The Death of Corinne Page 10

  Antonia went up to the cabinet and opened it. There were two scrapbooks inside. She took them out. They were bound in faded maroon leather and had the dates stamped in gold on their spines, 1943–1949 and 1950–1960.

  ‘I want to check something,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing to do with any of this. At least I don’t see how it could be. Just an idea.’

  ‘A bee in your bonnet.’ Payne nodded in a gratified fashion. ‘Aunt Nellie was right. We are terribly alike. That’s why we got married. We’d have remained incomplete if we hadn’t.’

  Antonia looked at him. ‘We don’t really finish each other’s sentences, do we? It’s been bothering me.’ Blowing the dust off its surface, she opened the first scrapbook and started leafing through it.

  It wasn’t really surprising that Lady Grylls’s youthful tastes should be revealed as a mixture of high society gossip, scandal, matrimony – and crime.

  14

  The Secret History

  Lord Redesdale denies being a fascist . . . King Farouk’s young daughter sends chocolates to Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret . . . Mrs Charles Sweeney falls forty feet down empty lift-shaft . . . Was Mr Somerset Maugham a spy? . . . The Hon. Jessica Gerrad’s Lagonda stolen . . . Lady Mosley released from Holloway prison.

  There were pictures cut from the Illustrated London News. They were brittle, crinkly and yellow with age. Dashing debs: Miss Rosamund Cadogan and best friend the Hon. Anelie de Broke presented at court. Well, Corinne’s mother was exactly as Lady Grylls had described her: a proud beauty, head held high, almond-shaped eyes, dark and long-legged, wearing a most revealing dress. Lady Grylls had denigrated her own appearance, but she wasn’t bad-looking either. Somewhat on the plump side, true, but not unattractively so – she might have posed for Rubens. Lots of men liked that type, Antonia reflected. She had a lovely heart-shaped face, luxuriant blonde hair and a sweet shy smile. She had taken her horn-rimmed glasses off for the picture and was clutching them in her hand. There was something endearing about it.

  Mrs George Keppel buried under cypress trees in Protestant Cemetery in Florence . . . Lady Docker’s jewels stolen . . . M. François-Enrique Coreille and Miss Anelie de Broke dining at the Café de Paris in Coventry Street. M. François-Enrique and Miss Rosamund (‘Ruse’) Cadogan dining at the Savoy.

  Le falcon – if one had to call him that – did look devastatingly charming and was, in all probability, utterly rotten. Ruse was gazing at him in an adoring manner. She was wearing a shimmering sleeveless dress. Her arms blazed with diamond bracelets from wrist to elbow and she sported a striking brooch on her bosom: two ostriches attached, back-to-back, Siamese-twin fashion. It was the kind of brooch Mrs Simpson had favoured, Antonia thought.

  Greta Garbo in England: ‘Please to leave me alone’ . . . Lord Grylls to marry the Hon. Anelie de Broke . . . Where did Mrs Vicary go after the charity ball?

  Antonia opened the second scrapbook. Sir Winston Churchill and new friend Aristotle Socrates Onassis. The two famous men were shown wearing yachting caps and smoking monstrously long cigars. Antonia gazed across at her husband. ‘I bet you don’t know what Onassis’s second name was?’

  ‘I do. Socrates. I know all sorts of silly and pointless things, I keep telling you.’

  ‘How many gardeners did it take to paint the roses red in Alice?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Is there really such a thing as “lion’s powder” or did you make that up?’

  ‘There is. You can get it at Harrods. You throw it in the lion’s face and the brute sneezes its head off, after which he leaves you alone. The Sardauna of Sokoto has a standing order for it . . . You don’t believe me? What are you looking for?’ Payne went round the table and stood beside Antonia. He took her hand and tried to kiss her on the lips. ‘I know that bloodhound look . . .’ He glanced down at the open scrapbook. ‘Fancy dress party at the Casanova Club: Princess Margrethe of Denmark as Red Riding Hood, Mr Dominic Elwes as American Cowboy . . . What would you look like,’ he murmured, ‘dressed up as Red Riding Hood?’ He put his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck.

  ‘I’d look ridiculous . . . Stop it, Hugh. What would your aunt say if she were to come in now?’

  ‘She would applaud. Aunt Nellie likes her males red-blooded and alpha-amorous . . .’

