Coffin in the Black Museum. Gwendoline Butler

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      The words were bubbling out, not easy to comprehend, but the urgency was clear.

      He was still talking as Coffin followed him.

      ‘Poor Stella, I mean, there she is, innocently looking into her freezer. She’d asked us all up to her new place for a drink. And did we need one after the disasters we’ve had with the set and everyone drying! So she left the door on the latch and JoJo and I marched in and there she was on the floor. Quite out, poor love, and who shall blame her.’ He paused momentarily for breath. ‘I feel sick myself and I assure you I gave the object the merest glance. Hardly a twinkle. Shut the door, Stella, I said, there’s no need to lie staring at it. She was flat on the floor … I’ve left JoJo with her.’

      Stella was still on the floor, but fully conscious. A tall, bustless, blonde girl was kneeling by her side, one hand firmly on Stella’s chest, the other gripping her wrist. She appeared to be holding her down.

      ‘Stay where you are, Stella, you’re in shock. I advise you not to move till I’ve finished taking your pulse. Charlie, water, please.’

      ‘Water nothing. Get off me, JoJo.’

      ‘Charlie, help, please, she’s struggling.’

      JoJo Bell had had a long-running role in a TV medical soap as Dr Freda Berry, since when she had taken on the honorary role of medical adviser to any company she played with. Her ministrations were greatly feared. JoJo was also Equity rep to the company, usually a job hard to fill, but JoJo, who had an interfering nature, seemed to welcome it.

      Coffin walked straight towards the refrigerator, leaving Stella extricating herself from JoJo’s clutches. I know that woman’s face, he thought, I believe she’s a doctor.

      The freezer door had closed itself. Coffin opened it to view what had upset Stella.

      Inside was a hand, a hand severed at the wrist. A hard, muscular, slightly grubby hand. A left hand.

      Next to the hand was a tuft of greying hair and two teeth.

      Coffin closed the door hastily.

      It looked as though he knew now where the head of Peter Tiler, local man, former caretaker of St Luke’s, had rested.

      Anything involving Stella and her friends was bound to be a performance, and the drama continued in John Coffin’s own towertop sitting-room.

      He had led Stella there to continue her recovery while the rest of the party had trooped up behind them. Somehow, a number of the cast from the Theatre Workshop had got there too and were now sitting around, some on the floor drinking coffee, others sipping red wine. A large pot of coffee and paper mugs had arrived from somewhere … ‘The deli round the corner,’ he heard someone say. ‘Stays open till all hours and will do anything for us. Absolutely stage-struck.’ It was good coffee. Coffin patronized the delicatessen himself, but had never had room service before.

      JoJo Bell, Charlie Driscoll and Lily Goldstone, these he knew, Lily by sight only but she was famous. Only here were others whom he did not know. What was he doing entertaining them?

      He looked about him. There were half a dozen of the cast of the Theatre Workshop troupe arranged in various postures around the room, and someone was coming up the stairs. He opened a window so that they could all breathe.

      ‘What about my room, my flat?’ Stella was saying. She was lying back on his sofa, pillows behind her head, looking pale and lovely. It was a shock, her expression was saying, but I am being brave and fighting my emotions, this poor weak body will endure. ‘I mean, will I be able to move in? Will I want to?’

      ‘I’m afraid the police team will have to spend a few days going over it.’ They were probably there now, judging from the distant but familiar noises he could hear through his open window. ‘No, you can’t use it just yet.’

      ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever want to again!’

      Charlie Driscoll had produced a bottle and some glasses. ‘Have some gin, dear. I always say you can’t go wrong with a gin.’

      ‘Not neat,’ said Stella. ‘Put something in it.’ But she reached out a hand and Charlie deposited the glass in it.

      Coffin thought she was giving the performance of her life, but he wasn’t sure what play it was. Not quite Shaw. Coward, could it be? Yes, more than a touch of Judith Bliss. With a slight but unconscious hint of Mrs Crummles?

      ‘She’s all shook up with what she saw,’ said Charlie sympathetically.

      ‘He might have been killed there!’

      ‘He might have,’ agreed Coffin. But he thought probably not. No sign of blood in the apartment.

      ‘But I’ve given up my other place.’ It was a wail of despair.

      He had a bed he could give her. He thought about it. He knew from his past that he and Stella together made a combustible combination and he was a distinguished policeman now, hoping for his K. Raffish behaviour ought to be put aside. But there was something inside him that always called to people like Stella and always would.

      Charlie put his arm round Stella’s shoulders. ‘I’ve got a spare room, love. You can stay there.’

      Coffin subsided. Probably just as well.

      ‘Oh, thank you, Charlie. Are you sure? Just for a couple of nights. Then I’ll go back. I’ve decided: I’m not going to be pushed out.’

      ‘That’s my brave girl.’

      ‘But I’ll need a new refrigerator.’

      Now Coffin could hear footsteps, voices and a car door opening. Strange how the noises carried on the night air. He could guess what the sounds meant. Only one query: the car would have been an ambulance and the footsteps more ponderous if what they had been carrying had been heavier.

      And that was what was worrying him. Why wasn’t it heavier?

      A hand could be popped inside a plastic bag and placed in a box. One man could transport a hand. So that wasn’t much of a problem.

      But where was the rest of the body?

      Some helpful soul had found his whisky bottle and was handing round nips. Strangely, all his unsought-for guests had come provided with something to drink from, mugs, glasses or plastic cups.

      He was in the middle of a party, made up of the Theatre Workshop team and sundry hangers-on. He knew few of the faces: Ellie Foster, a middle-aged but still handsome character actress, whom he had seen on television; Roger Clifford, a face he did not know, but young and good-looking; Deirdre Dreamer, tiny but wild-looking, what a colour to have your hair, was it orange or yellow? That youthful couple sitting next to each other, but not looking at each other, were Bridie and Will. They didn’t look happy.

      They were very, very young, and seemed to him to lack something of the brio of the rest of his guests. Not so sure of themselves, not able to put themselves across with the same conviction.

      Stella observed him and went some way to explaining.

      ‘They’re our locals.’ Seeing СКАЧАТЬ