Читать книгу A Double Coffin - Gwendoline Butler - Страница 6

John Coffin, Chief Commander of the Second City of London, sat in the sunlight at the desk in his office and allowed himself to feel surprise as the message came through. ‘A Mr Bradshaw wants to see me? And urgently?’

He had been listening to Mozart, The Marriage of Figaro, and reading a travel brochure, while at his feet lay the new family dog, a white peke called Augustus. His old dog had succumbed to great years and an eventful life, both of which had done his heart in. The record player in the office and the presence there of Augustus were the work of his wife who had decreed that there must be a show of more civilization in the workplace. And what could be more civilized than Mozart (a dose to be taken once a day at least) and a Pekingese of impeccable breeding if of uncertain temper.

He had been content on this sunny October day. Content was now shattered.

‘Richard Lavender wants to see me? Dick Lavender?’

His visitor nodded; he was a tall, thin man with crest of crisp hair just going grey. His eyes were an odd mixture between green and blue, attractive, Coffin thought.

‘He does. Soon, if you please. Perhaps a first visit this morning?’

John Albert Bradshaw had come with an introduction from the Home Secretary and had laid his card on the table as soon as he arrived. Dr J. A. Bradshaw. Not a medical doctor, he had said at once – political science, Edinburgh. Coffin had the notion that this information was proffered to establish status. I am an important person in my own right, Dr Bradshaw was saying.

Coffin was interested, intrigued even, at what amounted to a royal command, from a great old man, but he played for time.

‘I have a lot on hand at the moment, and I was thinking of going away on holiday.’ Coffin did not take many holidays, too few, his wife Stella said, and they were going to have these few days on the Italian lakes. Or were they? Would he get away?

‘You’ll get away, he’s thoughtful about that sort of thing. He goes away himself sometimes, he has a cottage in Fife.’

The Thane of Fife had a wife, but where is she now? recited Coffin to himself. Why did I think of that? And why this sudden quick wince of foreboding? And why do I think of his wife? Damn Macbeth. Shakespeare and Macbeth get everywhere. Aloud he said: ‘I didn’t know he was still alive.’

That got a reprimand. ‘Indeed you did.’

‘Yes, yes …’ He did, of course, it was his business to know if the distinguished and important inhabitants living in his Second City of London were alive or dead. He was responsible for their safety.

Part of the job. He had taken on the task of policing the Second City of London some years ago now and had made a success of it. He had melded together the lively and criminous districts of Swinehouse, East Hythe and Spinnergate, with violent histories that went back before William the Norman, and helped them to live, not only with each other but with the new, up-and-coming areas like Evelyn Fields and Tower Hills. He had been a success, been acknowledged as a success, had a happy marriage with a well-known actress and had come through the threat of a serious illness. But nature had nudged him on the shoulder and said, in that sly, familiar way it had: OK, so you survived, but you may not come through next time.

It was a rough old world out there, the denizens of which had in their times troubled the Romans, the Normans and all rulers from the Plantagenets to the House of Hanover.

‘You are quite right, I did know … but I never expected to meet him. And he wants to see me?’ This was a surprise. He had made some good friends in his years as Chief Commander, and collected a few enemies. Which was the old man? They had never met, but Coffin knew you can make enemies without meeting them.

‘Most anxious.’

He heard himself ask: ‘Has he got a wife?’

‘Widowed. Married twice, widowed twice.’

Coffin stood up and went to the window. ‘I did see him once, I was only a kid, and he came through Greenwich … Election night, it was. The last big one he fought. Was he PM? I was too young to know. He looked like a film star.’

His visitor nodded. ‘Remember it myself.’

‘So what is it about?’

His visitor rose. ‘He will tell you himself. Shall we go?’

Coffin stood up, his dog stood up too. ‘Can he come?’ He looked doubtfully at Augustus. ‘He’s no trouble, well behaved.’ This was not true, but he had agreed with his wife Stella to offer this lie.