  Antonia managed to turn another page. ‘There it is. I’ve found it! Couple abducted in Kenya . . . 13th May 1960. Monsieur and Madame Coreille –’

  ‘Good lord.’ Payne relaxed his embrace. ‘Affluent Anglo-French couple . . . Corinne’s parents. So that’s what you were looking for!’

  ‘Yes . . . Travelling on their own . . . Ventured into hazardous areas . . . Proliferation of dangerous gangs . . . Several abductions already. A Dutch couple disappeared only the week before . . . Foreign embassies had issued warnings. The Coreilles refused the services of a local guide . . . Last seen leaving the Royal Mombasa hotel in hired jeep. Jeep later discovered abandoned . . . Ransom note delivered at hotel early next morning . . . Half a million dollars requested for their release . . . Ultimatum given – both die if demands not met . . . Police warned not to take action if the Coreilles are to live . . . Police believe threat to be serious. Previous abductions of Western tourists ending in tragedy . . . Coreille relatives in England and France contacted . . . Shocking discovery . . . Bodies found by passing Masai farmer –’

  ‘Gosh,’ Payne said quietly. ‘They didn’t wait, did they? That’s only two days later!’

  ‘Yes . . . Bodies horribly mangled – unrecognizable – severe mutilations – PM to be held . . . Clothes, personal items and passports in name of Monsieur and Madame Coreille – relatives in England and in France notified . . . The police searching for clues.’

  ‘What paper is that?’

  ‘The Evening Post.’ Antonia went on reading, ‘The late Monsieur Coreille was in the news recently in connection with an investigation conducted by French police into his affairs. As we reported earlier, large sums of money belonging to clients of the firm where he was one of the trustees had been disappearing. The total sum amounts to four hundred and ninety-five thousand pounds. The investigation continues although it is doubtful whether any of the money will ever be recovered –’

  Antonia looked up as the door opened. ‘Gotcha!’ Lady Grylls’s triumphant bassoon was heard. As she entered, her eyes fixed on the scrapbook in Antonia’s hands.

  Lady Grylls’s face was extremely flushed and her eyes were bright behind her glasses. She appeared to be in suspiciously high spirits. ‘That young man’s brilliant, absolutely brilliant. You should have seen the way he put Peverel in his place! I didn’t hear what he told him exactly, but it knocked the wind out of Peverel’s sails good and proper. He whispered something to him. I was smoking, you see, flicking ash everywhere. As you know, Peverel always has something to say when that happens, but this time he didn’t. Dumbstruck!’

  ‘Did he tell you what it was he said to Peverel?’ Antonia asked.

  ‘No, but he promised he’d tell me later. We’d gone into Peverel’s room – part of the security checks, you know. Such fun, poking under beds and things – raising clouds of dust – we kept sneezing and coughing. I could have died of shame – made me feel like a dirty old woman!’ Lady Grylls laughed raucously. ‘I do need to have Chalfont spring-cleaned one of these days, but there’s never enough money in the kitty!’ She laughed again. ‘Who was it who said, I don’t drink to excess, I drink to everything?’

  Major Payne raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you all right, darling?’

  ‘Of course I am all right. Never felt better. Silly question. You don’t seem to understand, Hughie. I smoked in Peverel’s room – his very private sanctum – and he didn’t say a word. Didn’t even give me one of his looks. He seemed jolly discomfited by what Andrew said to him.’

  ‘Andrew?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe this, but Peverel ceased to be his usual superior self and became rather meek and mild, like the proverbi
al lamb. I’ve never seen him look like that! Never! Extraordinary. I must say I like Andrew enormously. A splendid young man.’

  ‘Do you mean Jonson?’

  ‘We can’t go on calling him Jonson. Mr Jonson is even worse. Ridiculous. By the way, I asked him to stay.’

  Payne put his head to one side. ‘Darling, do correct me if I am wrong, but have you been drinking?’

  ‘The merest drop of Amontillado –’

  ‘Not Uncle Rory’s Amontillado!’

  ‘Don’t be a bore, Hughie. Of course it was Rory’s Amontillado. It’s more than a hundred and fifty years old –’

  ‘Precisely!’

