GOFFIN'S COFFIN

 

 

GOFFIN’S COFFIN

by

Albert Woods

 

The man was a complete and utter bastard. Everybody thought it; and one or two had had the gumption to tell him straight to his face: a self-centered opportunist who would sell you short as soon as look at you. Thick-skinned as well; he soaked up criticism like a blotter settling on an errant ink globule.

Oh yes; Goffin was a grasping bastard all right - which was why we got him a coffin.

Funnily enough, he’d always had his eye on the very box. It was a quality item, one of Porter's showpieces. But, of course, the miser wanted it at a discount. That was the way he lived his life; cheese-paring they call it. So it was the way he intended to go out - cut price.

The idea first surfaced when somebody made a passing remark about Goffin's height. "He’ll want to be folded in half, when he departs," they said. "He'll not wish to pay by the foot."

"Let's have a whip-round, and procure a decent sized casket," I joked. "It would be well worth it, if only to make sure he’s laid flat, and doesn’t spring back."

The reaction was not, at all, what I’d anticipated. The cash appeared without further comment; loads of it. I fell into the role of banker and, within minutes, there were several pounds in my cap. My word, it was a tidy sum. We all laughed; then I insisted everyone retrieve theirs.

But there were no takers. Something about the money was tainted. It was earmarked for a purpose; and removing it from my hat seemed tantamount to lifting the coppers from the eyes of a corpse. We all felt the same way about it.

"He might live for years yet," I reasoned.

"Buy a coffin anyway," a voice encouraged – Joe Solomens, I think it was.

"Yes do," they all agreed.

So I did.

 

I shall never forget the look on Porter's face when I went into his funeral parlour to buy the box. For a while, I let him assume that somebody, close to me, had shuffled off. It was wicked really; observing the pseudo-sympathy in his eyes, and listening to the predictable outpouring of unctuous condolences. "Is the dear departed male or female?" he wanted to know.

My reply somewhat took him aback. "Male,” I grunted, contemptuously. “But I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. And there’s never been anything dear, or endearing, about him."

"Is the interment to be in Saint Swithun's?"

I told him that I didn't have the vaguest idea, nor could I care less.

"When, if I may ask, are you intending to lay the remains, then?" the incredibly patient fellow soldiered on.

I put him out of his misery. "When the man dies," I said. "Well; unless we find a way to achieve it sooner."

Porter glared at me; incredulous.

"My little joke," I smiled, realising he could see nothing humorous about it. "It's a gift for Goffin," I explained.

“Ah,” the undertaker visibly warmed to the notion, raising his perfectly manicured fingers to flitter on his lips, his sideways-shifting eyes leading mine to a particular box in the corner. "This one was actually crafted for the good Captain Molyneux,” he informed me. “Alas, as you may know, the brave soul was lost to Neptune’s depths, last month; and the family don’t seem, at all, disposed to pay for it now. Your man, Goffin, fancies it - though refuses to meet the asking price.  Tell you what; I’ll cut my losses. It was a good four pounds-worth but, as space here is at a premium, you may take it away for two. Let's hope it won't gather too much dust, betwixt purchase and utilisation."

So that was how it came about; all from my simple jest. But I was in no joking mood when Goffin's corpse turned up in my coal bunker the following day; one of those types with a sliding panel at the front that you lift to allow a measure of fuel to escape. Imagine how I felt when the first few lumps rolled aside to reveal the splayed fingers of a hand. I lifted the top lid, and there he was: covered in smuts, yet ghastly pale in stark contrast.

Now, I was in a quandary. It was obvious, to me, that some - if not all - of my good chums from the Roebuck Inn, had got carried away in their hastening of Goffin's departure. They must have had too much to drink, after I'd left them the previous evening, and gone round to dispense with the old cheapskate. Damn! I thought. I would never have subscribed to such an extreme, and final, remedy. But here I was; red - or black, as it happened - handed, with the Goffin cadaver reposing amid my Welsh nuts, and his bargain coffin resting, sombrely, on trestles in my withdrawing room.