His visitor had a car waiting, he held the door open for Coffin and Augustus to get in. The car was an antique, a Rolls built in a style not used for many decades. Upright and sturdy with huge wheels and great windows, Coffin felt as if he was entering a hearse. Inside, the seats were covered in dark-grey brocade with a small silver flower holder by each seat. There were no flowers. On the air was a very faint smell of lavender and dust.

Coffin sat down, removed Augustus from the seat to which he had leapt, and stared at the glass barrier that separated him from his companion who was doing the driving. The car, old though it was, started without fuss and glided forward with an ease which was a testimony to the engineering which had produced it.

As a passenger. Coffin found you had to be prepared for the rolling motion which came with the steady regal progress through the streets. It was a bit like being on board a great liner; you could be travel sick. He also had to bite back a strong impulse to wave at the passers-by as he was driven along. Against his will, he found himself bending forward from the waist. Damn it, he was bowing.

He felt archaic, he was living in the past. Was the old man living in the past? Well, I wondered if he was dead. Coffin reminded himself, so perhaps he is.

But he had been practical and shrewd enough in his day, or so the political memoirs said. Feared too, a magnificent, mesmeric figure. And a great drinker. Other pleasures as well, if all that was told was true.

Now he was a memory, but alive. Alive, and still enough of a power in the land to call in the likes of John Coffin when he needed help.

The car carried him through one of the more pleasant districts of his Second City to the riverside, where a modest block of flats overlooked the Thames. He had been here only once before, so the view was fresh to him. He could see across the water to an area of trees through which a large building just showed its roof. He did not recognize this either, but he decided it was a public park with a municipal building inside it, perhaps a museum or a picture gallery or one of the new universities. It did not look industrial, although it was true that many commercial enterprises were moving out of central London and establishing themselves in something as near a great country estate as they could achieve.

The car stopped and he stepped out into the chill, sunlight air. He nodded across the river. ‘Do you know what that building is?’

‘The Central Bank of Arabia,’ said his companion briefly. ‘Lovely building. Empty though, of course, since the bank went broke.’

Sign of the times, Coffin thought, banks created wonderful buildings for themselves, then could not pay their bills and went out of business.

‘It was built as a prison in 1850 by Victorian reformers. Out of use as a prison a hundred years later, that is when the bank bought it.’ He added without a smile: ‘Himself admires the view, but I am never sure if he remembers it is no longer a prison.’

Not great on memory, then. Coffin thought. ‘Does he remember who he is himself?’ Better to establish that fact at once.

‘He remembers who he was,’ said his companion tersely.

‘An old Prime Minister.’

‘A former Prime Minister,’ corrected Dr Bradshaw tartly.

Significant difference. Coffin thought, as he approached the flats’ entrance. I am being taught my lines.

I’ll have to leave the dog in the car … Stay, Augustus.’ The dog looked at him thoughtfully, seemingly content to stay where he was in the great car.

A small white van was parked nearby. ‘Belongs to the old man’s niece,’ said Jack Bradshaw shortly. ‘Uses it for shopping. Ferries himself in his chair sometimes.’

As he walked into the entrance lobby Coffin was remembering what he knew of the origin of this block of flats: they had been built by a housing association to provide pleasant, medium-priced homes for retired professionals. The rents were not high, nor meant to be.

The entrance hall was in line with what you might expect from this policy, being plain, with stone-coloured walls and tiling floor. There was a lift in one corner.

Surely former Prime Ministers could afford better than this? There was a pension, wasn’t there?

‘Hard up, is he?’ Coffin asked. When you were nearly ninety (or over it, more likely) money might have dried up. Money had that way with it, sometimes seeming of organic growth, and a plant capable of drying up mysteriously and almost malevolently. Coffin had had this happen himself in his younger days and knew it could happen again. You had to watch money and water it with your attentions.

