Coffin in the Black Museum

by Gwendoline Butler

  A new hotel called Armourers’ Wharf had gone up on an old bit of dockland just south of the Tower of London. There was an ancient creek on one side and the river on the other, so that if there was a flood then the basement and ground floor of Armourers’ Wharf stood a good chance of going under deep water. This was not mentioned in the publicity since the new Thames Barrier at Greenwich ought to protect them.

  Armourers’ Wharf was smart and expensive, and much patronized by the new young rich, of which there seemed to be many. Coffin had been to several dinners there already. The interior decoration had been done by a talented Italian who knew all about the cool northern light from the river and how to harmonize it with expensive chintz and pale furniture. But in this banqueting room, used for formal functions, the furniture was solid and dark, framed in curtains of natural silk, backed by a wallpaper of an expensive deep red stripe upon crimson which looked well by artificial light.

  A pity not to enjoy his meal, because the hotel prided itself on what it called ‘good English cooking’, which meant steak and kidney pie or a saddle of lamb with redcurrant jelly. No Brussels sprouts, no boiled cabbage, but leeks in cream sauce and small roast onions.

  Coffin, who did or did not do, his own cooking, enjoyed this side of it, although when having a speech to deliver, he wished it could be speech first and then food, but his appetite remained good for food as at Armourers’ Wharf.

  Judging by the expensive, eager, hungry young faces he saw all around him whenever he came here the Armourers’ proprietors had judged their market rightly. It was the new cuisine, newer than ‘nouveau’ and more filling, and rightly, because of the extra comestibles, even more costly. People said Armourers’ Wharf was the highest priced hostelry in London at the moment.

  Across the table, Coffin watched his sister Letty being deliberately charming to the man sitting next to her, a junior member of the government. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Coffin wanted to say to her, ‘this chap is not in the Cabinet, he has no real power. He is five years or so short of being worth your attention.’ He was never sure how much his sister understood the realities of the English political system, where power rested, and who it was worth bothering with.

  Letty saw her brother watching her and gave him a slight wink. ‘Leave me alone,’ she was saying. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  As Coffin ate his salmon mousse he remembered the story that had come to him as a part of official police information: that this young man was sleeping with the wife of an exceedingly eminent cabinet minister, and might, therefore, have his own manner of manipulating events. Accordingly, Coffin looked at his sister with respect. She had a way of sniffing out those who might be useful to her. No yellow diamonds tonight, but what looked like some good pearls.

  He turned to his neighbour, Dr Marcia Glidding, whose name he had read on the programme before him. ‘I see you are the first speaker.’

  ‘Yes, I introduce you.’

  She was secretary of the Society, he had noted. For a few moments they exchanged the sociabilities of dinner companions engaged in summing each other up. Marcia Gliddings was a pretty, bright-eyed woman who looked younger than her distinguished career suggested she could be.

  ‘And of course, I know about your career.’ His secretary had provided him with a brief synopsis, and Archie Young had obligingly added his contribution. ‘You got the Peabody Medal this year. Congratulations.’

  ‘Yes, I was very happy about that. But I had a bit of luck.’

  ‘You need luck,’ agreed Coffin seriously, while knowing that luck alone would not do it.

  The arrival of the crown of lamb with its attendant crest of bones was an unpleasant reminder of what had turned up in the crypt beneath where he lived.

  He accepted his helping. Thank goodness it was not stewed lamb. He had heard the chef at Armourers’ prided himself on his Lancashire Hotpot. At this moment he did not desire to see a stewed bone.

  Letty leaned across the table. ‘Aren’t I lucky, John, sitting next to this lovely man? He has just promised to find me a sponsor for a play festival which Stella and Lily and I are going to launch. He’s a great admirer of Lily Goldstone. And don’t you think the lamb is just the tiniest bit tough?’

  ‘No,’ said John Coffin, chewing resolutely. ‘It’s the new way of cooking meat. You’re supposed to like real meat.’

  Letty laughed. Her pearls dangled forward, just missing the redcurrant jelly and skimming over the onions in white sauce.

