Coffin's Game

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘The second day I was watching, I saw Miss Pinero going into the house. Pip Eton had his arm round her, he might have been pushing her. Two days after that, I saw her leaving, on her own, she was walking fast. Running.’

  ‘She herself has told me,’ said Coffin.

  ‘I confirm it, then.’

  Score to you, Coffin thought, but did not like him any the better for it. ‘You can confirm the days, can you?’

  ‘If I’m not bullied. I get confused if I am bullied.’

  ‘The Chief Commander will ignore that,’ said Lodge quickly.

  ‘All right, I didn’t say it. Wipe it out, due to my absence of mind, when I forget where I am. But there is something else which might be of interest to you about the house.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I went back to watch. There was another person there.’

  ‘A woman?’ Coffin asked quickly, remembering what Stella had said about hearing a woman’s voice beyond the door.

  ‘A woman, or a man? No, I can’t answer. I only got a glimpse through the window, but it looked like a man.’

  Coffin held out his beaker. ‘Any more coffee, there? Thank you, and no, I won’t have a sandwich.’ There was a tension in his stomach that was not hunger.

  He drained the coffee, lukewarm now, and put the mug on the table.

  ‘I don’t think Pip Eton was killed here. I can see no real evidence. The only blood was on the clothes, which could have been brought in.’

  ‘The carpet in the kitchen –’ began Phoebe.

  ‘It was washed. If traces of blood appear, fine, let me know, but otherwise, I think we have to look for another killing field.’

  He walked to the door. ‘Keep me in touch, Inspector.

  Lodge nodded assent, and got up to follow him out.

  ‘Peter,’ Coffin made his voice gentle, ‘next time you have to leave anywhere in a hurry, take your underclothes with you.’

  Phoebe closed the door quietly but firmly behind them. She and Coffin looked at one another.

  ‘He’s a clever fellow,’ said Coffin thoughtfully. ‘I could almost fancy him for the killing myself, but he’s too sharp for that.’ Oxford-trained, he thought, probably got a degree in philosophy. Or even theology, they were the really formidable outfit, weren’t they? The real vultures, ready to pick the flesh off the bones.

  ‘Shows you how they work, doesn’t it?’ said Phoebe. ‘Turds.’

  ‘Watch it, Phoebe.’ She was letting her anger show.

  ‘Oh, I get like that sometimes.’

  She watched the Chief Commander go out to his car. The lovely Pete has made an enemy there, she thought. Good, and I’m another one.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, going up to the car. ‘We found traces of a sedative in a bottle of wine, more in a teacup … Miss Pinero was probably doped. She may very well have lost track of time. In case you wondered.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He was grateful, he had wondered and never asked how it was that Stella had been imprisoned for several days without getting out. A sedative, she had mentioned that herself and I was sceptical even if I did not show it.

  I know better now.

  ‘Thanks, Phoebe,’ he said again.

  Chapter 14

  Once in the car, driving out of Fish Alley, he realized that Augustus had been with him, perhaps had been so all the time. No, that was not likely, Augustus was a dog who took his duties seriously, who would probably have snapped at Peter and snarled at Inspector Lodge.

  No, not at Lodge, there was a man more deserving of sympathy than a snarl.

  ‘Besides,’ Coffin addressed Augustus, ‘I snapped for both of us, didn’t I?’

  Off to the office, to tell Paul Masters that the Chief Commander was still around, and then off to find Stella.

  The best place to look for Stella seemed to be the theatre.

  Stella had decided that the theatre was a democracy in which every player, even those whose employment was temporary, should have a voice. Her own was loudest, of course, but the others were allowed a shout or two.

  The local university supported the theatre with funds, so that some intellectual input was demanded. Out of every five plays, one might be an Ibsen or a lesser Albee even if the audiences were thin. She could rely on good reviews for these plays, however, in the university newspaper and in The Stage, even if their own dear Spinnergate Herald was hostile.

