Kitabı oku: «Coffin Underground»

9 drops of human blood

7 grains of gunpowder

½ ounce of putrefied brain

13 mashed graveworms.

Recipe for Horror providedbyMary and Percy Bysshe Shelley

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

One hot day in the summer of 1974, in New York, a young girl was out shopping. She was looking for a present for her boyfriend back in England. It would soon be his birthday, he was three years older than she was, and when they had parted she had made a promise that she would send him a present. In many ways she felt very far away from him now and getting farther with every minute, but she meant to keep that promise. She had not written many letters to him, although he had sent her constant messages of a brief if loving kind. The fact that her world and his were now so very different. Her parents were working in New York, her father in the United Nations and her mother for a private consultancy, and they were living in a smart secure part of the city. She was a diplomat’s child and used to that way of life; her London boyfriend was in different circumstances altogether.

She had some errands to do for her mother in a big and famous store in Fifth Avenue (her mother shopped expensively), so that her first search for a present was in this store. This kind of shop was her natural habitat since her family had both taste and money. But today nothing took her fancy as a suitable present.

There was a reason for this, one of which she might not have been fully aware herself. She was in an odd mood, had been for some weeks now. Puberty was hitting her hard. Sex was both interesting her and perturbing her. She did not quite know how to handle it or herself. She was changing so fast that every day she felt different. It puzzled her as much as anyone.

Her parents sensed something of her emotional disturbance, but put it down to her arrival at an awkward age, in a new and exciting city. She was a clever girl, doing well at her private school. In this way New York suited her. Ambition was stirring inside her.

She strolled around the store, studying ties, shirts, small leather goods and pieces of jewellery, like gold chains such as men wear. He would like such a chain, but although well provided with money for her age, she was still a child who could not afford gold.

She wandered into the book department. No, nothing he would like there. He was not a reader. More an adventurer in life, or that was how he saw himself. But looking at the books had given her an idea. She remembered something that one of her mother’s friends in London, a distinguished man, had told her about. And hadn’t her friends at school here joked about some similar game? She poked about for what she fancied.

She could feel her heart beginning to bang. It was exciting, her idea. But no, she soon realized that this was not the sort of store in which to find what she wanted. Too staid, too conventional.

In fact, she fancied the sales assistant gave her an odd look when she asked by name for what she wanted, but this might have been her imagination. It was saleable, after all. No, they did not stock it. Well, she was not surprised.

She was a robust girl who had been through all the upheavals attendant upon the life of a diplomat’s family with vivacity and pleasure. She liked the excitement. They had a house in London, England, to which they returned at intervals. It was not a house she enjoyed living in, although she liked London. The house had a feeling about it which she noticed on her first entrance every time the family returned. After that first impact, she got used to it. Or it faded away. She would call it a house with a strong character and not all of it nice. It was a house with a history.

She might write about it in a story for her class magazine. She wanted to get one in this term if she could. It would be good for her standing amongst her peers. But there was another episode in her London life she might write about. Get it out on paper and stop thinking about it, she decided.

In the next shop, she bought a fresh pad of paper to use for her writing. Then she made her inquiry.

Oh yes, they had the game. Yes, certainly, it could be packed up ready to send overseas. The assistant was surprised. This was not the type of kid that usually bought these games. Typically, they were white, well educated and pushy. This girl was well spoken but fulfilled no other condition.

The girl adopted a sophisticated air and made all the arrangements for postage and the US customs. The assistant had given her a look of surprise, as if she wasn’t the sort of person who usually bought that kind of game, but so what?

The palms of her hands were sweating as she completed the transaction. Her imagination was excited. Various tales were going the rounds about this game in her circle. The phrase ‘Playing with Fire’ came into her mind.

Chapter One

The house stood by the church and by the church was the churchyard which the house had done its share to fill. More than its share, in truth.

There was already another body about to take up residence but no one knew about that yet.

The past, of course, was different.

In the last century, when the house in Greenwich was only a few years old, a visitor from abroad had brought cholera with him from India, which had spread through the district after killing him. A lot of new graves appeared in St Luke’s churchyard at this time.