  ‘You are a sourpuss, John. Wait till you read Mother’s diary. You’re in for something.’

  He would like to have said something sharp and effective then, but his neighbour turned to him. ‘There’s something I want to say, but it’s by way of being business, so perhaps you would rather I left it?’

  ‘Until after my speech.’

  ‘They’ll offer you some brandy then. I shall take that as a signal.’ She smiled.

  I like this girl, Coffin thought. And she couldn’t be quite as young as she looked. He had always been attracted to bright, professional women. At that moment, Stella’s stock took a sharp downward turn.

  All through the rest of the meal and the speeches, including his own (which he delivered at a fair speed, then sat down with relief), he was wondering what Dr Glidding had to say.

  She did not leave him long waiting, as the brandy came round and more coffee was offered, she turned from her other neighbour, a man recognized as a famous banker, and smiled again.

  Coffin’s neighbour on the other side was a fat and cheerful female writer on crime, from whom it took longer to disentangle himself, she had a fund of amusing anecdotes, one of which seemed to lead without pause into another. As she paused at the finale of a story about her pet tortoise which had gone missing, he turned swiftly to Marcia Glidding.

  ‘Quick, before we get into the story about the squirrel who comes in through her cat flap together with a hedgehog.’

  ‘Do you think she knows what terrible fleas they both have?’

  ‘I’ll tell her later,’ said Coffin, giving his arm a scratch. ‘What is it you were going to tell me?’

  Dr Glidding took a spoonful of brown sugar and stirred it into her coffee before speaking. Coffin could hear a jolly voice beginning on a story about a dead cat in a parcel on his other side; he waited.

  ‘Forensic scraps are the stuff of my work,’ she began. ‘Little bits of odds and ends. Sometimes I get results that help the investigating team, sometimes not. But I think they are always glad they consulted me and my colleagues. I hope so. Anyway, when I told Archie Young about the material fibres probably coming from a uniform, he seemed pleased.’

  ‘It’s going to be useful.’

  ‘I always include the tiniest detail, might sometimes be a bit speculative but I feel it all helps. I hadn’t done my full report when I spoke to Archie.’

  ‘He’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘His wife is. We were at college together … I did some more work after talking to Archie, I had found traces of red flocklike material, mere specks, on the uniform fabric. I didn’t mention those to Archie. Now I think they might be important.’

  Could be, Coffin thought. Never can tell.

  ‘So I ran a check on the materials sent to me from the other bodies found in the crypt. On two others, the woman identified as March and the girl, Rosie Ascot, I found similar specks. It’s all in my report now, of course, as much as I could truthfully say.’

  ‘Any idea of the origins of these bits?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I hadn’t then. But I carried it in my mind. Hoping ideas would come. But they were a flock of some sort, part cotton, part wool. And red, a deep red. Or had been once. There was staining from the surrounding earth and loss of colour, of course, but a residual colour remained.’

  She gave her coffee another fierce stir so that the contents swung to and fro.

  ‘And then I came here tonight, and saw that wallpaper.’ She nodded to the elaborate pap
er. ‘That’s flock, on the paper. The bodies may have been in contact with a red flock paper.’

  ‘You mean they were wrapped in wallpaper.’

  ‘Covered, perhaps just covered. Or the killer could have been in contact with it and transferred bits to the victims. It happens.’

  It was a truth universally accepted that the murderer always left something of himself behind on the scene to the crime while taking something of the victim’s away with him. The trick was to match the bits.

  ‘If you could identify the material, then you might have a lead to the killer.’

  Some years separated the deaths of the two women. Could a roll of wallpaper survive so long?

  ‘The trouble is,’ he said, ‘in cases of this sort, if we knew where to look for the wallpaper, we would probably know who we were looking for.’ But she was right, every little scrap of information counted. ‘Any ideas?’ he ended hopefully.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Tell you if I had.’

  ‘We’ve got a lot of choice.’ A whole wide metropolis of choice.

  ‘There’s always someone you ought to look at closer,’ she said.