  ‘We needed to celebrate the successful completion of the security checks and the fact we found no madman,’ Lady Grylls explained calmly. ‘Andrew had been planning to get a room at the local hotel. Those had been Corinne’s instructions, he said, but as you know the local hotel is a ghastly hole, not the kind of place where splendid young men stay, so I wouldn’t hear of it. I gave him a clean toothbrush and a pair of Rory’s pyjamas. I am sure he’ll be snug as a bug in them.’ Lady Grylls pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Now then, Antonia. Have you found what you were looking for?’ She crossed to the table and looked down at the open scrapbook.

  ‘Le falcon and Ruse . . . Look at that brooch! It’s magnificent, isn’t it? I gave it to her.’ Lady Grylls tapped a page. ‘Cost me a pretty penny. Cartier’s . . . There’s me with le falcon at the Café de Paris. Look at my dress – studded with diamonds – see how it glitters? My figure wasn’t really bad then. If I wore something like that nowadays, I’d look like a spray-flecked seal . . . The way the falcon’s eyeing me!’ Suddenly Lady Grylls became serious. ‘Wasn’t that what you were looking for, Antonia? I did give myself away, didn’t I? Well, this is not the only picture of us together. There are others. There’s one of him kissing me on the steps of the Savoy.’ She started leafing through the scrapbook. ‘It’s somewhere – I don’t think I’ve thrown anything away.’

  There was a stunned pause. ‘You don’t mean you and him . . .’ Major Payne began.

  ‘I do mean me and him, Hughie. Le falcon and I saw quite a bit of each other – both before and after he’d got engaged to Ruse. There was quite a thing between us. I’d always wanted to know why Linda fell for Fabrice, you see. I mean The Pursuit of Love. Or Lady Donna for the Frenchman in the creek. Goodness. My head was full of that kind of romantic bosh . . . Don’t stare like that. It was all a long time ago. François-Enrique was double-crossing Ruse with me. I can’t say I am sorry. In a way I was glad . . . Wasn’t that what you wanted to find out, Antonia?’ A defiant note had crept into Lady Grylls’s voice.

  ‘No. It was – it was something else,’ Antonia faltered.

  ‘Are you sure? You are a dangerous woman.’

  ‘Not at all –’

  ‘Well, I might as well tell you the whole story. I was in love with the falcon. No. I was mad about him. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I loved him. The way he looked at me! Ah. I’d got it into my head that I was on my way to becoming a dowdy back number, you see, but he made me feel – goodness, I can’t explain – as though he were inspecting one of those jewellers’ trays on which famous diamonds are displayed! I’d have done anything for him. If he’d told me, here’s a gun, go and shoot the Prime Minister, I’d have gone and done it. I honestly would have. Mr Attlee would have been a dead man. So would Mr Churchill.’ Lady Grylls sounded disturbingly earnest. ‘So, for that matter, would Mr Eden –’

  ‘Darling – not three prime ministers. It lasted that long?’

  ‘Well, our affair started while he was courting Ruse. And we continued seeing each other after he and Ruse got married and went to Paris. Rory hadn’t an inkling . . . Such a fool!’ She guffawed. ‘Le falcon came to London often, on business trips. I lived for those visits. I paid a price of course . . . The usual . . . I don’t know why I am telling you any of this. None of your bloody business.’

  ‘You don’t mean you got . . .’

  ‘Preggers? I did, Hughie.’

  ‘Corinne is your –’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Antonia.’

  ‘Not Cousin Patricia?’

  ‘Well spotted, Hughie. My daughter Patricia. My first-born child was his. I fear so – yes. She’s got his eyes – yellow grey. And his fatal passion for gambling, sadly.’

  ‘Did Rosamund know?’

  ‘She didn’t know about Patricia, I don’t think, but if you mean about her husband having an affair with me, yes. Ruse saw a photograph of us in the Tatler. She saw the look on François-Enrique’s face. Then she asked me point blank and I confessed . . . I don’t think she quite minded.’ Lady Grylls scowled. ‘You see, she knew that he would never leave her. She knew her power. She was so damnably cocky about it. I did hate her for it. Oh well. It’s all in the past now . . . Goodness, I do feel light-headed. I’ll go and have a lie-down. Do excuse me.’

  The door slammed shut behind her. There was a pause. Payne looked at his wife. ‘Well! What do you think of that?’

  Antonia shrugged. ‘As she said, it’s none of our bloody business.’

  There was another pause. Payne pointed to the scrapbook. ‘You don’t think Ruse and François-Enrique really died, do you?’

