The Death of Corinne

by R. T. Raichev

  Jonson gave a polite smile. ‘I am sorry, sir, but I must go.’

  ‘This is actually jolly important, old boy –’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t stay long,’ Jonson said uncertainly, looking back at the door, then at his watch. His hand went up to his chest where there was a slight bulge. His mobile phone, Antonia guessed, was in his inside pocket. Was he expecting a call?

  ‘I am sure you can. Festina lente and all that. Didn’t they teach it to you at school? Wouldn’t you care for a snifter?’ Payne gestured hospitably towards the whisky decanter and siphon on the side table. ‘A nightcap? No? Sure? Not while carrying out your duties – same as the police, what? Golly. Had no idea you abided by the same rules. Antonia? No? I’ll have one m’self, if you don’t mind.’ After he had poured himself a whisky into a cut-crystal glass, he took a sip and said, ‘Look here, old boy. We are going to put our cards on the table. You are a decent sort of chap – we have no doubt about that, do we, my love?’

  Antonia smiled and gave a nod of mock solemnity. She never failed to be amused when her husband struck one of his Blimpish poses. If he had had a moustache, he would have stroked it with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It was an act he put on. No one took the Blimp seriously. People’s lips twitched into smiles, they relaxed their guard and then they could be tricked into blurting out things heedlessly, into giving themselves away through their disparaging attitude – and when they did, he pounced on them – figuratively, of course.

  ‘We’ve been ferreting things out, you see, but there are a couple of loose ends we’re a bit puzzled about . . . I had a talk with my sister earlier on,’ Payne went on, ‘and she happened to mention that my cousin Peverel had an affair with Corinne Coreille back in the early ’70s. Is that what you told him yesterday? That you knew about it?’

  There was a pause. ‘I had no idea your cousin had had an affair with Mademoiselle Coreille. I told him that I had seen his photograph on her dressing table, that’s all,’ Jonson said. ‘I realized that I hadn’t met him in person, only seen his photograph. I could see he was startled. It was clear he didn’t like to be reminded . . . I don’t think that has anything to do with the death threats.’

  ‘Hasn’t it? Perhaps not. It’s good to eliminate the irrelevant and the superfluous, clear away the tangle of extraneous bushes from the main path of inquiry, as they say – so that we can concentrate on what really matters, wouldn’t you agree? What about that other business – the blood bond between la Maginot and Corinne? Isn’t that relevant to your investigation?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The bond of blood, old boy. The tie that bindeth. The old DNA . . . Maître Maginot and Corinne Coreille are mother and daughter, aren’t they?’

  There was another pause, a longer one this time. Antonia was watching Jonson and she saw the blood drain slowly from his face. He remained standing by the door, stock-still, his arms hanging at his sides. Payne, whose eyes too had been fixed on Jonson, nodded in a satisfied manner. ‘They are. Thank you. You may be an excellent detective and a first-rate mimic, but you aren’t a terribly good actor. You wear your heart on your sleeve. A most endearing characteristic.’

  Jonson ran his tongue over his lips. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Well, we noticed the resemblance. They have the same eyes. They make the same gestures – the way they tilt their heads to one side in particular. Then there is the brooch.’

  ‘The brooch?’

  ‘Maître Maginot’s brooch, yes – or rather, the brooch the woman calling herself Maître Maginot is wearing at this very moment. I did mention it earlier. Two silver ostriches linked together by their tails. Rather whimsical and dashed memorable. You see, m’wife and I happen to be jolly observant. We rarely miss a trick. We had seen the brooch in a photograph – it’s in one of my aunt’s scrapbooks. Maître Maginot wore the brooch pinned to her turban at dinner first, then to her beret. She is clearly attached to it. That was jolly careless of her. She didn’t seem to think that Aunt Nellie would notice – or remember.’ Payne paused. ‘You see, the brooch was given to Corinne’s mamma by my aunt when they were debs together in post-war London.’

  Jonson stared back at him. ‘Your aunt – gave Corinne’s mother the brooch when they were debs together?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Payne took another sip of whisky. ‘In postwar London. You know the kind of thing. Glamour gels in off-the-shoulder gowns, exchanging wide-eyed glances with other glamour gels and flashing little smiles at the men, continually checking their cards to see if they’ve got their dances down right . . .’