I decided not to panic: well, at least I didn't panic - which amounts to much the same thing. Instead, I stuffed Goffin's hand back into the chute and closed the door. Then, I washed my own grimy paws, and prayed that opening time would come quickly.

First into the Roebuck, after myself - who had been standing on the step for a full half-hour - was Ned Clowser. "All right," I prodded his chest. "A joke's a joke, and all that, but this isn't funny."

"Then don't tell me," he replied, sinking his white-bearded face into the foam atop his tankard.

I frowned. "Come again?" I queried.

"The j.... oke," he mouthed through a belch. "Don't want to hear it if it's not funny."

Of course, I'd forgotten Clowser's mental deficiency; his inability to comprehend anything not taught him by rote. "Goffin," I snapped, in my impatience. "That's who I'm talking about."

"Oh yes," the idiot began to simper. "He is funny."

I gave up, and waited for the others to arrive. Even when they had, I resisted the temptation to challenge them. Better, I thought, let the cribbage get underway; let them wonder if I'd yet discovered the body, push their curiosity to its limit. I was sure that, sooner or later, one of them would be unable to resist broaching the subject, and give the game away.

It was nearly ten before there was any reference made to our late acquaintance; and it was actually Clowser who broke the ice. "Do tell us that joke now," he entreated me.

"Joke?" I puzzled.

"Yes," he said. "The one about 'you know who'."

"It's no blessed joke," I started to bristle. "You chaps may think it is; but I certainly don't."

I have to admit that, once again, their reaction was not what I was expecting. The faces displayed surprise; all deadpan, with no evidence of suppressed mirth. They knew nothing about it, it seemed. I'd rather they did. At least, then, I would have felt that I was just part of a conspiracy. As it was, I now stood alone: isolated, and bearing the full burden of a crime - of which I was completely innocent - on my uneasy shoulders. I decided to tell them what I’d found - and did so.

"How did he die?" somebody asked.

"Do you know," I had to admit, "it didn't occur to me to look for a wound, or anything like that."

"We'd better get rid of him," another said. "Let's go round and do it right away."

So off we went.

I thought better of having Goffin's filthy corpse dragged across my hand-knotted Axminster. "Best take the box out to him," I advised. Goodness me, it was a solid object. Like most people, I imagined these receptacles to appear sounder than they actually are; you know, all exterior veneer and brass fittings disguising an inner unseen crudity. But not this one: it had not been Porter's pride and joy for nothing – even if the plate still bore the inscription, Percival Latimer Molyneux, Captain, R.N. I'm inclined to say it was oak - not that I recognise the differences between most wood genera - and I think it probably was. Anyway, its weight bore witness to its quality. We all remarked upon it.

Next, we considered how we could dispose of the thing. Oddly, it was the blockhead, Clowser, who came up with the only bright idea of the evening. "Why don't we take it up to the churchyard and bury it," he suggested with his usual naivety. The wave of mocking laughter soon dissolved though, when we realised that this was, far and away, our best option.

We were in luck, for that very day, old Carnegie had dug a fresh grave – an unnecessarily deep one, I felt - but, whatever, all we had to do was go down a few feet further, insert Goffin and give him a light covering of dirt. And we chuckled like mischievous schoolboys as we did so. Tomorrow, we imagined, some weeping widow would watch her life's partner descending to his final resting place, just inches above the tightwad. Little would she know that a squatter was comfortably tucked up, thanks to the two guineas plot-fee she’d expended to secure a sacrosanct place for her defunct spouse and, eventually, herself and family.

I awoke, next day, relieved to find that the intense anxiety, which had embedded itself in my viscera the night before, had now given way to calm. In fact, I felt positively happy; glad that we had escaped detection, and cheered by the new experience of a Goffin-free world. I was actually whistling - a rare distraction for me - when a knock came at the door.

"There must be some mistake," I told the florist's boy who stood there, arms overflowing with multicoloured wreaths.

"Not accordin’ to my instructions, Sir," he insisted. "Says ‘ere, Goffin, care of The Larches, Downside Lane. That's this place, innit?"

"Yes," I said, failing to prevent him from depositing the heap in my hallway.