  ‘It’s just an idea . . . In the months leading up to their tragic death, François-Enrique had been under investigation for stealing half a million from his clients. A very, very large sum of money in 1960 –’

  ‘They had been mangled by wild beasts. Unrecognizable, that’s what it said in the paper, didn’t it?’ Payne paused. ‘The bodies were identified by his mother. She went to Kenya. She then decided to have them buried there. Soon after she opened her own clinic, I remember Aunt Nellie telling me. It costs a pretty penny to open a clinic. Aunt Nellie thinks Madame Coreille got some kind of inheritance – but what if there wasn’t an inheritance? The money could have been –’

  ‘Madame Coreille’s reward for her cooperation. Exactly. It all fits in. There was the falcon and Ruse’s fatal love of gambling. They had been losing a lot of money. They ignored warnings about dangerous gangs. They didn’t take a local guide with them. A Dutch couple had disappeared in the area a while earlier. Is it too far-fetched to suppose that the falcon and Ruse –’

  ‘– staged their own death? No, not too far-fetched at all.’

  ‘Oh God, we do finish each other’s sentences, Hugh. Did you notice?’

  ‘We do it only when propounding theories. Now don’t interrupt . . . The falcon and Ruse were both wrong ’uns. They could have struck up some sort of deal with one of those criminal gangs,’ Major Payne went on. ‘The poor Dutch couple might have been kept captive by the gang, pending a ransom or something – it might have been them who got killed and substituted for the Coreilles . . . As you say, my love, it is certainly an idea. It’s not as though that kind of thing has never happened. People do steal fortunes, fake their deaths, assume new identities and disappear to paradise islands. Only,’ Major Payne said, ‘I don’t quite see how any of this could have any bearing on the death threats received by the Coreilles’ daughter forty-three years later . . . Do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t . . . Changing the subject,’ Antonia said, ‘what do you think Jonson told Peverel to make him look uncomfortable?’

  15

  The Haunting

  It was early the following day, 2nd April.

  Antonia sat in bed writing her diary, a blanket around her shoulders. Her bedside table lamp was on. It was five thirty in the morning and too early to expect tea. The heating had not come on either.

  Antonia was dying for a cup of tea. She wished she had accepted Lady Grylls’s offer of an ancient Teasmade. It would have been so nice to have it hissing and spluttering on the bedside table. Beside her Hugh hadn’t stirred . . . Should she sneak down to the kitchen in her dressing gown and brew herself a pot of tea? No. Too cold. The wind was in the east. She could hear it roaming about the house like a r
anging animal, thrusting its paws into the crannies and holes that had been formed as a result of the late Lord Grylls’s reluctance to repair and modernize Chalfont, sniffing under lintels, whining hoarsely the while. Antonia shivered and pulled the blanket round her shoulders. She remembered what Noel Coward had written in his diary after a weekend visit at Chalfont in the mid-1930s: Woke frozen. Shaving sheer agony. Loo like an icebox. Breakfast a bore.

  She concentrated on her diary.

  Corinne Coreille is not quite real. (Antonia wrote.) Her perpetual, unchanging youth for one puzzles me. We have been given so much information, some silly, some downright bizarre, all of it fascinating, and yet, like Aunt Nellie, I feel I know nothing about her. What is she like as a person? Really like. Has she got a personality at all, like us, ordinary mortals? She must have and yet I keep thinking of her as belonging to an alien species, as of some fabulous monster, an ageless phantom embalmed in her all-devouring myth.

  I had a dream last night. I was walking down a labyrinthine yellow road – hints of Oz? – under crepuscular light. Orchids, roses and other exotic flowers whose names I didn’t know, grew on either side of the road, Triffid-sized, as tall as trees! I had no idea where I was going but I was aware of a sense of anticipation. Then suddenly, at the end of the road, standing on a raised circular platform and revolving like the ballerina on an old-fashioned music box, I saw Corinne. She was singing. It was a song called ‘Vous Qui Passez Sans Me Voir’. (Is there such a song?)

  As I went closer, she started vanishing. She took off her hair first, which was just a wig, then peeled off her face, which was a mask, then her hands, the way one removes gloves. Underneath there was nothing. Nothing at all. She never for a moment stopped singing. Eventually her dress fell to the platform and she disappeared completely. It was like H.G. Wells’s invisible man. The platform went on turning round and her disembodied voice went on singing. I felt as though I had witnessed some conjuring trick.