The Coffin Tree
Commander John Coffin investigates the deaths of two policemen, and the apparent suicide of a police officer’s wife. A darkly authentic crime novel from one of the most highly praised English mystery writers, perfect for fans of Agatha Christie.The Coffin Tree grew in a garden in London. It had been struck by lightning, which would have killed most trees – but not this one. Near it, a shrouded body has been burnt. Had the victim voluntarily climbed on to the fire, as one eyewitness reports?That same summer, two of Coffin's young detectives died – deaths that were said to be accidental. In Coffin's view, however, two accidents are two too many.Commander John Coffin is not a fanciful man, but somehow the half-dead tree, its top killed by lightning, standing in a sad patch of rough earth, seems to him to epitomise his problems. Why did the two policemen die? How did one dead police officer's wife come to die a grisly death herself at the foot of the coffin tree?Coffin can't believe that it was suicide, but in his efforts to solve the crimes, he is forced to question his own judgement, and to confront the mysteries of another human heart.
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GWENDOLINE BUTLER
The Coffin Tree
HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollinsPublishers 1994
Copyright © Gwendoline Butler 1994
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
The Author asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780006490289
Ebook Edition © JULY 2014 ISBN: 9780007545506
Version: 2014–07–04
Contents
The Coffin Tree grew in London’s Second City. The upper branches had been struck by lightning several years ago, a blow that would have killed some trees, but this one struggled on, putting its strength into its lower branches.
There were three great, thick, heavy branches, each one that could be cut down and made into planks.
No one owned the tree …
That hot summer when the old Docklands of London sweltered in the great heat and drought was talked of and people made jokes about the saint who sat on the gridiron, this was the summer when John Coffin walked his Second City of London and felt that life was unravelling about him.
He was seriously worried about the death of two young men, two detectives. The deaths were said to be accidental, but two accidents were two too many.
He walked and observed and distrusted far too many people; this was his burden at the moment, he was lonely and perturbed. Something had to be done and it was for him to do it.
When a new, smart and very expensive shop called Minimal opened in Calcutta Street which was the busiest street in Spinnergate, the locals didn’t know what to make of it.
Phoebe, who had inspected the area a week or so ago when she considered moving to London from Birmingham, had noticed the shop at once. It was in her nature to look over a district before she moved there (and she was almost certain that she would be doing so) and the Minimal shop caught her eye.
She was now moodily running over a rack of high priced shifts, watched by the manageress who wasn’t sure what she had in Phoebe. Rich lady incognito or shoplifter? That was Phoebe’s dark outfit with a large shoulder bag because she planned to stay the night.
Minimal certainly did not apply to the prices of the clothes sold there, she considered, wondering how many sales were made. It might describe the decor which was white and empty.
‘Not even a chair to sit on,’ as one of the girls from the chorus in the musical currently running at the Stella Pinero Theatre complained. ‘Not even a curtain to draw when you try on. Just that little bamboo screen which hides nothing … I don’t want everyone seeing me in my bra and pants for free … Let them pay and buy a ticket.’ The musical was not playing to full houses.
‘There is a curtain of sorts behind, Philly,’ said her friend, Eleanor. Eleanor Farmer was older than Phyllis Archer by a few months but they resembled each other in their long fair hair, blue eyes and neat footwork; not strictly pretty, they were good dancers. They were known as Ellie and Philly and regarded as almost twins; they always worked together if it was possible.
‘Net, net and full of holes.’
The holes were embroidered and pretty but you were certainly visible through them.
In spite of these drawbacks, both Ellie and Philly tried on several garments each with little intention of buying, although Ellie was tempted by a short tunic and flared trousers with a distinguished label, and Philly would certainly have bought the off-white Donna Karan body and skirt if she had not overused her credit card and been overdrawn at the bank.
But each of them bought a white cotton shirt, so they went out carrying the black on white Minimal carrier bag in triumph. The bags looked good slung over the shoulder.
It was a hot summer’s day and as they stepped outside, they sniffed the air. It didn’t smell so good, but little Londoners both, they were used to the strange city smells.
Still, this was richer and sharper than most.