  There was a pause. Antonia was puzzled by the change that had come over Jonson. The tension, the anxious look, the guilty air – they had all left him. Disconcertingly, Jonson seemed to have relaxed. She saw a light spring into his eyes and a little smile, half amused, half scornful, appeared on his lips. It was as though Jonson had suddenly seen a large hole in his opponent’s reasoning. She nearly expected him to say, ‘Oh yes?’ but he merely resumed his blank expression. She didn’t quite know what to make of any of it.

  Jonson said, ‘I see . . . Well, what are you going to do about it?’ His voice held a defiant note.

  ‘Haven’t decided yet . . . It would be interesting to know how you discovered that Maginot was Ruse.’

  ‘Ruse?’

  ‘Sorry. That’s her nickname. Ruse – short for Rosamund. Corinne’s mamma.’

  ‘Yes. Rosamund. That’s right,’ Jonson said. The flat voice again. Antonia frowned. He’s going to tell a lie, she thought. ‘Well, I found out who she was entirely by accident. It happened while I was in Paris – at their house – looking for the person who had been leaking stories about Corinne. I saw something – some papers.’

  ’Is Ruse aware that you know her true identity?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Payne looked at him. ‘You realize of course that Ruse has perpetrated several deeds that are punishable by law? She’s been accomplice to embezzlement and theft. She has assumed false identity, perpetrated impersonation and, very possibly, condoned double murder.’

  ’What double murder?’

  ’That of a Dutch couple in Africa – it was their bodies that were passed off as the bodies of Ruse and François-Enrique.’ There was a pause. Payne pushed his hands deep into his dressing-gown pockets. ‘You aren’t by any chance blackmailing her, are you? Or should I say “them”, since Corinne too is involved. I believe she’d do what her chère maman tells her . . . Corinne’s got oceans of dosh –’

  Suddenly Jonson laughed. ‘No, I am not blackmailing them.’ He sounded genuinely amused and perfectly truthful. Antonia’s bewilderment deepened. ‘No,’ Jonson said again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the stick altogether. Goodnight.’

  He turned round and, without another word, left the room. Antonia and Payne looked at each other. ‘I don’t know exactly how,’ Antonia said slowly, ‘but I think he is right – I do believe we’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Not only about the blackmail, but altogether.’

  ‘But he admitted they were mother and daughter!’

  ‘He did – and I don’t think he was bluffing. The whole thing is very confusing, I know.’ Antonia frowned. ‘I seem to have a glimmer of the truth . . . That photograph – the photograph I found in Jonson’s case. There was something in it – that shouldn’t have been there at all – I am sorry, I am too tired . . . Does that make sense?’

  ‘Not in the least.’ Major Payne yawned prodigiously. ‘I am terribly tired myself. Can hardly stand on my feet. Time for Bedfordshire, wouldn’t you say?’

  22

  The Rising of the Moon

  Lady Grylls peered at her god-daughter through her thick bifocal glasses. ‘I just came to check if you have everything you need, Corinne. Are you comfortable? I’ve brought you a bottle of mineral water. Hope you don’t mind it’s Hildon and not Evian or Volvic. I always buy British.’

  She had given her god-daughter the best r
oom – the Cynthia Drake. Who Cynthia Drake was, or whether she had existed at all, Lady Grylls had no idea. The association was lost in the mists of time. She wondered whether it had been some old flame of Rory’s, but she doubted it. She looked round. Pale pink walls, thick cream carpet, silk lampshades, two little gilt chairs covered in ivory watered satin, a painted escritoire.

  Her god-daughter was sitting on the bed. She had changed into a dark blue peignoir with white trimmings around the neck and cuffs. She held her hands clasped in her lap. Her fringe reached down to her eyes. She looked absurdly young and somewhat forlorn. Poor Corinne. She brought to mind a novice nun. Lady Grylls was filled with sudden pity.

  ‘Oh, thank you very much, Aunt Nellie. Everything’s perfect. Thank you for the snowdrops and the crocuses.’ Corinne pointed to the two tiny vases on the mantelpiece. ‘That was sweet of you . . . There is an owl somewhere outside. Can you hear it? It keeps hooting.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s his way of keeping himself warm. Don’t worry, my dear.’ I should stop talking to her as though she were a child, really, Lady Grylls thought. ‘So cold, isn’t it? Or is it just me? Would you like a hot-water bottle in your bed?’

  ‘No, thank you. It’s not too cold. I think when the owl hoots, it means he’s trying to mesmerize little birds and mice, so that he can find easy prey . . . There it is again . . . It sounds almost human.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it? Easy prey, that must be the reason, yes.’