  The banker leaned forward and said something about the Sir John Soane Museum and the medical exhibits there, did she know it? Clearly he believed it was his turn again now. On his other side, Coffin felt a hand on his arm and heard a murmur start up about the white donkey at the bottom of her garden.

  Across the table, Letty gave him one of her sardonic stares.

  He wouldn’t tell Dr Glidding about the cooked bones, it didn’t seem quite the conversation for the dinner table. When he got home, he telephoned Archie Young. It was late, but he chanced it. It was his turn to add new information in return for the news about the bones.

  ‘You’ve heard about the bits of red material found on the clothes of two victims?’

  ‘Got the report before me.’

  Did he read them in bed, Coffin wondered, it was approaching midnight.

  ‘Got any ideas on where they could have been wrapped in a red flock wallpaper shroud?’

  ‘Is that Marcia’s idea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought she’d have a word with you but I didn’t know she’d come up with that.’ His voice was polite, because of whom he was talking to. However nice the Old Man was, you never forgot his position, not if you valued your promotion, but he sounded mildly put out: he ought to have been told first.

  ‘She’d only just thought of it.’

  ‘Red flock sounds a bit old-fashioned. I think my grandma might have gone for it. I don’t know who has a taste for it now. I might try Amelia Marr, I suppose. After all, there is a connection between her and March.’

  ‘Good idea, do that in the morning.’

  There were other things that Inspector Archie Young had to do next morning, but he would, of course, do that which the Commander suggested. First clearing it with Superintendent Paul Lane also, because Young was a prudent soul, who covered his position. The Commander might go, politics were involved, but the Superintendent would be around for a long while yet.

  Mrs Marr was cool when Inspector Young arrived. She made no pretence of not knowing who he was. It was her job to know that sort of thing, just as it was his to know about her.

  He had debated how to bring up the subject of red flock wallpaper and had eventually got a sample of something like it from a local Do-It-Yourself Shop. The manager of the shop told him that genuine flocked paper was too expensive for him to market and was out of fashion anyway, but Young had found something he thought would do. It was red and white wallpaper, even if not striped.

  ‘No, never used anything like that,’ said Mrs Marr, barely giving it a glance. ‘Terrible stuff. Wouldn’t be seen dead with it.’

  The wallpaper was a red and white floral pattern, he had to admit it was pretty awful.

  ‘The paper in question may have been a red and white stripe,’ said Young hopefully. He did not quite believe in the paper himself, but if the Old Man said to try, then try he must. ‘Ever seen anything like it?’

  ‘Not in this house. I never go for red. You can see that.’ She waved a hand.

  Young had to admit that lemon and silver and gold were the other end of the spectrum. ‘Yeah,’ he said with surprise. ‘It looks good. Sophisticated.’

  Mrs Marr laughed. She recognized a backhanded compliment when she heard one.

  ‘How long have you been in this house?’

  ‘Twenty years. And my aunt before me. I’m not stripping the walls for you.’

  He had put his hand on the paper. ‘Just looking.’

  ‘There are other people in the world.’

  ‘What did she say?’ asked John Coffin. He had requested to be told as soon as possible. In fact, Young had found this meant the evening since the Commander had been inaccessible all day, walled up inside a series of meetings. He was at home just before Archie Young got through.

  ‘She said to try someone else.’

  ‘Yes.’ Coffin was thoughtful. ‘There is another house, isn’t there?’ And Rosie Ascot was the connection.

  *

  Hillington Crescent was quiet in the evening sun. No. 3 was quietest of all. The garden shed where Rosie Ascot had been found was boarded up. The house had padlocks on both back and front doors. No uniformed constable stood at the gate, but a watchful eye was kept from a distance. Patrol cars had been routed to pass at intervals.

  The garden itself had been thoroughly dug over and then been left. The weeds were already sprouting, encouraged by the warm, humid summer. The cat from next door had undisputed possession of it now, and paced it at intervals, guarding his territory. Tiddles was not the Tilers’ cat and never had been. His nominal home was next door, which he visited but seldom, preferring his freedom. Tucked away in his memory was a picture of men digging, he would be on the lookout for them, but they represented no threat to his dominion. Not like that other one, who had shouted and thrown stones at a cat investigating the shed as was his right and catly duty. Nor the woman who had screamed.

