A Double Coffin. Gwendoline Butler
and that’s what she is going to write about.’
There can’t be much left to say.’ Clara took a deep breath.
‘She’ll find something,’ said Martin with conviction. ‘I think that’s why she moved in with me. She’s going to make a story out of it.’ He looked at his sister’s face. It wouldn’t do him much harm, and the publicity might even help him, but Clara, that was another matter. He knew how hard she had struggled to get where she was, and how even now she was working in a lower position than her age and qualifications merited, but she had started from a low base. ‘I’ll kill her, I really will kill her.’
‘Oh, go to bed,’ said Clara wearily. ‘You can kip down on the sofa. Good night.’ At the door, she turned back. ‘Don’t worry if you hear me go out, it’s just that I am on call. I will take the phone through so it won’t disturb you.’
He thought he did hear her later, the door seemed to open then close quietly, and in the morning she was dressed as if she had been out. ‘Yes, I had a call. One of those emergencies which call me out but not my consultant. I hope I didn’t disturb you.’
Martin had not been disturbed by any noise, but he had had bad nightmares on and off through the night.
Coffin knew nothing of Martin’s disturbed dreams, although later he was to hear of them.
He worked on routine matters all the rest of the day. There was an arson case in an electrical factory that was getting a lot of attention, and a police officer had been shot at, not hit, thank God, but lucky to be alive; the newspapers were giving both cases the big treatment and were not full of praise for the Chief Commander.
Perhaps Phoebe was right, he reflected as he drove home, and he was being conspired against. He knew he had enemies. It seemed a roundabout way of doing it though, and it wouldn’t put a gloss on the name of GOM Lavender. There must be easier methods of bringing down John Coffin.
He could think of at least three. He allowed himself a smile as he parked the car. Someone who had lived his sort of life had left plenty of strings for enemies to pull upon. He had lied at various times, knocked one man unconscious and killed another, all in the cause of duty, of course, but you weren’t supposed to do it. No malice. That is one thing you can say about me, he said to himself, as he opened the door, there is no malice in me. Anger, yes; resentment occasionally; jealousy at odd times; and the other lusts of the flesh as the occasion called out for.
Tiddles met him at the door.
‘She’s out, is she?’ Coffin knew the signs.
The dog came down the staircase more slowly, since his short legs found the risers taxing.
At their silent but earnest request, he went into the kitchen to open tins for both. Both were eating dog food tonight; sometimes they both ate food marketed for cats, but they never seemed to notice the difference.
A savoury smell coming from the oven hinted that someone, probably not Stella, had been preparing an evening meal. He opened the oven door to make an inspection. A large casserole was simmering away.
‘I didn’t know we had one of those,’ he said aloud.
From the door, Stella said: ‘We don’t. One of Max’s assistants from the restaurant comes round to do it, this is chicken and ham.’
‘Smells like it.’
‘It’s a very good new service that Max is thinking of starting up. Kind of luxury meals on wheels. You can choose from three menus and Max says they will change from week to week, according to what is in season.’
‘How long has it been going?’ asked Coffin suspiciously.
‘Just started, we are the first to use it. Max suggested it to me. If it’s a success, he will build it up.’
‘We are an experiment then. He’s trying it out on us.’ Coffin liked Max and appreciated his food, but he also saw that Max aimed his arrows at Stella. Celebrated, fashionable, much-photographed Stella who brought in the smart customers.
‘Well, you know Max, he’s very adventurous.’
Some years ago now, when Coffin had first come to live in St Luke’s and Stella had only just started the theatre in the old church, before they were married, in fact. Max had opened his first eating place. He and his daughters, the Beauty one and the Clever one and the Married one, had run it between them. Since then he had prospered and taken on the catering in the theatre. Max’s restaurant was now a smart place to eat in the Second City, which was not famous for good food.
‘He ought to pay us,’ he protested.
‘This meal is a present,’ said Stella, showing that she too had a business head. She had learnt a lot from Coffin’s half-sister, Letty, who always knew where a bargain was to be negotiated. She was at present in Hong Kong, where she was doing business. Letty was a backer of the theatre, for which Stella was grateful. She was expected back in London soon, which gave Stella another reason for gratitude since the season was not doing too well and she was pressed financially; Letty would see her through, she hoped.
She was fussing round the kitchen, opening cupboard doors and then closing them again. ‘Oh, you’ve fed the animals.’
Coffin said he had.
‘What sort of a day?’ she asked.
‘Oh, this and that. What about you?’
‘Trouble with Twelfth Night. Martin came in with a black eye, nothing much, just a mark under one eye, but someone gave it to him – the love of his life, I suppose – and a bruise right down the side of his face. That wouldn’t matter, make-up could deal with it, but his wits seem to have gone too. The rehearsal was bad, very bad, and mostly due to Malvolio – the part is quite as crucial as Sir Toby, you know, and he buggered the whole thing up … I don’t think I can get away tomorrow. Must stay around and steady their nerves.’
‘You’re not directing though?’
‘No, I brought Archie Tree in for three productions of which this is the first. It’s his nerves I must steady.’
‘Won’t it be a pity not to see the boy in Edinburgh or wherever?’ asked Coffin, thinking of his dinner with Phoebe.
‘St Andrews … no, I’ve seen a tape he sent me, and I saw him at Chichester in a Pinter play. I’ll get him, I think. He’s not a name.’ So she would get him cheap. He would be a name, and she would have got in early, and that was all to the good. ‘You know, I’m beginning to wish you hadn’t got into this weird hunt for a dead woman. There’s something odd about it. I don’t like it.’
‘I feel the same, but I think I have to do it. Not in person – I’ve put Phoebe Astley in charge.’
‘Oh.’
‘She’s good,’ said Coffin defensively.
‘I wish she dressed better, but among all you men it’s probably as well not to.’
‘We’re not that bad.’
‘Yes, you are, a lot of chauvinist pigs.’ Stella had had a role recently in a police series on TV and said she had learnt a lot, not from her fellow performers but from the police expert checking the show.
‘It’s not all like television,’ protested her husband. ‘I’m changing things. Anyway, Phoebe dresses to suit herself.’
Beneath the words they were throwing at each other there was amusement and affection. It was an argument, not even a discussion, they were enjoying each other’s company.
One of your better moments. Coffin decided as he got out a bottle of wine.
They ate the casserole in companionable ease at the kitchen table.
They had finished when the bell rang below.
‘I’m not going to look out of the window,’ said Stella, covering