"Oh, and there's this," he added, handing me a crumpled docket, and scooting off before I could flatten it, and read its contents. What it said only served to nonplus me even further, if that were at all possible. ‘To supply of floral tributes, re: Edgar Quentin Goffin, deceased, eight shillings and elevenpence, three farthings.’ I was going to call after the brat, but managed to caution myself. Somebody, it seemed, knew about the man’s demise; as well as what must appear to be my involvement in it. I needed time to think.

This I was denied; for only a matter of minutes later, my jaw sagged, southwards, as a cortege drew to a respectfully quiet halt on the driveway – three shiny black funeral coaches, the matching horses resplendent in their ostrich plume mourning livery. The head undertaker – not Porter, I noticed - glided up to the door, and advised me that the Goffin family would be honoured if I would join them for the obsequies. Again, rather than question, I hastily donned my black cravat, topper and cape, and did as asked.

"It's a gloomy business," one of the all-veiled female contingent said. "Course, none of us have seen him in years; but it's sad, nevertheless."

"Where's the hearse?" I asked, to provoke a reaction; assuming there’d be no need for one as the body had already been laid to rest.

"We'll be meeting it at the morgue," another face-obscured woman surprised me. And, to my further astonishment, so we did.

When we reached the place, the death carriage was already standing by; its open tailgate yawning like a grim jaw. I, as politely requested to do, accompanied the ladies into the building to pay, as they told me, our last respects to Goffin before the lid was closed. By now, as you can imagine, I was mortified; and ready to turn on my heels and flee. But I stood firm, and went along through to the chapel of rest.

There, surrounded by six free-standing candlesticks, reposed Goffin's coffin; at least, what was meant to be his coffin; certainly not the one to which we had consigned him yesterday. At first, I dared not look inside it, for fear of seeing that wicked frozen smile again. But, to me, Madame Curiosity is an irresistible temptress; so I turned my head and glanced downward. "My God!" I blurted before managing to regain control of my errant tongue. There, his face as white as the beard that adorned it, lay the old fool, Ned Clowser; hands crossed over his chest, and big toes peeping out from under the white cotton shroud at the far end.

The back of my neck was wringing with cold sweat when we reached the graveside. Skilfully, the pallbearers lowered the load, and I heard the hollow thump which, thankfully, nobody else noticed, as Clowser stacked up on top of Goffin.

After the dirt had been thrown, Goffin's long-lost clan bade me farewell and left. It was only the head undertaker who lingered. "This is for you, Sir," he said, handing me an envelope. Desperate to escape the grotesque drama, I waited ‘til back at my house to open it. ‘Re: Goffin deceased,’ the enclosure read. ‘To supplying funeral furnishings, embalming and laying the remains - eight pounds, ten shillings and ninepence.’

At the Roebuck, I apprised my drinking chums of this latest bizarre twist. They, like myself, were horrified at Clowser's passing; and equally stunned by the associated weird events which I related to them.

"We’d better sit tight," advised Joe Solomens, a solicitor; and one of the more rational of our group. "There's no way we can report it. We don't want people knowing what we did with Goffin, do we."

He was absolutely right, of course; and it was decided to let the enigma pass without further comment; except, that is, the question of expense; for I, even with my modest annuity, and occasional commissions from writing that support a reasonable lifestyle, could ill afford to meet the accounts that had been laid at my door; and which, since returning from today’s interment, had been supplemented with bills from the church for gravedigger Carnegie’s efforts, as well as the straining of a somewhat off-key harmoniumist.

"Let’s face it;" reasoned Wainwright, a most pragmatic lad, "we’ve no choice but to have another whip-round." Some were begrudging, but we did, eventually, raise enough to meet the costs, and I went home feeling lighter of heart. Settling up would, I hoped, see an end to the matter.

But, at a quarter past nine, the following morning, my leisurely perusal of last evening’s Pall Mall Gazette was interrupted by another summons to the door. More flowers! - and a damned invoice to go with them. Then came the funeral coaches, the same odd looking group of Goffin mourners and, once again, I was driven to the morgue. This time, I had no hesitation in getting inside. I positively barged my way past everybody to get to the bier. In the coffin lay Wainwright.