  The democracy of the theatre was gathering in the bar to develop ideas for new productions. Stella was expected to look in later. She was admired for her skill as an actress and her ability to keep the whole show going. Letty Bingham was admired for her financial acumen, recognized to be vital, yet feared for the axe she could wield. But Letty, swift as ever, had sped away on a Concorde bound for New York. Checking her investments, one school of thought said, buying new clothes said another. No one disputed that while Stella was a lovely woman whose looks could survive slopping around in jeans and trainers, Letty had the best clothes, the sort you did not see and certainly could not buy in the Second City. This naturally did not increase her popularity.

  Present that evening were Jane Gillam, Fanny Burt and Irene Bow. They had all three been in Noises Off, while Jane and Fanny had survived An Ideal Husband. They had started off with some scorn for the Wilde play but ended with an appreciation of Wilde’s skill as well as his splendid jokes. As they worked they saw, contrary to what they had first thought, that most of his best jokes were at the expense of men. They had all enjoyed the Frayn, but agreed it used up a lot of energy because you were always on the move.

  Jane went to the bar, returning with white Italian wine for them all. ‘I would like to do a couple of the new, small Pinters, two together. One before the interval and one after.’

  ‘I don’t know. Thanks for the wine.’ Fanny took a sip and considered. ‘Would we get an audience round here?’

  ‘From the university,’ said Irene Bow. ‘Not everyone round here wants light comedy.’

  ‘Most of them do,’ said Fanny. Or that’s what Stella will say.’

  ‘What about a Sam Shepherd? He’s very strong.’ Irene admired the American.

  ‘Not for us,’ said Fanny. ‘Can’t see it filling the seats, and you know what Letty can be like.’

  Irene sipped her wine. She was happy to be in work, when so many of her friends were not. ‘Just a suggestion.’

  ‘You could put it up,’ said Jane. ‘Stella doesn’t knock everything down.’

  ‘Especially if there’s a good part for her.’ Fanny was a cynic.

  ‘Oh well, you can’t blame her, she invented this theatre.’

  ‘So she could go on acting till she dropped.’

  They were, all three, very young.

  ‘She has turned down some good parts to stay here with us,’ said Irene in support of Stella. ‘Films, too.’

  For a moment they sat in contemplation of a future in which they, too, might turn down a film offer. Except I never would, said Fanny inside her head. Not if the money was good.

  ‘Do we actually count? I know it’s a democracy and we have a voice,’ said Fanny, ‘but do they listen? Does Stella?’

  Michael Guardian and Tom Jenks appeared through the door. ‘I know who does listen, girls. We do, especially if you’re buying us a drink.’

  ‘Buy your own,’ said Fanny. ‘You earn as much as we do.’

  ‘It is true’, agreed Tom, ‘that the money is equally meagre for us all, taking no account of the extra weight we men bring.’

  ‘Which is considerable, in your case.’

  ‘True.’ Tom was complacent. He was a large young man, not handsome but pleasant to look at. He intended to be the sort of character actor, always in work, who ends up with an Oscar for playing himself.

  ‘So what were you talking about?’ Michael had brought some drinks over.

  ‘Plays, productions, casting – what else do we talk about?’ This was Jane, in one of her sharper modes. ‘I wondered how much notice Stella tak
es of what we say.’

  ‘A bit,’ said Michael, who had been with the company longer than anyone else. ‘I have known her do a modest late Pinter. You’re jealous of her. But she did set this place up.’

  ‘I’ve always wondered where the money came from,’ said Tom.

  ‘She had a series on TV and a film or two, and I daresay someone put money in. Anyway, it’s run on a shoestring.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s her shoestring and we all dance to it.’

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ Fanny. ‘You’re jealous.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘Fault admitted.’ He drew his mouth down. He could look baleful when he chose. Or perhaps, Jane thought, when he did not realize that he was giving himself away. He does suck up to Stella, she thought, but what’s underneath eh? ‘I’m jealous,’ he went on, ‘because you women have it easy, compared to men in the profession.’

  Irene said, ‘I’d like to try The Women, it has some wonderful parts … of course, it’s period now, but that would be part of the fun, all thirties clothes.’

  ‘Big cast,’ pointed out Jane, who could see herself in it, possibly as the injured wife who wins out in the end. ‘Some strong parts.’