  Other things he had seen from a windowsill, taken in with a calm yellow gaze on which human violence did not register.

  From the top of the shed, he watched the two policemen walk down the path to the front door and let themselves in. The inside of the house was theirs, let them do what they liked with it. He closed his eyes.

  ‘There’s that cat again,’ said Archie Young. ‘Wonder if he’s homeless?’ He had a kind heart. ‘Perhaps I should get the RSPCA in.’

  ‘Didn’t look lost to me.’ John Coffin was marching up the stairs, followed by DI Young who realized what a privileged position he was in, and what a splendid thing it was to have a patron (if that was what the Commander was being) but it presented problems. Chief Superintendent Lane, not to mention the rest of the investigating squad, might not take kindly to this expedition.

  He was throwing open the doors to the rooms and staring inside. DI Young followed. Should he say that all the rooms had been thoroughly gone over? He decided not to.

  Coffin paid little attention to the room with the big bed and dressing-table in it. The wallpaper was pale blue with small birds flying across it. By the look of it, some years had passed since it was put up. The curtains were pale blue with no birds, so no red flock there.

  He passed on to the empty room, which was still empty but dustier than ever. A windowpane was broken through which dried leaves and dead flies had deposited themselves on the windowsill. The paper on the wall had long since faded from what might have been pink to a pale biscuit.

  He opened the cupboards in both rooms, closing them again without comment. You couldn’t tell what colour paper had decorated them since time and dirt had coloured them all grey.

  ‘No red wallpaper.’

  ‘Did you think there would be?’ asked Lane. But he was too sensible to say it aloud.

  Coffin moved on to the lumber room. ‘This is more hopeful. Come on, give me a hand.’
>
  The drawers of an old chest were dragged open, but apart from a pair of old socks and a dead blackbeetle or two, they were empty. Several old suitcases were full of ancient shoes, none matching. Archie Young closed a case, sneezing from the dust.

  ‘People don’t keep odd shoes, do they?’

  ‘This lot did.’ Coffin opened another case. ‘Perhaps he was a shoe fetishist.’ He was beginning to think that nothing would surprise him about the late Peter Tiler. ‘This looks more hopeful.’ The suitcase contained several old tins of paint, but nothing else. No rolls of wallpaper. ‘Nothing there.’ He stood back, brushing his hands on his trousers. ‘Funny room, this. Smells, doesn’t it?’

  It did, but no worse than the rest of the house, Young considered. He didn’t like the place, never had and never would now. Too much death around.

  ‘I went over this place myself, sir, and I can’t say I remember rolls of wallpaper anywhere.’

  Various police searchers had examined the house at different times, all thoroughly according to their fashion. It still bore traces of their activity.

  ‘Wild goose chase, eh? Well, you may be right.’

  One of those intuitive ideas of his, thought Coffin, that were sometimes right and sometimes quite wrong. Lately, they seemed to have been more unhelpful than usual. Perhaps age had something to do with it. A declining faculty?

  They stood in the kitchen. The evening sunlight came through the window over the sink. In the distance they could see the cat on the shed roof and he could see them.

  The door to the lavatory where Mrs Tiler had been found hanging stood open.

  Coffin went over and stood staring at the white painted wall. ‘You know we haven’t paid enough attention to Mrs Tiler. Her case is different.’

  ‘She was strangled, sir. They were all strangled.’

  ‘But not hung up as if to simulate suicide. And we don’t know about Tiler himself,’ Coffin reminded him. ‘He may not have been strangled.’ The pathologists were working on it, but death had probably come from a blow to the head.

  ‘We are taking all that into account,’ said Young stiffly.

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m not blaming you.’ Coffin turned back into the room. ‘I haven’t thought it through myself. We need to know more about Mrs Tiler.’