The grave was somewhat shallower than it had been the day before.

 

At an emergency meeting, that night, it was unanimously agreed that we would all draw out our savings and finance this, the second of Goffin’s official funerals. The balance of the monies, which was not inconsiderable, would be held by our legal man, Joe Solomens, against the contingency of a third which, we prayed, would not occur. It did; the very next morning and, this time, it was Scobie's cold forehead that the faceless bereaved were kissing for the last time.

By the second Saturday, the whole macabre ritual had become routine with me. No longer was I waiting for the rapping at the door. I was ready; intrigued to learn which of my confederates would be ‘late’ today. Clowser had gone; so had Wainwright, Scobie, Marks, both Daniels the younger and elder, and yesterday had seen the last of Petter. Of our circle, there were only two left - if you didn't count the fringe acquaintances who occasionally joined us for cribbage; none of whom had accompanied us on the night we buried Goffin. Just Joe Solomens, and myself. And, from the remarkably alive way I felt, this morning, I knew it must be his putrefying remains awaiting me on the slab; but I was wrong. Today, there was no cortege, no faceless mourners, no mortuary, no churchyard. And there were no more funerals after that. Joe escaped it too.

"What the deuce do you think it was all about?" I asked him, a while later in the Roebuck.

I knew that Joe was widely travelled, with a goodly measure of useful data archived below his ginger topknot; so it was with no fear of disappointment that I had put the question to him.

"It reminds me of my experience with the Mattawah," he said.

“The what?” I blinked.

“Mattawah; the Mattawah Indians.”

"Are you talking of Redskins?" I took the bait, more than fascinated.

"Yes;" he confirmed, “though a refill of my tankard will, doubtless, ease my recollection of the matter. It was all a good while ago, you understand.”

I was only too pleased to oblige and, in anticipation of a seriously good yarn, insisted he have something extra along with his ale. I treated him to a large cognac.

When he was a youth, he told me, he had gone to the Central American Plains, assisting an artist who wished to capture the colourful natives on canvas. Joe's job was, according to him, something on the lines of a companion cum-dogsbody. Anyway, the travellers at last met up with the near-extinct tribe and, to their relief, persuaded the chief that his sitting for a portrait would be more fruitful than having them skinned alive. The old man, who was approaching the end of his long life, chose to be immortalised wearing his funeral blanket, and stood sporting it, proudly, while other elders looked on - disapprovingly, Joe noted. They, through a torturous series of gesticulations and contortions, managed to communicate their concern with what they saw as an act of folly. Naturally, Joe's mind went to the age-old misconception which all those savages seem to share, namely the capture of one's soul along with one's image. But it soon became apparent that this was not their worry. They kept pointing at the blanket.

Regardless of this, the old chief had his way, and the painting got completed. Then, just hours before Joe and the artist were due to leave, one of the braves approached the latter and, in a totally unprovoked attack, buried a tomahawk in his cranium. As an acknowledgement of the man who’d performed ‘big magic’ with his oils and brushes, the chief had the artist wrapped in the blanket before committing his body to the pyre.

Again - and saddened of course, yet fearful for his own life - Joe made ready to depart. Then, one of the tribesmen suddenly collapsed and died. Being a hereto young and healthy being, the brave had not yet commissioned a blanket of his own, so another was snatched for him. All in all, nine deaths occurred; some from mysterious causes, others from accidents; all within the space of a few days. It was only when Joe was finally leaving that the medicine man summoned him and, again through a difficult communications problem, explained what was needed to put an end to it.

"Which was?" I asked, over my second jug of porter, and still immensely intrigued.

"Well, they discovered that it’s unwise to fashion a man's outfit for the hereafter while he lives; for if he is sent on his journey in anything other than that, a void is created; a domino effect if you like. When the first man is in the wrong blanket, or box, he leaves behind the need to create another receptacle - which must be occupied. When it is, yet another lies waiting and, again, has to be filled; and so it goes on. Clearly, we put Edgar Goffin in a container not intended for him. It was made for some sailor chappie, wasn’t it?"

