A Double Coffin. Gwendoline Butler

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      ‘You may remember where you and your mother buried the body all those years ago, but there has been a war and a lot of rebuilding … the spot may have a tower block sitting on it, or a factory.’

      ‘We think not,’ said Bradshaw. ‘It was open ground then, and it still is so.’

      ‘It was the old churchyard, even then unused, hard by St Luke’s Church.’ Dick Lavender smiled again. ‘You will know it.’

      ‘Oh, I do, I do.’ One by one, facts were slotting into place. Not only was he Chief Commander of the police of the Second City, and thus in the first position to investigate a series of murders long ago, even if the investigation came to no resolution, but he also lived in the tower of the old St Luke’s Church. Former St Luke’s Church, he corrected himself. ‘It is a small public park now, over the road.’ The road, he supposed, was relatively new but before his time.

      ‘I have seen your wife act,’ said Dick Lavender. ‘Not recently, of course. I no longer go out. A beautiful lady.’

      ‘I think so …’ Coffin gathered himself together. ‘Sir, as I said before, all this was a long time ago … Why not let it rest?’

      Dick Lavender looked at Bradshaw, and gave a small nod.

      Jack sighed. ‘A young woman, a freelance journalist has been around, asking questions … she may have flushed something up … If so, she will certainly publish.’

      ‘I must be there first,’ said Dick Lavender. ‘I value what reputation I have.’ He read the expression on Coffin’s face accurately. ‘But it is mostly conscience. I have enough in my life to regret. Of this particular crime, I want to be relieved.’

      ‘Your father and your mother are dead … they were the guilty ones, you were young, not to be blamed.’

      ‘I do blame myself,’ said the old man simply. ‘Guilt grows on you with age like a mould. You will find that out for yourself one day. I do not want to die covered in mould.’

      Coffin stood up. ‘I will think about it, sir, and come back to you when I have made up my mind.’

      Dick Lavender bowed his head again, in dignified acceptance. ‘Please let me know.’ He leaned back in his big chair, closing his eyes. ‘Jack, show the Chief Commander out … I thank you for coming.’

      Bradshaw took Coffin to the door, avoiding Janet who was hovering, then took the lift down with him.

      As soon as they were in the lift. Coffin said: ‘Is this all serious?’

      ‘You know it is.’

      Coffin was silent till they came to the ground floor and the lift door opened. He walked out into the air, taking in deep breaths. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’

      He turned to Bradshaw. ‘Is he mad, or senile?’

      ‘No, not mad …’ He gave a slight smile. ‘He always remembers he was PM, but sometimes I have thought he believed he was Mr Gladstone, going out to save fallen women … the story he told you has some relevance there. And once he seemed to act as if he was Pitt the Younger, taking on Napoleon Bonaparte.’

      Coffin digested the comment, half satirically meant and the more interesting for that. ‘This young journalist … she really exists?’

      ‘She does. No one invented her.’

      ‘Then let me have her name and any address you have.’

      Bradshaw nodded. ‘I will send round all I have. There isn’t much. Marjorie Wardy was the name she used when she came round, may be a pseudonym.’

      ‘Let me have what you’ve got. I will let you know what I decide.’

      Jack Bradshaw hesitated. ‘There’s one other thing … it has certainly been on the old man’s mind, may have motivated him to call you in. He has had two letters threatening him …’

      Coffin gave him a quick look.

      ‘He knew I would tell you,’ said Jack Bradshaw. ‘Meant me to. It has made him nervous. He thinks it may be something from his past.’

      Once again. Coffin had this feeling of being caught up in a maze. Every time he felt he was on solid ground, the ground was moved.

      ‘Send me all the information you have, including the letters, and I will say where we go from there.’

2

      Coffin went home to his wife, Stella, whom he found lying across the bed, wearing a red satin trouser suit, and painting her nails in a very delicate shade of pink. He liked her in red, but it made him nervous. It betokened what he thought of as her flighty mood. This was a mood which he loved but feared because you never knew how it would take her.

      ‘My darling,’ he said. ‘How glad I am that I am married to you.’

      Stella sat up. ‘So am I, my dearest. It is very nice for me.’ She sounded slightly surprised. But she was a generous woman who liked to return praise for praise. Even if it was not strictly true, since they had their ups and downs and she could not deny that she sometimes found her husband tiresome. It was part of the function of being a husband, perhaps a necessary one.

      ‘I love you, darling.’ She held out her arms for a kiss.

      They had hitherto conducted their marital conversations rather in what she called the ‘Noel Coward style’. In other words, relaxed, amused and detached. Except when they were quarrelling, when there were no holds barred. Stella enjoyed the quarrels, she said they gave her scope. As a dramatic actress, she needed scope.

      It occurred to her to say: Mind my nail varnish, but this would have been both unkind and bad manners, so she enjoyed the embrace, only turning her eyes for a quick glance as she emerged. All well, no smudging.

      ‘What’s up?’

      ‘Why should anything be up?’

      How to put this tactfully? ‘That was kind of a desperate kiss.’

      ‘You certainly know how to cut a fellow down to size,’ said Coffin, rolling over on his elbows on the bed, but he was more amused than angry. ‘Not desperate, just bewildered.’

      ‘That isn’t like you.’ Stella rescued the bottle of nail varnish, and put it away tidily in a case. It was true, her husband was usually in control of himself and the scene: sometimes angry, sometimes depressed, but always sure he knew where he stood. Or that was how she saw him.

      ‘I have just listened to the most extraordinary tale and I don’t know whether I believe it or not.’ He stood up, and walked to the window. There just in view was the old churchyard. A woman was pushing a pram round it, and there were two dogs behaving the way dogs do. An old man was sitting on a bench, apparently asleep. It was not going to be an easy area to excavate. If he decided to do it.

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