Nor had the house, No. 22, Church Row, ceased in its work of filling graves. In addition to what you might call the average statistical supply of family bodies, inhabitants of the house, dying in the usual way from old age, childbirth or the poor medicine of the period, the house picked up other victims. It attracted the blast from a bomb dropped by a Zeppelin in World War One and from a landmine in the second great war. Neither was a direct hit, but each time there were many casualties in the house, which seemed to fill up for the occasion of a calamity as if it knew one was coming and wanted to do its best. Or worst. In 1917 when the Zeppelin hung over Greenwich the house was crowded with a party of young soldiers, home from the trenches and celebrating the twenty-first birthday of the son of the house. As it turned out he would have been safer in the trenches. (His twin sister survived the blast but the house got her in the end, because she died, with her parents and younger sister, in the great influenza epidemic of 1918.) In 1941 the house was used as a hostel for nurses working in the nearby Dreadnought Seamen’s Hospital, the owner being abroad on war service and his wife and family evacuated. Most of the nurses were killed, and of those that died, some, being local girls, were interred in one great grave in St Luke’s.

A quiet time set in for No. 22, Church Row after the war. It had had enough. Or it was resting.

In 1972 the then owner of the house, a career diplomat, was abroad with his family (he came back the next year, and then in 1975 left for New York), and the house was let to three students in the University of London, who were enrolled in Goldsmiths’ College at New Cross. They were quiet, unobtrusive lads, not much seen and no trouble to anyone.

Since the other inhabitants of the street did not see them regularly, they were not at first much missed. No one saw them come in, no one saw them go.

But they did go somewhere because they were never seen alive again, leaving a lot of blood behind in the house. Blood on the stairs and in the kitchen on the ground floor. So it was told.

In 1978 a policeman called John Coffin, now a Chief Superintendent, moved into Church Row, and heard all the stories about the house and treated the superstition with the contempt it deserved.

He was able to do so, of course, since he was not living at No. 22 (although he knew the present owners) but at No. 5, well away from any dangerous emanations.

It was Mrs Brocklebank, who cleaned his house and also did for No. 22, who told him the saga. She could even add to the story, and did, the moment she saw her chance.

‘Oh, come on now, Mrs B. It’s all rubbish. Houses can’t do that sort of thing. You mustn’t be superstitious. And as for the students, was there really any blood? I heard they just moonlighted, left without paying their rent.’

‘Never been seen again, though, have they?’

‘Well, I don’t know about that.’ He did not know the details of the case, if indeed there had been one. He seemed to remember there was some puzzle about the three students. Or was it just one of them?

But for Mrs Brocklebank the blood was an indelible part of the story. Literally so.

‘Every time I clean that house on the anniversary of the disappearance there is blood on the front step. I have to scrub it away.’

‘Oh, Mrs B.’

‘Never really get it off. It’s always there. Faintly. But worse on that day.’

‘Did you see the blood in the house yourself, then?’

‘Well, no. Wasn’t working for Mrs Pitt then, was I? In the soap factory, Deller’s, I was, before I decided to better myself. But we all heard. Everyone knew about it.’

She admired her new employer. You’d never know he was a policeman, she told herself.

He was a tall man, thinner than he had been, thinner perhaps than nature intended, a long face with fair hair just beginning to show traces of grey. He had never been good-looking but experience, life itself, had drawn on his face the lines which gave him distinction. His eyes still had the hopeful look which had been his as a boy. If you did not have hope in the world of London streets in which he had grown up, you had nothing, and never would have. It was this look which had drawn Mrs Brocklebank to tell him about the blood. Tell him, she’d advised herself. Get if off your chest.

Coffin deliberately went to take a look at the step of No. 22 one day, and it was true there was a string of faint stains that could have been blood on the two shallow stone steps to the front door. But they could have been a lot of other things as well.

No. 22 was a quiet dark house of three storeys, possibly a shade gloomy but otherwise unremarkable, and identical to the house where he had recently moved into the top flat.

Nothing in it, all rubbish, he thought. Just a house that has got a bad name. And he thought of all the other such houses there were. Blythswood Square; Rillington Place; The Priory, Balham.

But he was interested enough to make some inquiries about the case of the missing students.

His opportunity came when he had to deal with a local sergeant about another case. A violent criminal, William Howard Egan, had just come out of prison after serving his term and was known to be looking for revenge on the informer who had helped to put him there. The fact that this informer was his son-in-law, Terence Place, was not going to stop him. Both hunter and hunted were believed to be hiding in South London, and they might be in Greenwich. John Coffin had been the detective on the case. Threats had been made against him too by Egan. He was taking a personal interest.

‘I don’t think Billy Egan’s here, but that isn’t to say he won’t be, or isn’t, he was always a cunning bastard. He has a taste for this part of the world, so he might be back. I’ll keep my eyes open. You can count on me.’

‘Thanks, Bernard.’ Coffin took his chance. ‘What’s this tale I hear about three students going missing from a house in Church Row? Anything in it?’ He remembered a bit himself, but not the details.

