A Coffin for Charley. Gwendoline Butler

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      He was beginning to enjoy what he called ‘Stella’s little notes’. Part of his new life, he always felt in touch. They had promised never to be apart for long. When you marry late, then you cannot afford too many absences.

      On his desk that day he had found a card and invitation: Phœbe Astley invites you to celebrate her promotion. An address in Birmingham and a scrawl: Why don’t you come up and see me?

      Phœbe had occupied a niche in his life before Stella came back into it. She was post-Stella and pre-Stella. She had moved away, joined another force and risen sharply. Clever girl, Phœbe, but I won’t be coming. I shall be home with my wife.

      Tonight he smelt cooking. So she was home. Here. His spirits rose. Darling Stella.

      And he smelt cigarette smoke: so that meant Letty too. He liked his sister and admired her. She had been around a lot lately. She and Stella were putting together a scheme to help beat the recession in St Luke’s Theatre by opening a small drama school which local youngsters would be encouraged to join. A keep-the-kids-off-the-streets scheme. There had been a lot of idle vandalism lately.

      It would help the neighbourhood and, with local sponsors, would assist the theatre too. It was going to be very professional.

      For so long resistant to economic stress, the theatre was now getting the full effects. And just at a time when Letty’s property investments were in decline. More than decline, rushing precipitately down hill. But he backed Letty, he had noticed that nothing had stopped her buying her new autumn wardrobe in Paris and New York, and he took that as a sign, while being grateful that Stella could fund her clothes at less expensive outlets. Not that he bought her clothes. She bought her own and always had.

      The cat and the dog were home too. He knew that from the two food bowls on the staircase by the living-room. Why they chose to eat there he did not know. Stella said it made them feel free, but he thought it was because he had once tripped over their bowls and had fallen down the stairs. They were waiting for him to do it again.

      Both women turned round to look at him as he came in.

      ‘Talking about me?’

      ‘Thinking about you.’

      ‘Always, I hope.’ He gave Stella a kiss. ‘Hello, Letty.’

      Letty raised an eyebrow, it was an eyebrow trained to rise. ‘Oh, come on, she’s got other things to do.’ Letty’s marriages never prospered because she always had other things to do.

      ‘Rescue me,’ said Coffin’s eyes to Stella. His beautiful sister could terrorize him on occasion. He suspected she was like their eccentric, errant, delinquent mother who had abandoned her children one after the other. Letty was wearing black silk jeans with a leopard print silk blazer in which she looked sinewy and alarming. ‘Help me out.’

      Stella almost did. ‘Well, not all the time, not when I’m learning my lines or on stage, but underneath, darling, I think about you and I expect I always will.’ When necessary, Stella could deliver lines as if from a Coward play.

      He sniffed the air. ‘What are you cooking?’

      ‘One of my chicken casseroles.’

      He knew better than to criticize Stella’s cooking efforts. ‘Do you think it could be burning?’ His tone was tentative, questioning humbly.

      ‘No, I think it’s meant to smell like that.’

      ‘Ah.’ He certainly hoped so, but it seemed doubtful. Was carbon an ingredient in the best meals? But they could always go round to Max’s Delicatessen and eat there. He had what he called his Bar, just a few chairs and tables, usually full of performers from St Luke’s Theatre grabbing something to eat. The comfort level was low but the food was excellent.

      Coffin had eaten there a lot as a bachelor, as had Stella Pinero, but just lately she had decided it was her duty to be the Perfect Wife. A part for which she was not naturally gifted.

      He knew he would have to live with the idea until she got tired of it, but he had preferred the former, unreconstructed Stella.

      ‘That is, I think so,’ she said. She too could smell something dark and burnt. ‘I wonder if I ought to go and look.’

      ‘Forget it,’ said Letty. ‘Past praying for, I expect.’

      ‘Someone will murder you one day, Letty.’

      ‘One or two have tried,’ admitted Letty. ‘But I was too strong for them.’

      ‘Don’t joke,’ said Stella. Her tone was sharp. She went to the window. Nothing there. Well, even lurkers, Stage Door Johnnies, go home.

      Coffin looked at his wife. ‘What is it? You’re worried.’ He drew her away from the window. ‘Come on, sit down and tell me.’

      Nervously, she said: ‘There’s this man … hanging around. Sometimes he’s outside the theatre. I have seen him near the old church hall where we rehearse. This last week he’s even got as far as the TV studio.’ Stella was filming a new series in which she had a plum part as a female detective. ‘He was further away there because of the security patrol GTV have there, but I know it was him.’

      ‘Is it always the same man? Have you seen his face?’ I’ll kill anyone who touches Stella.

      ‘Only a glimpse, he wears dark spectacles and hat. A wig too, I think, not a good one, something cheap.’ As an actress, Stella knew a wig when she saw one. ‘And yes, I’m sure it’s the same chap, same clothes, same posture.’

      Coffin frowned. ‘Go on talking. Give me all the detail you can. How long has it been going on?’ He wanted to observe Stella. Many successful actresses (and some unsuccessful ones too) had people who stalked them: men and women who were ardent fans and wanted to get to know them. Or to watch them come and go from the theatre. Stella had had her share of those, and she knew how to deal with them. They did not make her nervous.

      Now she was nervous. I’ll kill him.

      Dutifully, Stella went on, providing what meagre details she could. She had first observed the man almost a year ago, but his appearances had been sporadic at first and she had not taken them seriously. Now he was very regular. Of course, he couldn’t get into the St Luke’s complex of buildings easily, but he sited himself under the clump of trees across the road from where he could see her windows. Kitchen and bedroom. Bathroom too for that matter, but she had clouded glass on that so it wouldn’t do him much good.

      ‘He can see your windows too. But it’s not you he’s looking for. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him yourself.’

      ‘Keeps out of my way, I expect.’ But from now on, he would be looking. ‘I wish you had told me before.’

      Stella was silent. ‘I thought I was being foolish to worry. It might have been kind of flattering …’ Her voice died away. ‘But it’s not. Doesn’t feel right.’

      ‘Why does he frighten you?’

      Stella said slowly: ‘I feel his concentration. It’s obsessive. Not admiration … something СКАЧАТЬ