  ‘All for women,’ said Michael, with emphasis. ‘This isn’t a girls’ club, you know.’

  Tom gave a groan. ‘No, take pity on us and the audience.’

  ‘Most of our audience are women,’ said Jane. ‘Especially at matinees.’

  ‘They like to see a man, you know that, I know it, and you can bet Stella knows it.’

  ‘True,’ said Jane, the realist.

  ‘Talking of which, our esteemed Stella has not been around much lately.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘She’s in today,’ said Irene quietly. ‘She’s looks white, though. Still, she’s working as usual. Alice is doing props with her, the ones that were borrowed from the university. She said she would be along.’

  There was another pause; they had all heard about Maisie.

  ‘She must be upset about Maisie.’ Jane looked sad. It was one of her best expressions, her features suited it, as she well knew. ‘They’ve worked together for such a long time.’

  ‘I can hardly bear to think about it.’ Fanny shook her head.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ Irene admitted. A nervous look suited her also.

  Tom said: ‘I was nervous before, I don’t mind admitting it. My digs got a blast in the Spinnergate bomb. I still haven’t got glass in my window.’

  ‘It’s the third murder,’ said Irene. ‘Stella must feel safe, being married to top brass.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Jane was thoughtful. ‘I think he’s quite alarming himself.’

  ‘Attractive, though.’

  Michael said in a firm voice: ‘I’m as sorry as you are about Maisie, she was a great old girl, part of the theatre, the old theatre. But the murders can’t touch us.’

  They were silent.

  When Stella walked in, Alice by her side, they all started to talk at once.

  ‘We’re talking plays,’ said Tom, blithely.

  ‘Talk away. Now, I have consulted my six-month schedule – you know I try to work to it, although I sometimes fail – ‘ her turn to smile. ‘And I see we voted to do Night Must Fall.’

  So much for our right to choose, thought Tom. His expressive face showed his thoughts which Stella read.

  ‘Of course, none of you except Alice was with me then, but I assure you it was a democratic decision.’

  There was silence.

  ‘Yes, you’re thinking what I’m thinking: not suitable at the moment.’ She looked down at the list she carried in her hand. ‘We had Bill Barton pencilled in for the killer, but, as it happens, he’s involved in a TV series so he probably wouldn’t have been free, although I believe he would have tried to honour his promise. So, no problem there.’

  With a bit of make-up, I could have played the old lady in that play; there was one, wasn’t there? thought Irene. Then she remembered Maisie and decided, maybe not such a good idea.

  Stella went over to the bar to order a bottle of wine for them. She was talking as she went. ‘I thought of Shakespeare, you always feel safe with Shakespeare, the play supports you, but I decided against; any Shakespeare needs more time, even though all of you will have done your stint in him. So I wondered what suggestions you have?’

  Alice carried the wine over to the table, pouring it with a steady hand.

  ‘Ayckbourn?’ This from Fanny.

  ‘Done him a lot here,’ said Tom, who had been studying past productions at St Luke’s. ‘In fact, there’s a school production of one in the Experimental Theatre next month.’

  ‘True,’ admitted Stella, who had already made up her mind though she had no intention of showing her hand yet. ‘But something light yet serious is a good idea.’

  ‘An Inspector Calls?’ Michael had played the inspector once, knew the part to perfection.

  ‘Priestley is a good idea,’ said Stella with conviction. ‘I seem to remember we talked about it.’

  ‘When We Are Married, then?’

  ‘Now, that is bang on,’ said Stella with even more conviction, grateful that she had not had to suggest the title herself. She had had the other play in mind if necessary, some tribute must be paid to democracy. But cheerful, rumbustious comedy was the thing.

  She drank some wine before discussing parts. I really need a strong brandy, she thought. I should have left all this till later. But no, I wanted to get on with things, cling to normality, whatever and wherever that is.

  ‘I think you are marvellous,’ said Irene, ‘when you must be so miserable.’

  Stella did not answer. I am that, and more, said a voice in her head.

  ‘I don’t suppose I’ve taken it all in yet. First the bombs, then the murders.’ I am well acquainted with unnatural death, she reminded herself, being married to a man whose work it is.