The sergeant was an older man, passed over for promotion, but content to be what he was, and a great well of information about the district, which he transmitted only when it suited him, it was his property. He had lived in this part of South London all his life. Bernard Jones had known John Coffin when he was a humble detective, well before he had shot up the ladder so successfully. He was far too tactful to dwell on this, or even to mention it. It coloured their relationship, though, loading it with memories of old cases, old criminals and older colleagues.

The two men were having a sandwich and a cup of tea in the police canteen in Royal Hill police station where Jones was based. He didn’t want to talk about students, missing or not, he wanted a gossip.

About crime in his patch.

‘Been fairly quiet here lately. Two bodies found roped together in the river. Black man, white woman. The forensics say it could be suicide. Old man found dead in the street. Been dead over a week when found on a main road. Can you beat it? I suppose they thought he was put out for the dustmen. Two dead babies in a suitcase. No, nothing special.’

Or gossip about old friends.

‘So Dander slipped off the side.’

‘Yes.’ Coffin looked serious. Commander Dander had been his patron and friend. ‘And I didn’t even know he was ill till he went. Very sudden. Heart. Still, it wasn’t a bad way to go.’

‘What he would have wanted.’

‘Don’t know about that.’ Coffin remembered his Dander. ‘If he’d had what he wanted, I think he would have lived for ever.’

‘Hard on his wife, though.’

‘Which? Dying suddenly or living for ever?’

‘With Charley Dander I should think living for ever would be the worst punishment.’

‘Did you know he had three wives?’ said Coffin. ‘We none of us knew till they all turned up at the funeral. All divorced and all hating the sight of each other.’

‘I bet they were lookers. Dander knew how to pick them.’

And leave them, thought Coffin, a man loyal to his mates but not to his women.

‘I hear you’re living in Church Row?’

Coffin nodded.

‘Nice houses, but a bit near the churchyard for my taste.’ So the sergeant, who knew everything, had heard the tales about the powers of No. 22.

‘I’m the other end.’

‘Just as well.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

The sergeant laughed.

Coffin tried once more: ‘What’s this tale about three students disappearing from a house in the Row, leaving a lot of blood behind and never being seen again?’

The sergeant sighed. ‘That old tale going round again? They didn’t disappear. Or not for long. There was a bit of blood about, though. What happened was, the three of them had a fight, got a lot of blood on the furnishings and lost their nerve about the damage they’d done. I think they did drop out of sight for a few days, but not more. The College soon got on to them.’

‘I’m beginning to remember some of the details myself now. It’s coming back. There was something later about one of the students, though, wasn’t there?’

Bernard Jones picked up his sandwich, inspecting it. ‘They put less and less ham in these every day, I say. But they say they don’t. More if anything. One day I’ll measure.’

‘Yes, that’s the scientific approach.’

The sergeant ate the sandwich in three great mouthfuls, talking between bites. ‘Something about one of the students, Malcolm Kincaid. He was a chemistry student. A year after he graduated he was found dead in Greenwich Park. His body was lying tucked away in some bushes. Killed himself. Left a note saying he was going to do it. He did it with cyanide, he’d managed to lift a quantity from the lab where he was working. It’s a quick death. The medical evidence was that he died almost instantaneously.’

‘So what?’ It was obvious there was something.

‘Nothing to show how he’d taken it, no container, no poison, although he’d stolen a good five grams. In the form of potassium cyanide which would have gone down better if dissolved in liquid. Caused a lot of worry, that did.’

‘But he left a note saying he was going to kill himself?’

‘Oh yes, it was there with him. And he had the motive. That came out: girl trouble and money worries. He was a bit of a depressive too. Yes, he meant to do it.’

‘So what was the worry?’

‘Looked as though someone else had been there. He was all neat and tidied up. When you take cyanide you don’t die that way.’

Coffin thought about it. ‘Interesting. What happened then?’

Bernard shrugged. ‘A verdict of suicide was reluctantly arrived at.’

‘When was this?’

Bernard worked it out. ‘About three years ago. Just over.’

‘One of life’s little mysteries,’ said Coffin.

Then the talk turned to other things, and he buried the story of Malcolm Kincaid, student, at the back of his mind.

One of those puzzles you think about in the middle of the night and can never decide on an answer. It could go in the drawer with Mr Qualtrough of Men-love Gardens East, and where was the axe that killed the Bordens?

He thought a bit about William Egan the grudge-bearer, and kept on his guard, but there was no sign of him. Nor any movement in the undergrowth of the local criminal jungle that might show his passage. Once or twice he thought he saw Mrs Brocklebank, that conveyor of news around the town, giving him a thoughtful look as if she knew something he did not, but that probably meant nothing more than that she was news-gathering.