  ‘The door, it does not lock. Is there a key?’

  Lady Grylls squinted down at the lock. ‘Goodness, you are right. The key’s gone. The way things disappear in this house! We had a problem with keys disappearing some time ago. Nicholas thinks it’s a poltergeist, but don’t worry – it isn’t. You aren’t nervous, are you?’

  She received a pale smile. ‘A little . . . Is Chalfont haunted?’

  ‘No. Of course not. That stupid boy claims there is a chilly patch on one of the landings, but he doesn’t know what he is talking about. I’ve never felt anything myself. A poltergeist indeed. Ridiculous. He says all sorts of things – he even claimed he’d seen Cynthia Drake!’ Lady Grylls guffawed.

  ‘The fantome of Cynthia Drake?’

  ‘All bosh. Forget I said it. Don’t worry. Nicholas is interested in magic and things like that. He takes dope. I should report him to Social Services, really, but I understand they are absolute pests, so I won’t. Besides, it would mean getting Provost in the soup. That’s Nicholas’s papa. I am sure Nicholas will grow out of it.’

  ‘I keep thinking about those letters,’ Corinne said with a sigh. ‘The American woman who wrote to me . . . I do feel sorry for her and her son.’

  ‘Yes, yes. All terribly morbid. Better not brood on it. Mad as a hatter. Not your fault,’ Lady Grylls delivered in brisk tones. ‘I can have you moved to another room, if you like? Where the door locks properly.’

  ‘No, thank you. It’s very late. I can always put that chest of drawers against the door, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Goodness. Yes – by all means. I am a terrible hostess, I know. The trouble is I don’t get visitors often these days – apart from my nephews. They don’t seem to mind when things go wrong, but the truth is the house is going to the dogs . . . The last time we had proper visitors was more than twenty-five years ago – the Alec Douglas-Homes. Such sweet, unassuming people. So terribly unworldly. No trouble at all. Not a word of complaint . . . The curtains – you want them drawn, don’t you?’

  Lady Grylls started walking across to the window. Passing the dressing table she stole a glance at the array of bottles and pots and tubes and a little box or two that constituted Corinne’s ‘clamjampherie’ – that was the word Lady Grylls’s Scottish nanny had been wont to use. Amidst it all Lady Grylls was startled to see a pair of human hands lying side by side. It was gloves, of course, flesh-coloured, made of some delicate material, the nails painted in. Like discarded snakeskin, she thought, and she squirmed internally at the idea. For some reason she remembered that Eleanor Merchant had called Corinne a witch in her letter.

  ‘Full moon,’ she heard Corinne say. ‘I can see it from here.’

  ‘Full moon, yes.’ Lady Grylls stood gazing out of the window. ‘Your mamma hated full moons. Said they made her feel tense and fearful and heavy – as though somebody was sitting on her chest – like in that nightmare picture – you know the one with the squatting succubus and the mare’s head? No, I don’t think “succubus” is right – suc-cubi are female, aren’t they? Ruse said she couldn’t sleep properly when there was a full moon. Full moons gave her nightmares. She always had the feeling of impending disaster. Isn’t that when people are supposed to go berserk?’

  Enough nonsense – but what did one talk to Corinne about? She couldn’t possibly ask her how she had kept herself so young-looking – or why she had given Ruse’s brooch to Maginot. Or, for that matter, what Maginot’s first name was. For some reason Lady Grylls felt curious . . . One couldn’t imagine Maginot being called Bernadette or Françoise or Cécile or Mireille. Women like Maginot didn’t seem to have a first name. One couldn’t imagine them ever having been young – or ever having been in love. The idea of Maginot in love seemed grotesque. Had Maginot any family? She was too much of a type somehow. The megalomaniac monster. One-dimensional – like the humours in Ben Jonson or in the commedia dell’arte. One couldn’t imagine Maginot separate from Corinne – leading an existence which was independent of the life and career of her charge.

