A Double Coffin. Gwendoline Butler

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      ‘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.

      ‘Oh, this fine fellow won’t be stopped. He’s a real beauty. You were right to get him, Stella.’

      Augustus and Martin seemed acquainted, which Coffin found mildly irritating. ‘You know the dog?’

      ‘Oh yes, isn’t he nice? He’s from the Deddington kennels … they have a lot of the old Alderbourne breed in them which makes them special. I knew it was the right place to go to.’

      ‘I’ve always had mongrels before,’ said Coffin, thinking of his last dog and the dog of his troubled boyhood, who had appeared out of a bomb shelter, the only survivor. Coffin had always felt that he and that first dog had a lot in common. But then he had felt the same about the second, only a mongrel, a rangy beast and a good fighter.

      ‘Oh, they’re the best of all,’ said Martin, ‘if you can get a good one, but if not you can’t go wrong with a peke.’

      ‘And so you told Stella?’

      ‘Yes, she took my advice.’ Martin bent down to pat the dog. ‘Come on, Gus, off we go.’

      They bounded down the stairs, sure-footed this time.

      ‘So he chose the dog for you,’ said Coffin, coming back into the room and throwing himself on the sofa. ‘Let’s get out the champagne.’

      ‘Oh, come on.’ A flutter of red silk settled beside him. ‘Don’t be childish, besides, he’s your dog, I bought him for you. He’s Augustus, his mother was called Empress and his father was Pompey, Policeman of Rome.’ And she laughed.

      Coffin laughed in spite of himself. ‘You are making that up.’

      ‘You can look at his pedigree.’

      He stood up. ‘I don’t believe a word of it, but I will get the drinks out. And do you want champagne?’

      ‘No, of course not, he’s far too young to give good champagne to, let him have gin and like it. Or a nice sweet white wine, much more his style.’

      ‘I’d be surprised,’ said Coffin, as he moved away. ‘He has obviously got good taste.’

      He got the reward for his good humour because Stella came up to him and kissed his cheek. ‘That is a lovely compliment, thank you.’

      ‘He’s back, there’s the bell.’

      Dog, Martin and Coffin, with a tray of drinks, came back into the living room together. By this time, Stella was standing by the window staring down across the road to the old churchyard. Last year it had been turned into a small park, and all the dead, long dead they were by then, were disinterred and buried in one big grave in the new cemetery in East Hythe Road, where one great stone was their memorial. The old headstones were placed like a stone fringe in the former churchyard. The years had worn away most of the inscriptions but some could still be read: she remembered a Duckett, several Cruins, and many Earders, all of which names the district still knew. Families seemed to stay in Spinnergate over the generations.

      Surely, she asked herself, when the churchyard was turned into a park, and graves were dug up, they would have found a body if one had been buried there?

      As Coffin came up to her, offering her a glass of wine, she looked towards where Martin was playing with the dog, and murmured: ‘But wouldn’t a body have been found last year when the graves were dug up?’

      ‘I have been wondering about that myself,’ СКАЧАТЬ