"The vicious circle,” I surmised, "is only complete when the first man's rightful outfit is destroyed. Is that what you’re saying?"

"Well... not exactly – but similar."

We continued our conversation at the churchyard. For some reason, Joe wanted me up there, by Goffin's multi-storey grave. It had, I was a trifle disturbed to note, been partially dug again; and, with the settlement that two weeks of heavy showers had brought, now had room for just one more.

"What the Mattawah Indians did," the solicitor resumed his account, "was take the murderous brave and throw him alive onto the fire, without any encasement at all. In that way, there was no need to commandeer another’s blanket and, thus, the sorry chain was broken."

"I see," I said, the gooseflesh beginning to rise on me. "But our problem seems to have ended itself, wouldn’t you say?"

Joe smiled knowingly. "It hasn’t ended," he pointed out; at the same time pointing a pistol at my head. "It's merely lain dormant, waiting until there was space."

"Are you saying..."

"Yes; one of us has to end it – and I can assure you it won’t be me.”

I gulped, loudly. "If you don't mind," I asked, "I'd like to dig out a fraction deeper first. I'd hate to be trapped so tantalisingly close to the surface."

"By all means," he acceeded, and kicked across the shovel.

As I toiled - which I cannot claim to have done with any haste - my mind recalled the old skinflint. Had he had the last laugh - buried for free, all expenses paid; even if he was obliged to share his grave with others? "It was you who murdered Goffin, wasn’t it," I accused Joe as I finished my work.

"It certainly was," he admitted freely, boasting, almost. "And the others."

“Why? Why kill us all?”

“The will, of course.”

“What will? Please explain.”

“Goffin’s. He never let it be known but, having no natural heirs, he had one of the partners in my practice draw up his last testament in our favour – the whole group of us.”

I was amazed at this revelation. “He despised us to a man,” I reminded Joe. “And he was the pinchfist supreme. Why reward us?”

“Only one of us.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“It’s a tontine will; only the ultimate survivor inherits. On this occasion, yours truly.”

It all made sense now. The crafty old devil, Goffin, knew exactly what such a devious scheme would lead to – as indeed it did. “I must tip my hat to your ingenious method, Joe,” I admitted. “As we were all feeling culpable, you knew none of us would speak of the goings-on to others.”

“Precisely.”

“And the mourners?”

“Street theatre people. Do anything for a florin. Now, come on, old chap; time for you to lie down.”

I needed to buy just a minute more. “Poison, was it?” I guessed.

“Of course. Though you’re my ‘Indian brave’, so to speak. You’re going in alive. But the others – yes, poison.”

"Ironic," I chuckled, watching his colour draining all of a sudden; and the flintlock beginning to escape his failing grasp.

With the last few shovel loads of dirt sealing-in his terrified face, I was unable to foretell what would actually do for Joe first; suffocation, or the powerful toxin I’d dropped in his brandy when he’d mentioned the Mattawah. You see, I'd invented that cock-and-bull Red Indian fantasy, myself, some years ago; and had it published in a couple of penny dreadfuls, under my nom de plume.

“You know, my dear fellow,” I said, just before the soil packed his ears, “you’re confused regarding the dénouement of my tale; for it was not the murderous brave thrown onto the pyre; it was he who did the throwing - as I’m now doing the shovelling. No: the unfortunate, whose agonising death finally broke the diabolical cycle, was a man named Josiah, the artist’s assistant; the very man you, foolishly, just claimed to be.”

So that was the upshot; though, do you ever have a sudden, worrying, realisation that you’ve forgotten something important? As I jumped up and down, firmly tamping down the final couple of sods, it occurred to me that there was one other question I should have put to the liar; but, of course, it was too late.

Tomorrow, when I go into town to claim my inheritance, I shall have to drop in on Porter, and enquire whether he has already made, and reserved, a casket with the inscription ‘Joseph Peregrin Solomens’ etched on the brass plaque.

If he has, and just in case, I’ll take it off his hands - and have a bonfire.

 

** ** **

 

© Albert Woods (2013)