He liked the new flat in Church Row, where over the roofs and through the trees he could see the top of the clipper, the Cutty Sark. At the moment the trees blocked his view, but in winter when the leaves had thinned he would be able to see the intricate rigging of the ship. He liked that thought. Living here was bringing him back to an area he had known as a boy and where he had worked at the beginning of his career. It was a part of London for which he retained an affection. For ten years he had been living away from the suburb, he had moved off deliberately, there were mixed memories, some good and just a few downright painful, but now he was glad to be back. It felt like home. It was amazing how life stitched itself together again into a piece if you gave it a chance.

Every time he walked down Church Row on the way to work, he took a look at No. 22. It had been empty for some months since the last tenants had left. Then one day he saw the windows had been washed and plants put in the window-boxes. It was spring, they were daffodils. Yes, said Mrs B., the owner and his family are coming back. Edward Pitt had retired from the FO; he had been working at the United Nations. John Coffin was looking forward to meeting him again, a friendly, vital man, as he recalled. The whole family was interesting. People said they were artistic and amusing. They had a few critics too, but that was understandable. There had been ‘family’ problems, whatever that meant, but even the easiest of families did not always see eye to eye. Interesting to watch how they got on in No. 22, where by all accounts they had never lived much. He might find out what they knew of the story of the three students. He looked down at the front steps. No real sign of blood.

Blood.

He had got his life settled: he had got someone reliable to clean his place in Mrs Brocklebank, who, he now realized, ‘did’ for most of the road, and who had really acquired him rather than the other way round; and he had arranged for two newspapers to be delivered daily, and had settled on a milkman who also sold bread and eggs. You could live on bread, milk and eggs if you had to. Everything was in train. The only drawback was that Mrs Brocklebank would not iron his shirts. Or anything of his.

‘I do Brock’s and that’s my lot.’ It was the first time he had realized there was a living Mr Brocklebank; he had supposed her to be a widow. She had the vigorous healthy look of a woman who lived for herself alone.

He tried drip-drying his shirts himself, but he liked the cuffs ironed. He tried ironing them himself. It was easy if you didn’t scorch them. He did scorch them. Quite often. Too often.

He sought help.

Mrs Brocklebank surveyed the burnt offerings without sympathy. ‘It’s quite simple if you keep the heat on the iron adjusted.’

‘I do keep it adjusted. But it leaps up.’

‘I’m not a laundress myself.’ She considered; Coffin waited hopefully. ‘I suppose you could try Sarah Fleming. Sal has a good hand with the iron, she ought to have with the practice she gets looking after that brood of hers, and she’s usually glad to earn an extra pound or two.’

He left the arrangements to her, with the result that she took away his washing on a Monday and it reappeared, neatly packaged and with the bill, on his doormat every Wednesday. Mrs Brocklebank acted as banker.

Occasionally messages came back through Mrs B.

‘Sal says you need a new blue shirt. The cuffs are frayed and it’s not worth the trouble of ironing.’

Sal obviously had high standards. He bought a couple of new blue shirts.

‘Sal says could you try not to get lipstick on your collar.’ This message was delivered with a slight smirk. ‘She says it’s hard to get off.’

‘It’s red ink,’ said Coffin, lying.

Living as a bachelor, and at the moment wifeless, he was not celibate. But he felt it was his business and not Sarah Fleming’s. Sal, he decided, could look after her own affairs, if she had any apart from laundry, and leave his alone. Old witch.

Two weeks had passed. There was no news of either William Egan or his son-in-law but the daughter had taken herself off to Spain. It might mean something, or it might mean no more than that she had had enough of both father and husband. The general feeling was that she had a right to such a reaction.

But the Pitts had arrived home and No. 22 was looking lively. Windows opened to let the sun in, new curtains and a big car parked outside the door. John Coffin had not met them again yet, but had seen them once or twice as he passed and given a wave. Whether he was remembered or not he was unsure, but diplomacy and good manners prevailed, so that he got a wave back. Edward Pitt was tall and handsome, every bit the diplomat. With white hair he looked older than he probably was, just as his wife looked younger. Irene Pitt was still youthful, a pretty, curly-haired woman with bright eyes and skin with a shine on it. But the beauty of the family was the daughter, a slender, leggy creature of fifteen years. She had joined a smart London girls’ school and disappeared on the train every day to her studies. There was a younger boy who had been recruited to the local public school, and heaven help him there, said Mrs Brocklebank. She added the information that Mr Pitt, although retired from the Foreign Service, was going to join the foreign bureau of a London newspaper, and that Mrs Pitt, who was an economist, intended to find some work too. She was a lot younger than her husband. There were also a dog and a cat to join the household but they were at present in quarantine.