LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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