  Lady Grylls experienced an odd sensation – she couldn’t quite explain it – as though she were standing on the brink of some momentous discovery, but the feeling passed. I am exhausted, she thought. It’s been a long day. I am becoming fanciful. She pulled the curtains together. Turning round, she asked, ‘Do you remember your mamma at all? Hope you don’t mind me asking, my dear?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ The pale smile again, the right hand going up to the fringe, then down to the lap to join the other. Lady Grylls’s short-sighted eyes fixed on Corinne’s hands. Well, there was nothing wrong with either of them; they struck her as smooth and supple, certainly not the hands of a fifty-five-year-old. Why did she wear gloves then? Not a single wrinkle or brown speck, not the merest hint of a liver spot either, as far as she could see, but then she couldn’t see properly. Lady Grylls pushed her glasses up her nose. She must have that cataract operation sometime soon. She was annoyed with old Morgan nagging at her, but it was rather unwise of her, she had to admit, to keep calling off the operation the way she did.

  ‘I do remember my mother, yes . . . vaguely. I was very young when she died.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Terrible business, ‘ Lady Grylls said quickly. ‘Your mamma was a most colourful character. We were great chums. I do miss her sometimes,’ she added untruthfully. She meant to be kind. She was filled with compassion: the poor thing needed encouragement, bolstering – she had such a ‘lost’ look about her! ‘What is it you remember? What would you say was the most remarkable thing about your mamma?’

  ‘Her voice . . .’

  ‘Her voice? Well, it was low and husky and rather attractive, men liked it and all that, but of course Ruse couldn’t sing for toffee.’ Lady Grylls laughed. ‘I was a better singer than she ever was. Your papa had sung in a church choir as a boy, but it was his parents who made him do it. Now I adore the way Frenchmen talk, but his voice wasn’t in any way remarkable either. That’s why everybody was so stunned when you turned out such a miracle.’

  ‘I remember a song. I was very young, but I remember listening to it – it was probably the first song I actually liked . . . “Love Story” . . . Of course it was my mother who –’ Corinne broke off and looked down. She suddenly looked confused – frightened – as though she’d said something she shouldn’t . . . I am imagining things, Lady Grylls thought.

  ‘I mean, of all the songs I sang, “Love Story” was my favourite,’ Corinne went on. ‘My mother would have loved it, I always felt. I sang its Fre
nch version. “Histoire d’Amour”.’

  Lady Grylls frowned. Everything seemed to be out of focus somehow . . . What was the girl on about? She didn’t make sense. She was rambling – must be frightfully tired. She must be suffering from a crise de nerfs. Lady Grylls felt sure Corinne had been about to say something different. Of course it was my mother who – What? What had she meant to say? Ruse wouldn’t have loved ‘Love Story’. Ruse had been the most unsentimental person who ever lived, cynical, pragmatic and as tough as old boots.

  ‘Oh yes? That’s from the film, isn’t it?’ Lady Grylls said. ‘Love Story. Rather sad, I remember. The gel dies at the end –’ She broke off. Mustn’t talk about death and gels dying, she thought.

  She heard the grandfather clock in the hall downstairs chime the half-hour.

  Half past eleven.

  That was the last time Lady Grylls saw her.

  The following morning, 4th April, at eight o’clock sharp, when Provost went to Corinne Coreille’s room to deliver her cup of early morning tea – very pale Earl Grey, flavoured with a slice of lime, as she had requested – he found the door ajar. He knocked, then called out ‘Miss Coreille?’, but receiving no answer, pushed the door open and entered.

  The room was empty. So was the bathroom. The bed, he observed, was made. He didn’t immediately assume that it hadn’t been slept in. There were no signs of any disturbance. He then went into the room next door, which was Maître Maginot’s. The night before the ‘old Frenchwoman’, as he called her, had asked for a cup of camomile tea sweetened with honey for the morning. This room too was empty. He looked around: at the kimono with an elaborate floral pattern on the bed, the cellophane bag of sugared almonds and the tatty book – La Langue des Fleurs – on the bedside table. Next to the book lay two folded newspapers: the International Herald Tribune and Le Monde.

  ‘Where could they have gone, Provost?’ Lady Grylls wheezed as she sat in her bed, propped up between several large pillows, looking very pink. Her hair was in a hairnet and, as usual, she was wearing a pair of Rory’s old striped pyjamas – so much more comfortable than any of her nightdresses. She sipped the strong Assam tea, bit into a slice of buttered toast, drew on her cigarette, her first for the morning, and cast an eye over The Times, which Provost had placed on her tea-tray. She was smoking a Balkan Sobranie – they had been a present from Corinne. As she sat lost in thought, it looked as though she had a decadent mauve lipstick hanging from the corner of her mouth. Her glasses had slid down her nose but she didn’t push them up.