Coffin’s Game

As they entered this last meeting together, Paul Masters passed on one more message to the Chief Commander. He was sensitive to his chief’s moods and knew at once that he would not be pleased at what he was about to learn.

The message was in a sealed envelope, but nevertheless, through his own channels, Paul knew what was in it.

‘From Chief Superintendent Young, sir. He wanted you to have it soonest.’ You might need a strong drink when you’ve read it, instead of this committee of ways and means.

Coffin went into the room, already full of committee members, took his place at the head of the table, surveyed them bleakly, muttered an acknowledgement, then opened his letter. Why is it, he was saying to himself, that even colleagues you liked and respected (not always the same thing by any means) turn into trouble when they become committee members?

He read the letter quickly. ‘Thought you would wish to know that the dead man has been identified as Peter Corner, who was working undercover for Lodge. He had taken a job as office assistant and manager of the firm of builders repairing the house in Percy Street where he was found. He was identified by his underclothes, which had not been changed when he was dressed up as a woman. He had an invisible coded number, as is the rule, inside his pants.’

Coffin looked up from the letter. He could already tell that the bad news had been saved until last. ‘Lodge has sealed off the room which Corner rented in Pompey Land, Spinnergate. He found some notes there in which Miss Pinero’s name was mentioned.’

Damn, damn and damn, thought Coffin, even as he opened the meeting in a polite, calm voice.

Archie Young had scribbled an additional line or two himself which Paul Masters was not privy to since it had not been typed and thus was out of the chain of communication.

‘Series of photographs of Stella, taken in a bar, in company with an unknown man.’

Damn again, so the dead man had been watching Stella. Of course, she knew a lot of men, met them in the way of business.

Old Killjoy, his other self, who had come along with him and was nesting in the corner of this room, said sceptically: So?

Still, if there was anything bloody to come out, he would rather Archie Young knew than anyone. Not sure about Lodge, though.

He became aware at this point that the committee was waiting for him to speak. He forced his two selves to fuse, and took up the duties of a chairman of a difficult committee which must get down to business.

It was the last committee of the day. He considered telephoning Archie Young, but knew, suddenly, he wanted to be at home. He collected the dog, who had spent the day with the two secretaries who were his devoted slaves, put him in the car with his briefcase and overcoat to make the short journey back to the old church tower which still dominated the Pinero Theatre complex.

He parked the car, dragged out the dog, who wished to stay comfortably where he was, and unlocked the heavy front door to his home. Because of security this was something of a complicated business.

‘Stella?’ He stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up. ‘Stella?’

There was no answer. Instead a kind of deadness as if no one really lived here any more.

Coffin sat on the bottom step, Augustus leaned against him, and they communed with each other on the misery of those left behind.

But life had to go on, as Augustus presently reminded Coffin by letting out a low, hungry growl. It was his asking growl, and said, ‘Food.’

‘All right, boy.’ Coffin got up. ‘Don’t know what I’ve got for you, but if all else fails we will go to eat at Max’s.’ Max had started with a small simple eating place not far from the old St Luke’s church, but skill and hard work from him and his family of pretty daughters had given it great success, to which he added a restaurant and bar in the Stella Pinero theatre.

Max had, however, helped Stella to fill a deep freeze with meat and fish dishes so Augustus and Coffin shared a warmed-up chicken casserole. Then Coffin made coffee while Augustus retired to bed.

In the silence of the living room, Coffin took out the packets of Stella’s letters. He opened first the collection which dated back to their earliest days together. Stella was a good, gossipy letter writer.

Will I find someone here, Stella, who is your dangerous friend? – Friend? I should not use that word.

He read quickly, seeking likely names: here were Ferdy Chase, Sidney Mells, Petra Land. These names came up frequently, not surprising really, he reflected, because in those days Stella had been a member of the Greenwich Repertory Company as had these performers.

One or two names, not to be associated with that group, but of whom Stella had gossipy stories to tell, came in: a man called Alex Barnet … a journalist, Coffin decided, and a woman referred to simply as Sallie, someone with the surname Eton, probably adopted. Actors always invented good names.

The letters were full of theatrical stories and jokes. The story of Marcia Meldrum at the height of her powers, screaming in fury when the bit of moveable scenery (Norman Arden was famous for his moveable scenery) rose up and took her wig with it. All right, she was famous for her thin hair, and her scalp had shone through, but her furious speech had gone down in theatrical history. And the tale of Edith Evans, her youngish lover and the staircase, yes that had a wicked twist to it.

Was this why I kept them? he asked himself. No, it was because when I had them, I hung on to a bit of Stella, and I always had this feeling that she meant more to me than I ever did to her.

Where was I when Stella wrote to me? The letters had various London addresses, so from that he knew they came during the restless period when he was moving around from lodgings to lodgings. All in various parts of South London, he noticed. Not the best part of his life.

Then a long gap when the two did not meet – let’s not go into that now, I am depressed enough – but it had been marriage, death and disaster for him. Stella had swum on the top of the water much better, making a success of her career, a short marriage but bearing a daughter, now a success in her own right, living far away and not much seen but in loving communication with Stella. Stella was better at human relations than he was, he reflected.

Another batch of letters. They were married now, but she still wrote when in New York or Edinburgh or on an Australian tour.

New names, but that was understandable because in the theatre you were friendly with the people in the play with you and then you all moved on.

Josie Evans, Bipper Stoney (what a name to choose, but a well-known singer), Heloise Divan. Marilyn and Henry Calan … yes, he remembered those, nice people.

One or two names hung around with Stella saying, And do you remember? Ferdy Chase, was one. Also Sallie … sex of the latter not clear. Coffin had assumed a woman, but now wondered if Sallie was not a man.

Stella just briefly mentioned names and meetings. Coffin knew he could run a check on these names.

Sylvia Soonest, Arthur Cornelian. Some of the names he remembered and could put a face to. Eton again.

Then he folded all these letters away and turned his mind to the photograph.

He knew he dreaded picking up anything of these latter letters but it had to be admitted that the doctored photograph did not show a very young Stella.

He forced himself to think about the photograph again: you could not see her face except in profile, and the curve of her back.

Fake, fake, fake, he said to himself. Come back home and tell me so, Stella.

The door bell rang, loudly, twice. It was Phoebe on the doorstep with a bottle under her arm.

‘Came to see how you are. Had anything to eat?’

‘I think so.’ He tried to remember. ‘Yes, the dog and I found something in the freezer.’

‘Have a drink then. Not a bad wine, not the best claret in the world, but that would be hard to find round here. And this is, so my worldly friends tell me, drinkable.’ She rolled the word round on her tongue as if she found it a bit of a joke. She looked towards him to see if he found it a joke, too. No, no laugh. ‘We will drink this together and get really sozzled.’ At least you will, if I can manage it.

They sat down together at the kitchen table in front of the big window which looked across the road to the old burying place now secularized into a little park. It was seldom used, too many ghosts for most people. The cats of the neighbourhood found it a good hunting ground.

The bottle of wine was opened and, after the first glass, Phoebe decided her old friend looked better.

‘Now what would you do,’ she said, ‘if this was not Stella but another woman who was missing?’

‘Oh, send people like you to find her.’

‘And how would they know where to look?’ She filled his glass again. They drank in silence for a moment or two.

‘I suppose I’d search for an address book, or a diary. Take a note of bills, anything that might give a hint.’

She just looked at him.