‘No, or as to that, it’s not my business to know, I don’t touch his financial affairs, but I should say not. No, he lives here because he likes it. He was born here. Before they were bombed to bits in the last war, there was a tenement block here and in one of them he was born. The eldest son of Edward and Ada Lavender …’

‘Yes, I know that bit – Dick Lavender,’ said Coffin. ‘It’s in all the books. But I did not know this was his birthplace.’ He wondered if it was true really. Even old Prime Ministers, sorry, former Prime Ministers, could have fantasies. Even tell lies. ‘Do we take the lift or walk up?’

‘Lift, he’s on the top floor … that was the only thing he asked for. Otherwise no favours, he took what he was offered.’

Took what was offered but took the best; the view from the top floor across the river must be splendid.

The lift delivered them to a plain lobby, the mirror image of the one below. There were two front doors.

One other person lives up here then?’

‘Yes,’ said John Bradshaw, in his usual Jovian style. ‘A tiresome person.’ He did not add to the statement.

He rang the bell on the door nearest, and they waited.

‘Lives alone, does he?’

‘No, a niece lives with him. Runs the domestic side.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ said Coffin. ‘Tell me a bit about why I am wanted. You do know, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I know,’ admitted Bradshaw stiffly. ‘You are wanted because you have the resources; it’s a police matter. Of course, the Special Branch keep a watchful eye, but this isn’t one for them.’

‘I guessed that. Any connection with the tiresome neighbour?’

‘No.’ Bradshaw sounded surprised. ‘None.’

‘But it’s a serious business?’

‘Serious enough,’ said Bradshaw, as the door opened. ‘Death always is.’

The door was opened by a short, plump woman with a froth of white hair cut short, she wore bright-pink lipstick and blue-rimmed spectacles, a lively and cheerful figure. ‘Oh hello. Jack, you’ve made good time, you’re back sooner than I expected. Uncle’s still dressing … Good morning, sir.’ She turned to Coffin. ‘I’m Janet Neptune … silly name, isn’t it, but my own. Tell you about it some day if you ask … He’s dressing but he’s been up and about for some time.’

She too, knew why he had been summoned. Coffin was convinced of that, knew it was about death but was not letting it get her down. ‘Miss Neptune or Mrs?’ he asked politely.

‘Miss, miss, I am not married. Asked for once or twice but never took on. It doesn’t suit everyone, you know. Not to be expected, is it? I mean, nature is prodigal and various in its arrangements.’

‘I can see you and I have much the same notion of nature,’ said Coffin.

‘It’s common sense, isn’t it? Now come into the dining room the two of you and have a cup of something while Uncle is getting ready, we don’t hurry him, sir, not at his age … Jack, he’s turned up another great pile of letters, you’ll never get that life of him written at this rate.’

‘Is that what you are doing?’ Coffin was interested. ‘Writing his life?’

‘Ghostwriting,’ said Bradshaw without much expression in his voice. ‘It’ll come out in his name. Who but himself could write his life?’

A rhetorical question, needing no answer.

‘It’s not my only job; I have others.’

The room into which Coffin had been led was a step into the past. He felt he had been moved back in time by a hundred years. It was a small room made smaller by massive furniture in a style favoured by the merchant classes of Victorian England. In the middle of the wall facing the door was a large square looking glass of gilded wood, the sides fretted with little shelves for china pots and photographs. Coffin thought it must have been the devil to dust. Another wall was covered by a monument in dark wood with another mirror set in a nest of shelves and drawers. From his memory he dredged up the word chiffonier. An oval table of mahogany ranged around with chairs, the seats covered in red plush, filled the centre of the room. Underfoot was a dark Turkish carpet.

Janet Neptune saw Coffin looking around him as she came in with cups of coffee. ‘He bought the furniture for his mother when he started to earn well, it was her taste. Made her feel a lady, he said. I think he likes it himself because he’s never got rid of it.’

‘What about his wives? How did they take it?’

‘Oh well, I don’t suppose they liked it, but the furniture lasted and they didn’t.’

She was handing round the coffee, which was strong and good.

Janet Neptune said: ‘I can hear noises, he’s ready to receive company, I know that cough he gives.’

Several generations of MPs had known that cough too in the House of Commons before an important speech.

