Coffin drew back the covering: a curled up, blackened form, head down, arms extended. It was impossible to guess the sex or age. But Coffin knew what he was looking at: ‘This person was not dead when burnt, but died while burning.’
He turned back to the road. ‘Let’s go.’
Phoebe walked beside him, just for a moment she thought she got a flash of a face she might know – or could have known if she’d concentrated – in the little crowd of onlookers, then Coffin touched her arm and she looked away.
‘Can I drive you anywhere?’
‘No, I saw a tube station not too far away. I want to walk, get some air.’ The corpse had made her feel sick. ‘And get to know the district a bit.’
‘Right.’ He hesitated. Was a warning justified or even wise? Phoebe had her prickles. ‘Look after yourself.’
‘Oh, I will, don’t worry. I know how to watch my back. And nobody knows me.’
Phoebe had her own reasons for not wanting to be driven home by the chief commander. She needed to think.
That night as Phoebe got into bed, not in the flat of a mate as she had told Coffin (God, the lies she had told that man), but in the rented room in a small guest house which was all she could afford, she thought about the day.
She had the position she wanted, she was back in London, but she was broke till she sold her house, sensationally unhappy and now she was anxious.
Frankly, after today, she wondered what she was getting into.
She rolled over in the narrow bed and considered. Now I must do something highly sensible. And also a good career move.
For a start, she would call on Eden Brown and see if she could join up as a lodger. I don’t think she’d want me if she knew what I was working at. Bad for trade.
Don’t tell her, said another voice inside her.
Had it been Eden watching the bonfire? No, probably one of those mistakes.
She touched her cheek which was tender, the pain was still there. Was it worse? She reached out for the bottle of painkillers.
Some pains you could exorcize, but others not.
As soon as Coffin got back to his home in the tower of the old St Luke’s church, the telephone rang. He considered ignoring it but it might be Stella with a change of plans.
‘Hello.’ He kept his voice cautious.
‘Geraldine here.’
‘Ah.’
‘You made a good appointment today.’
‘The committee did.’
She laughed. ‘Your choice, though.’
‘I was open minded. Didn’t want to influence things one way or another.’
‘Not what I thought. She was the best person for the job, you thought so and I thought so. I’d like to meet her. What about coming round for a drink?’
‘She’s still based in Birmingham; she’s got to find a place to live.’
‘Oh, no trouble there, plenty of empty flats and houses; one benefit of the recession if you aren’t a property owner.’
There was a note in her voice that made Coffin wonder if she had his sister Letty in mind; Letty had invested in a lot of local property and was now suffering some pain. He said nothing, Letty could look after herself in his opinion and would certainly break back.
‘I’m entertaining on Sunday morning from midday onwards … my At Home. My little salon.’
Geraldine’s salon was famous. She lived in a large, early nineteenth-century house where top Customs officials had held sway while the Docks were still alive.
‘When’s Stella back?’
He looked at the clock, past midnight. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘today.’
He was there early, having been woken by a telephone call he would rather never have had, but Stella’s flight was early too, a wind behind them, and as he walked in, Stella walked towards him.
She was wearing a full pale yellow skirt and a white shirt and she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her.
She ran towards him, cheerful and full of energy, not at all as if she’d just been travelling all night. She threw her arms round him. ‘Lovely to be back, heaven, heaven.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘I’ve brought you a present. Well, several … Oh, you smell of smoke … it’s in your hair.’ She drew back and looked at him. ‘You look peaky … What’s wrong? Bad time?’
‘I’ll tell you in the car.’
He did tell, an edited version; he could trust her, but for her own sake it was better not to say too much.
‘Those poor young men … I remember Felix.’
‘I thought you would. I was going to ask you to visit his wife with me.’
‘Of course, you know I would … But that’s not all, is it?’
The traffic was building up as they crossed the river; it was still early but commuters were driving into work.
He told her about the body on the funeral pyre.
‘Burnt. Totally burnt, how terrible. Who was it?’
‘I’ve heard now: it was a young woman.’
‘She was dead?’
Alive or dead, that was the question.
‘She was alive when she set the fire and she meant to do it. Suicide. She left a note.’
Stella looked at his face.
‘It was Felix’s wife.’
Alive or dead.
Suttee.
The moment Stella came back, the theatre came to life: a new play opened in the big theatre in the old church (now called the Stella Pinero Theatre), an innovative piece was rehearsing in the theatre workshop, and the drama school had a new intake. It was Stella who had waved the magic wand, and life began again.
He realized how much he had missed her.
She had returned with all her usual enthusiasm and cheerfulness to breathe energy into the schemes at the theatre that she had left behind.
Coffin relished this side of it; the glitter and sparkle that Stella brought with her made a counterweight to the tragedies that hung over him. Felix, Mark Pittsy