  ‘Shall we be questioned about Maisie?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Yes, I expect you will.’

  ‘I wonder what they will ask?’ Jane sounded nervous.

  What petty crime has she got on her conscience? Tom asked himself. Bet she’s got a little stash of Ecstasy or such stowed away somewhere. Destroy it, dear, before they come.

  ‘Oh, they will just poke around,’ said Stella, vaguely.

  ‘Answer up promptly and don’t worry.’ Alice, the child of a policeman, was firm. ‘They aren’t gods, you know, they can’t see through you.’

  Stella looked down at her hands. Sometimes I think my husband can do exactly that. Not because he has some extrasensory power, but because he is sharp, observant and clever.

  ‘Don’t be too cocky,’ said Tom. ‘I had an accident on my motorbike last year and they weren’t nice at all.’

  ‘I expect you were drunk.’ Jane knew her friend Tom.

  ‘Well, only a bit tipsy. All I did was to crack a shop window, but I broke my own nose.’

  ‘Life’s very unfair,’ said Jane.

  Suddenly, Michael said: ‘I think Maisie was worried about something. She used to talk to me a bit – she liked men, liked a gossip with what she called her boys – and she let out to me that she was worried. She knew my father was a solicitor, so I suppose she thought I might be a good source of legal advice if she needed. “I could be in trouble,” she said; she’d made me a cup of tea, she often did that. “Someone I knew years ago, an actor, as a young chap, I think he’s got me into something I’d rather not be in. It could be big trouble.” ‘ Pip Eton, thought Stella at once.

  ‘And he wasn’t the only one. Maisie seemed more worried about what she called “the other one”. I couldn’t make out if she meant man or beast, then she laughed it off. “Take no notice of me.” I didn’t much at the time – she did go on sometimes – but now I wonder. Should I mention it to the police?’

  ‘If they ask,’ said Alice. ‘Otherwise don’t.’

  ‘I think you should,’ said
Stella gently. Suddenly, she felt sick. The picture of Maisie, anxious and worried, melded with the picture of the dead Maisie, covered with blood. She put her hand to her head.

  ‘Are you all right?’ That was Alice. Even when she was being sympathetic she sounded steely.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, but I think I’ll get off home. We’ll have another work talk tomorrow.’

  Stella met Coffin and Augustus in the corridor outside her office.

  She embraced him eagerly. ‘Take me home, I want out of here. Just let me collect my things.’ She gathered up her coat and briefcase.

  Augustus gave a small, excited bark and leapt up towards her.

  ‘Right, boy, right,’ said Coffin, holding him back. ‘She’s coming with us.’

  From the door, Alice said: ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I think she’s all right,’ said Coffin. ‘We’re on the way home.’

  ‘She’s not well, look after her.’ Even a benediction from Alice could sound like a threat.

  ‘I will be in tomorrow,’ said Stella. Augustus was growling softly. ‘Be quiet, boy. Quiet, all of you. I’m all right and I will be back at work tomorrow, Alice. We will go through those property boxes and cupboards.’

  Alice gave a nod.

  Stella and Coffin let themselves in through the door at the bottom of the tower in which they lived. Not a convenient way of living, with rooms on every floor and a winding staircase, but the rooms were large, full of light and had a curious charm. The belfry where the bells had hung was their attic. The bells themselves, damaged in the Blitz, had been repaired in Whitechapel, where they had been made, and now lived in another church, so they had not been silenced.

  ‘Poor old Alice,’ said Stella, over her shoulder as she ran up the stairs. A drink was foremost in her mind, then something simple but delicious to eat. She would probably ring Max’s restaurant to get something sent over. He did a very good chicken dish. ‘She’ll never make her way in the theatre unless she learns how to move. She likes the life, I think, although I am never quite sure of that, but she’s got to handle her appearance better.’

  ‘She is a bit on the plain side, like her dad. He wasn’t bad-looking as a man, but it won’t quite do in a girl.’ Coffin was carrying Augustus, who had decided that the stairs were too much for his short legs.