‘Right.’ Coffin stood up.

She bent her head towards him and said in a confidential way: ‘Just one thing, I expect you will be calling on him again, but don’t let him give you anything to eat or drink.’

After a moment of stunned silence. Coffin said: ‘He won’t poison me, will he?’

She put her head on one side. ‘Not poison, no, we don’t let him get his hands on anything really dangerous. He’s on a few medications but we keep those out of his way. No, but sometimes he thinks it’s funny to load a drink with a laxative or some such. Once he gave Jack here a gin loaded with hydrogen peroxide, didn’t he. Jack?’

‘If you say so.’

‘Didn’t half fizz; ’course it tasted terrible.’

‘No worse than some drinks I’ve had,’ said Bradshaw.

‘It’s a very Edwardian-house-party sort of joke.’ Janet put her face near Coffin’s. ‘You can imagine … not his world, of course, but some of the ladies he went with later …’ She shrugged. ‘Upper class … Lady this and the Honourable that … they found him attractive, he was an attractive man, and he picked up a few of their ways.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard that.’

‘We’d better go in.’ Bradshaw stood up.

‘Yes,’ Janet nodded. ‘Finish your cup, sir, and we’ll go on in. He’ll be getting impatient. If you haven’t got many years left you want to get on with things.’

She led the way out of the dining room, shutting the door carefully behind her. Across the hall, the door to another room stood half open.

Even half a glance showed Coffin that this room was a museum piece, crowded as it was with heavy, dark, ornate furniture. One wall was covered with a great bookcase in which the leatherbound books looked unread and unloved. The past was strong in this place.

Inside the room, the old man sat in a large armchair. His head, with its cockade of white hair, was supported by cushions so that he was upright and commanding. He wore a soft cashmere jacket with a tartan shawl draped over his legs. He looked old, elegant and in control. No loss of substance there, you felt at once. He might tire quickly, he probably did, but while he was functioning he would be acute.

Coffin was surprised how well he remembered the face. Likewise the strong head of hair seemingly so untouched by time that Coffin wondered cynically if it was a wig. But surely not, the old man’s watchword had always been honesty and integrity, although exactly what that meant in political circles might be doubted.

And after all, many people had wigs. His own wife had several, which she said were essential to her professional life.

He fixed Coffin with a commanding blue eye. ‘Good of you to come, sir. With all your responsibilities it cannot have been easy. I appreciate your courtesy.’ It was a rich deep voice, but age had introduced streaks of lighter tones.

‘You know who I am?’

‘I keep up to date, sir.’

So you do. Coffin thought, noticing a small television set on a table by the chair. Shelves underneath the table were stacked with more modern books, and magazines. The present did get a look in then.

Janet fussed forward, adjusting his shawl. ‘Of course you do, Uncle.’

He ignored her. ‘Helped by my good friend, Bradshaw.’

‘You pay me, sir,’ said Bradshaw, somewhat sourly.

‘Not enough.’

‘Probably not enough, but I am bearing it.’

The old man chuckled. ‘Other things make it bearable, eh? You enjoy working with me, and we will both make money out of my autobiography.’

‘So you hope.’

This sparring is in fun, they like each other. Coffin thought. But even this might be wrong, you had to remember that one at least of them was a politician, used to wearing a false smile, dissembling. Lying, in short.

‘Nice collection of books you have there, sir. Dickens and a complete Thackeray.’ Not many other houses in Spinnergate had a library like it, he guessed.

‘My mother ordered me to buy them. Said it was what I should have, but I never opened them. I was a Shaw and a Gissing man, myself. She didn’t read them either, not what she liked; Ethel M. Dell and Ruby M. Ayres, they were her goddesses. I don’t think anyone has ever opened those books there. But they look good, don’t they? Nice covers.’

‘Very nice.’

‘You’re just making conversation, lad,’ said the old man with a sudden shift of character from nostalgic son to old headmaster talking to a former pupil.

What a politician he must have been, thought Coffin, able to change his stance as it suited him. ‘I have been wondering what you wanted from me.’

