A Double Coffin

‘He did well at RADA, didn’t win any prizes, but we all know that prizewinners don’t necessarily have the most brilliant careers.’ Stella herself had never won a prize as a young actress, but her career afterwards had brought her several; she was up for a BAFTA award now. ‘But he has a way of getting straight at the audience that will stand him in good stead.’ She added: ‘Of course, he knows some people remember what took place and will talk about it. He accepts it. He told me that he doesn’t remember much …’

‘Do you believe him?’

‘He was only eight.’

‘You can remember a lot of what happened to you at eight,’ said Coffin. ‘And death … murder … your own father.’

‘But that is just what would block it.’

‘What about the sister?’ The sister had been much older, about sixteen.

‘She is a surgeon in a hospital in East Hythe.’

‘Isn’t it unwise to let a young woman so well acquainted with a knife become a surgeon?’

Stella was angry. ‘That is very unkind. And not like you.’

‘Yes, perhaps it is in bad taste.’

She is a different person from the girl who stabbed her father.’

But Coffin had read the official reports on the murder, had read the pathologist’s notes and seen the photographs of the victim. None of these had been seen by Stella.

Fourteen years earlier a family tragedy had been played out across the river in Chelsea. Henry Arthur Marlowe, a reasonably successful barrister, but a heavy drinker who became violent when drunk, was stabbed to death by his two children: a son, Martin, aged eight and a daughter, Clara, then sixteen. They stabbed him to protect their mother whom her husband treated savagely when drunk. Within a few weeks, the mother killed herself. In spite of everything, she had loved her husband. The girl Clara was in deep shock, inarticulate, not able to talk freely; not willing to, either.

The sitting room in the house in Vernon Gardens was full of blood, there was blood on the stairs, blood in the bathroom and blood in the bedroom where Averil Marlowe lay deeply asleep; she had taken a sedative.

The victim was lying, his body half across the doorway into the hall. He had been stabbed several times. Each wound penetrating deeply. This had been no quick killing.

The girl had let her mother have her sleep out before waking her with a cup of tea to tell what they had done. She herself telephoned the police, confessing to the killing.

When the police got there, the boy was found, asleep with the knife clasped to his chest. Both he and the girl were covered in blood which they had not washed off.

From prints on the knife the boy had certainly held the knife, and there was a bloody thumbprint on his father’s shirt.

But the girl did the main job. Detective Inspector Headerley had said. And he had added a scribbled note to the report that Coffin had seen: ‘And she wasn’t joking, every blow was meant.’

The boy, being so young, was not charged with any crime and could not be charged – he was sent to live with foster parents. The girl was put into a special establishment for disturbed and violent children, where she had a breakdown but responded to treatment, and after she was calm and cooperative, no trouble to anyone. Being highly intelligent, she had no trouble getting the exam levels demanded by the medical school of her choice. Her background was known, but after several interviews she was accepted. She was the best student of her year, but she had one little idiosyncrasy: she never spoke unless spoken to.

Still looking out of the window, Coffin said: ‘Do they still see each other, the brother and sister?’

‘I believe so,’ said Stella. ‘But I am only just beginning to know him, and I have only seen her once.’

‘Did she speak to you?’

‘No, that’s how it goes, I believe.’

‘Hard on her patients.’

‘Martin says she has a professional technique for work. I think they fill in a questionnaire and read it to her, that gets her going.’

Coffin still had his eyes on Martin, then he turned to Stella. ‘I have always had a feeling that we got something wrong about that case.’ He shook his head. ‘And yet I don’t know what.’ He looked out of the window again. ‘He’s getting up.’

‘Rehearsal over,’ said Stella cheerfully.

Coffin watched Martin’s progress; he certainly was handsome, and strode forward with a gentle, elegant air that was attractive. ‘He’s coming this way. I believe he is going to call on you.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Stella. ‘I asked him over for a drink.’

‘Stella,’ said Coffin warningly.

‘No, of course not.’ She sat up very straight and managed to look indignant. ‘Nothing like that. Why, he’s a baby.’ Then she said sweetly: ‘You’ll get a stiff neck if you look out of the window at that angle, and you know policemen are very prone to stiff necks … it’s an occupational disease.’

It was very hard to get the better of Stella, reflected Coffin as he went down the long staircase to let Martin in and take him to the sitting room, which, like the bedroom, overlooked the churchyard. It would be flooded with sunlight, and Stella had recently redecorated it in soft yellow. He was still laughing when he got to the door.

Martin stood outside on the low step, running a hand up and down the soft silk sleeve of his jacket. He looked expectant but smiled tentatively. ‘Stella asked me in for a drink before dinner.’

‘I expect she will ask you to dinner too. Come on in.’ Coffin held the door.

‘Oh, I never think of her as cooking.’

‘Oh, she won’t cook it.’

Martin looked at Coffin with surprise and query.

‘Not me either,’ said Coffin. ‘I expect we will go to Max’s or get him to send something over.’

The young man tripped on the stairs and apologized. ‘S-sorry.’ He had a little stammer.

‘This is a difficult staircase. Copied from a Norman trip stair in castles, I always say,’ joked Coffin. He put out a hand to steady the lad.

‘S-sorry … I’m not usually so clumsy.’ Martin had this slight but not unpleasing stammer. ‘I’m always nervous with a policeman.’ He looked at Coffin. ‘I’ve got a bit of a past, as you know.’

Coffin nodded silently.

‘I always tell people if they don’t know, just to get it out of the way.’

‘You had no need to tell me.’

‘I expect you knew anyway. You probably know more than I do. The thing is, I’ve forgotten. Silly, isn’t it?’

‘No, not silly at all. It’s probably a sensible way of dealing with it.’

Martin looked at Coffin as if he didn’t know exactly how to take this. Then the sitting room door was opened smartly and Augustus burst forth with a little bark. Stella followed, red satin catching the light. ‘He says he needs a run,’ she said, holding out her hand to Martin. ‘Come in, Martin.’

Martin bent down to pat the dog. ‘Good boy, nice fellow.’ He looked up. ‘I’ll take him, Stella. Just across the road to the park.’

‘I don’t know if dogs are allowed there,’ said Stella doubtfully.