was obliged to present to a committee of the House of Commons on the nature and future of the Force he was in the process of creating. It was because of his eloquence on the subject at a selection board eighteen months ago that he had got the job he now enjoyed. That and his remarkable record in past years, together with the backing of his superiors in the Met. They had actively campaigned for him to get the job. ‘An outstanding officer,’ the Commissioner had said. ‘The only officer with the vision to create a new force.’ Now he wondered if they expected him to fail.

  But that was cynicism above and beyond the call of duty, brought on by his present labours, and must be disregarded. He had a job to do in this area and it was his to do well.

  He was writing in longhand, because his thoughts ran freer that way, but all around him he had reports and statements and surveys from the various bodies he had called upon for information. Advice he had not asked for, but advice they had all given him, sometimes tactfully, sometimes with a heavy hand. Where he wanted facts, they offered opinions. He took a deep breath and began again a paragraph he had already started twice.

  His work had already been interrupted by an anxious telephone call from his sister, Letty Bingham. She was in New York with her husband and complained that she felt far away and helpless while her pet project fell apart. She might lose money too, this was terrible. And she had her daughter’s future to think about. What was he doing about it? It was up to him. It was Letty at her worst.

  ‘What’s going on? All those bodies! I don’t like it. I’m coming over.’

  Probably she was on her way back now. Letty, in defence of her own ends, was a formidable woman. She must take after their mother, about whom he hoped to know more when Letty handed over her diary for him to read. The thought of his mother made him stop work.

  He went to his window and looked out. What he wanted to think about was not his mother, not this report, but the dead woman in St Luke’s Church. Who were they, where had they come from and how had they died?

  Lists of missing women from all over country were being studied now. He knew that the police scientists would be working to establish how they died, and how long ago. After this, the police machine might be able to move on to give them names.

  One name they knew, Rosie Ascot. But Coffin also knew there was a chance that the others might never be given an identity.

  He considered the problem.

  What did they have so far? Five bodies. Seven, when Rosie Ascot and Mrs Tiler were counted in. It made for a complicated picture. Six dead women and one dead man.

  They had the death of Mrs Tiler who had apparently been killed before her husband. They had the murder of Peter Tiler. They had this accumulation of dead women. Mrs Tiler had been strangled. So had the women. This was not a hard scientific fact yet, but he had seen the scarf round one dead throat. So Mrs Tiler and the other women had died in the same way.

  Was there a connection between all the deaths? The murder of Rosie Ascot suggested there was. Killed in the same way as Mrs Tiler and probably the other women, and buried in the Tiler garden. They did not, as yet, know how Peter Tiler had been killed.

  So they might have one murderer, or two murderers, or even three.

  While he went back to what he was writing, his mind gnawed away at the problem.

  The urn or bronze pot had indeed been seen at the theatre. Several people had admitted noticing it in the small yard at the back of the Theatre Workshop. The stage manager and the property mistress denied knowing anything about it. It had been there and then had not been there.

  That bloody urn, thought Coffin. It had to mean something. When this case was sorted out, the reason for the urn would show itself.

  But it tied one murder into the Theatre Workshop. As did the murder of Rosie Ascot.

  Rosie Ascot had been buried in the Tilers’ garden shed, and the owner of the shed himself, Peter Tiler, or what was left of him after decapitation, had been hidden in the crypt of St Luke’s.

  But the link had been there from the beginning. Peter Tiler had worked in St Luke’s and the urn with his head in it had been addressed there.

  It had to be admitted that several of Stella’s theatre group were local people.

  In his paper he had come to the section where he stressed the importance of understanding and maintaining the network of family relationships in the old boroughs of Leathergate, Spinnerg
ate, Swinehouse and Easthythe, and perpetuating them in the new unit. (One reason, Tom Cowley said, for carrying on the Black Museum; they were proud of their history round here, even the blackest bits.)

  Just for a moment Coffin’s attention was diverted to his own family network. What would he find when it came to be his turn to read his mother’s diary?

  He raised his head from what he was writing. His conversation with Mimsie Marker on the subject of the Tiler family flashed into his mind. There was something to dig up there.

  Might remind Paul Lane and Archie Young to look into the family relationships of all concerned in this case.

  Even Stella Pinero? Yes, even Stella, although she was as free of family connections as any woman he had ever known. She had a daughter, but one never saw her.

  Prompt on her cue, as always, she telephoned.

  ‘You don’t mind that I have telephoned?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I thought you sounded annoyed.’

  ‘Just surprised.’ I was thinking of you and you telephoned. I do think about you, and far too much, Miss Pinero. Stella. Or, as it might be, darling.

  ‘It’s just I’ve been mulling this over all day, wondering whether to tell you. I decided I must.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘It’s about the pot, the urn. I saw it in the yard of the Workshop.’

  ‘Yes, that’s confirmed. Others saw it too.’

  ‘Oh, you checked?’ She was a little chilled at his professionalism. ‘Well, I saw Bridie carrying it away. That’s what I had to tell you. She had it in her arms and was carrying it as if it was heavy.’

  ‘I see.’ Bridie? Yes, the pretty, worried-looking creature so firmly anchored to her young actor. ‘Have you said anything to her?’