‘And when I was going to get down to it?’ He looked at Janet, who drew chairs forward for Coffin and Bradshaw, then retired quietly from the room. ‘And you can shut the door, Janet,’ he called out. ‘She listens at the door, you know,’ he said to Coffin in no soft voice. ‘I know you are still there, Janet, I can tell.’

Bradshaw clicked his teeth. ‘You’re hard on Janet; you wouldn’t find it easy to get anyone else to do what she does.’

‘She doesn’t like me, you know.’

‘Do you want me to leave as well?’ asked John Bradshaw with a show of irritation.

‘You can stay.’ The old man looked down at his hand. ‘I’m dead in a way, dead to a lot of people, you probably thought I was dead, been off the scene a long while, a bit of old history,’ he said to Coffin.

‘English history, sir.’

‘And that’s how I want to stay. I want to be remembered for the good things I did for English society, what I opened up, what I swept away.’

‘That’s how it will be,’ said Coffin, wondering what was coming.

‘I was born round here … Different world then.’

‘Born not so far away myself, sir.’

‘Much later, you are a younger man. A different world even so and even then.’ He got up and walked slowly to the window. ‘All changed out there. New buildings, and an empty river. Different sort of people live here. When I was a kid, there was a tenement block here, dozens of families all crammed in with a lavatory and pump in the yard outside. I remember the stink.’

‘We all have memories like that, sir. I remember when there were big ships on the river here, and barges.’

‘And men at the dock gates, fighting for work, with the guv’nors coming out and picking and choosing … I remember that too … I helped put that away. Made a start.’

Still looking out of the window, he went on: ‘At night, it’s bright with lights, they shine across the water. Keep me awake sometimes.’ He turned round: ‘It was gaslight on the cobbled walks then, and not much light at all anywhere. Pools of light under the lamps and then blackness. A dark world. I want you to remember that.’

‘I can imagine.’ Coffin began to feel like Alice through the Looking Glass. Not going into another world, but back in time. He looked at Jack Bradshaw who gave him a faint sympathetic smile. He lives like this all the time. Coffin thought, walking in and out of the past.

‘The streets were different too, narrower as well as worse lit, not so much traffic and a lot of it still horse driven. Courtyards with little houses round them. Broken windows with old clothes stuffed in them to keep the draughts out, unlocked doors – with so many souls under one roof, families crammed into one room, you couldn’t keep the front door locked much. A thieves’ paradise, and worse …’

Bradshaw met Coffin’s eye and gave a small nod. He’ll be out with it soon, the nod said. He has to work up to what’s coming.

‘We had a very hot summer the year I was thirteen,’ Lavender went on, ‘followed by a bad, foggy winter. I remember how the fog hung over the street we lived in and seemed to creep slyly into every crack of the little house. My school was just around the corner and I spent as much time there as I could. There was a little library, I could get into that and sit reading, it was warmer than home … quieter too. My mother used to take in washing, it was a common way then to earn some money, the washing was collected and taken home to be washed. Rubbed up and down a dolly board. We had a boiler in the kitchen with a coal fire beneath. I used to help my mother by delivering the clean washing in an old pram … I had a younger brother, but he died …’

‘I used to do errands, delivering messages, collecting shopping, to earn a bit of pocket money,’ said Coffin, dredging up a memory, long forgotten. Did he say it aloud? If so, the old man took no notice, but went on:

‘So I was out and about the streets at all hours, sometimes early in the morning, sometimes late at night. I saw all things … there wasn’t much I didn’t know about the ways of men and women and of men with women. Stood me in good stead, I can tell you, when I went out into the world … But even so …’ He paused. ‘There was a lot of violence on the streets that winter … the fogs, I suppose, being particularly bad made it easier for attackers to get away. Four women were killed in Spinnergate and East Hythe that winter and spring.’

‘You remember exactly?’

‘I remember; there was a lot of talk and boys listen to that sort of thing … One woman was found dead in a gutter, another in a park, another up an alley. And I have cause to remember.’

