Coffin in the Black Museum. Gwendoline Butler

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      ‘I don’t know, it’s worrying all of us. It’s not us. We all get on beautifully, we like them and we think they like us.’

      The two young people now turned towards each other, and for a moment something glowed between them and as quickly was quenched. Will moved away, Bridie started to chatter brightly, too brightly, to JoJo, who could be heard advocating the soothing powers of camomile tea.

      Stella shook her head. ‘It’s not the way love is supposed to take you. Not at first; later, maybe. They’ve got the symptoms the wrong way round. Misery comes later. I suppose you think I’m being cynical?’

      He shook his head. ‘I was about to be even more cynical and ask if you didn’t think they were making rather a meal of it?’ After all, they were drama students.

      ‘No.’ Stella hesitated and seemed about to say something more. Then JoJo bore down upon her, advocating deep breathing as a cure for shock.

      Someone will kill that woman one day, thought Coffin, and took a sip of his own whisky. Soon someone was going to be asking him (if they knew who he was, which he doubted) for another bottle, dear chap, and then we’ll be off. Only they wouldn’t be off. They’d be here till he turned them out.

      Which he would be doing quite soon for Stella’s sake, she still looked white.

      He stood up, to find several pairs of hands reaching up to drag him down again. ‘Oh, don’t go yet, dear chap, the party’s only just beginning. Stay a while longer.’

      He had known theatricals on and off for over twenty years now, and they always took over one’s life. And he had never found a way of withstanding them.

      JoJo stood up, tall, firm and flat-chested. ‘Sh-sh, you fool. He lives here, he’s the host.’

      ‘Oh shit,’ said Lily Goldstone in a ladylike drawl. ‘I’m sorry.’

      He felt as if he was existing on two levels, up here all was gaiety and life, downstairs a murder investigation was starting. He was host at this party and in command of the Force dealing with the death. A man who had shut the refrigerator door, telephoned the correct desk and waited to introduce himself to the first squad car arriving before going upstairs. Stella met his eyes across the room. She got up from the couch and came across to him.

      ‘I’ll get rid of this lot. It’s my fault they are here, I was going to have a party in my empty flat and I suppose they think this is it.’

      JoJo called across the room: ‘Stella dear, bed for you. Doctor knows best.’ Somehow, she seemed to have control of a bottle of Chianti, this too from ‘the deli round the corner’, no doubt.

      ‘It’s not that they don’t understand,’ said Stella to John Coffin. ‘They do, but it’s their way of shutting out death. They’re a bit high tonight, anyway, because we had the usual lousy rehearsal. Hence my idea of a party. Strengthening morale, you know.’

      ‘I understand.’

      ‘You don’t really. You can’t, unless you know what it’s like to be in the profession. It’s like being in an army always under attack. You hang together for support.’

      ‘Police work is not unlike that.’ He sounded rueful.

      The front-door bell tolled its mournful peal. In period for the church it might be, but he was not going to be able to live with it.

      No need to open his door, because not one of his guests belonged to a breed that closed doors behind them.

      Detective-Inspector Young, his Sergeant and a uniformed officer came in together. When calling on such as John Coffin, you came in strength; protocol and good sense demanded it. He was said to be an easy man to work with but no one ventured on disrespect.

      ‘We came straight up, sir, seeing the door was open.’

      All three of them were observing with quiet interest the party taking place.

      ‘Quite right, Inspector.’

      ‘We’ve done for now. Gone over the place, removed the fridge and the remains. I’m afraid we’ll need the place to ourselves for a few more days.’

      Coffin nodded. ‘Of course. That’s understood.’

      ‘And tomorrow we’d like a statement from Miss Pinero.’ Not to mention one from you too, sir, he added to himself. He contented himself with smiling at Stella, whom he knew by sight, having sat through several of her films and watched her on television. He was not a theatregoer and thus had missed her Juliet and Amanda.

      One by one the party were slowly disappearing down the stairs, murmuring their thanks to their host. They too were mindful of their manners. Also, the police were bad luck.

      JoJo Bell pressed him by the hand and said: ‘Take my advice and practise deep breathing. You need to relax.’

      Lily Goldstone smiled and said nothing: she had learnt to measure her words. Stella was just behind her.

      ‘You off too, Stella? No need to unless you wish. You could stay.’

      ‘No, I’ll go with Charlie, he’s got quite a comfortable spare room, I’ve stayed in it before. He’s everyone’s friend in trouble, is Charlie.’ She gave a thin smile. Charlie had taken her in when her husband threw her out. Or had she thrown herself out? She was never sure. Anyway, there had been a tremendous scene with suitcases on the pavement and furs flung out through a window, and a taxi-driver looking on with interest. That time she had gone back. Still, it counted for good with Charlie.

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