‘Four, you said?’

‘Yes, all strangled, just one killer for the lot. What we now call a serial killer. Monsters, was the word then, that last winter before the First World War.’

Lavender stopped, his voice had been tiring.

‘You could do with a drink,’ said Bradshaw, standing up. ‘You should have let me tell all this.’ He went to the door. ‘Janet, bring a glass of water.’

Janet must have been at the door, she was in so quick, holding out a glass. ‘Here you are, I dropped some whisky in it.’

More than a drop, thought Coffin, observing the colour. Still, she knew the old man and what he could take.

Dick Lavender took a sip. ‘I came home one day of a deep fog, I’d been delivering the washing to a local pub: the Rock of Gibraltar … the Gib, we called it.’

‘Still there,’ said Coffin.

‘I know … When I got home, my mother called me into the kitchen … I’d been meaning to sneak upstairs to read, I had a good book on the go … My mother was shaking and there was blood on her apron … She was a little woman and she was not drunk, she did not drink. She took me into the kitchen and told me that my father was the multiple killer and that he had killed one more woman and her body was in our back yard.’

The words fell into the room like little weapons, sharp and heavy. Are you sure about this. Coffin wanted to say. Not a kid’s fantasy, remembered now for real? But he did not say it.

There was only one question to ask and Coffin asked it: ‘Where was your father?’

‘Gone.’

Then Coffin did say, he had to ask it: ‘Are you sure this is real?’ Later, he might take Bradshaw aside, and say: Is the old man mad?

‘Oh, I am sure. My mother asked me to come with her to bury the body … I helped her put the woman in the pram, and I pushed it through the streets, and then I helped Mother bury her.’

Janet came in with the bottle of whisky, and handed drinks all round, taking one herself. She then withdrew, no doubt to listen at the door again.

Coffin received his drink gratefully, downing it in one long gulp. He felt steadier then, and able to move on.

‘So where do I come in?’

Dick Lavender said gravely: ‘I have had this on my conscience this long while.’

Did it worry your mother? Coffin wanted to ask, but he felt the answer would be that it hadn’t. She had died happy and content.

‘I want you to find out the names of the murdered women. It will be in the police records. I can give you the years.’

‘It’s been a long while, sir,’ said Coffin gently. ‘Why not leave it?’

Lavender went on, as if Coffin had not spoken: ‘All the deaths were in Spinnergate or East Hythe, that should help you. The police investigation got nowhere, I can remember my mother worrying, but time went on and nothing happened.’

‘You mean your father was never named?’ Coffin was blunt.

This too was ignored. ‘If you could find out the names and if there are any living relatives of the dead women, then I would try to do something by way of reparation. Anonymously, of course.’

I was right, I am going to be a time wanderer. Coffin thought, feeling dazed. Wandering around in the past. If I am not careful I shall never get out.

‘And I would like the woman my mother and I buried to be dug up and given a proper funeral.’

Coffin was silent. ‘Let me think this over, sir. I can see difficulties.’ Finding the grave, digging up the corpse, the holding of an inquest … the press would be there like vultures.

‘I can tell you where we buried her. I remember very clearly.’ Dick Lavender nodded at Bradshaw. ‘Get us the map. Jack.’

‘He knows all about it?’ Coffin looked at Bradshaw’s retreating back.

‘Of course, I trust him. He is writing my life, but he will only put in what I tell him to.’

I wonder. Coffin thought.

‘And Janet?’ Who listens at doors.

‘She won’t get a penny from my will unless she has been discreet.’

‘And you trust me?’

Dick Lavender gave him the famous smile, the one that had ravished the hearts of those beauties long ago. ‘I do.’ He bent his head in a kind of noble obeisance.

Oh, you charmer, you, thought Coffin. But what is it really all about? He had the distinct feeling of being led into a maze.

‘I can’t guarantee either success or complete secrecy. Just not on, sir.’

Bradshaw appeared with a map of the district, which he handed to his employer.

‘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.’