The Death of Corinne Read online

  I continue to feel uneasy about Jonson – or Andrew, as Aunt Nellie insists on us calling him. Last night he declared the house and the grounds ‘clean’. The more I get to know him, the more I like him. And yet, I don’t think that he’s told us the whole truth about Corinne Coreille. There is something wrong there. What is it he knows? He couldn’t be the killer, could he? No, of course not. He might have been able to arrange for the death threats to be sent to Corinne in Paris, but how could he possibly have known about Eleanor Merchant and her letters? Well, he could have seen Eleanor’s Saverini website. But why should he want to kill Corinne?

  All right – they might have had an affair after she employed his services last year. He might have fallen madly in love with her and become very upset and angry when she broke up the affair. No, that’s nonsense – Corinne wouldn’t be asking him to do another job for her if their parting had been in any way acrimonious, would she?

  NB. I need to learn to curb my imagination. This is NOT a detective story.

  The rain outside continued pouring down and the wind could be heard wailing in the chimney. The dining-room windows creaked and rattled. (Double glazing was one of the things the late Lord Grylls had considered ‘vulgar’.) All the lights were on and every now and then they flickered. The house, Lady Grylls said, needed rewiring. ‘When I asked Rory to have it done, he told me I knew as much about such matters as your average Masai warrior. He said soda-water siphons knew more about rewiring than I did . . . D’you know what Rory liked doing best?’ Lady Grylls looked round the table. ‘Getting up at the crack of dawn, putting on an old shooting jacket and pottering out to the woods at the back to “investigate” the habits of badgers. Before the badgers he was engrossed in some drama involving a colony of bats. He wrote endless letters to The Times about his “findings”.’

  So much for my lavishly lovely spring, Antonia thought as the windows rattled again. The picture that was emerging of the Gryllses’ marriage was not particularly attractive either. Soda-water siphons! Antonia suddenly felt rather depressed. I am glad Lady Grylls had an affair with a Frenchman, she thought defiantly, to boost her spirits.

  It was nine o’clock and they were sitting around the polished Queen Anne table, having breakfast. Two kinds of eggs, scrambled and boiled, somewhat overdone rashers of bacon, glue-like porridge, which proved amazingly tasty, Oxford marmalade, toast, tea and coffee. She couldn’t afford kedgeree or devilled kidneys or any such nonsense people staying in country houses seemed to expect, Lady Grylls had declared. Still, the butter pats were pressed with the Grylls baronial coronet, Antonia noticed. Peverel, they were informed by Provost, had left very early in the morning in his car.

  ’It’s a filthy day but these are glad tidings.’ Lady Grylls cast an affectionate glance at Jonson who was standing by the sideboard, plate in hand. She seemed to be crediting him as the main contributor to her nephew’s departure. She lit a cigarette, then picked up her cup and took a sip of coffee. ‘You are not eating much, Antonia. You aren’t on a diet, are you?’

  ‘No . . . I don’t think I should be on a diet, should I?’

  ‘By no means – but Hugh might have been giving you ideas. Men are funny about that sort of thing. Elizabeth was thin.’ Lady Grylls lowered her voice. ‘Too thin, I always thought.’ Elizabeth was the name of the first Mrs Payne.

  ‘I didn’t like it.’ Payne spoke from behind The Times. ‘I told her but she wouldn’t listen.’

  Antonia felt absurdly gratified.

  Provost had left the dining-room door open and the telephone was heard ringing in the hall. That was the third time since they had started breakfast. Jonson looked up. Lady Grylls leant back in her chair and said, ‘I bet it’s our friend, the anonymous caller, again.’ Payne pulled at his lower lip and shot Antonia a glance. Eventually Provost entered the dining room. He looked across at his mistress, his brows slightly raised.

  ‘The anonymous caller?’ Lady Grylls said.

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  ‘He means business, clearly. Whatever his business is. Again – not a word – just breathing?’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  ‘Breathing! Wrong time of the day. I mean that’s the kind of call one normally receives late at night, not during breakfast.’ She guffawed.

  ‘The call lasted four and a half seconds exactly. I timed it. I said hello several times and asked who it was, but the person rang off. The same as earlier on.’

  ‘Man or woman, d’you think?’

  ‘Couldn’t say, m’lady . . . Woman, I think.’

  ‘Really? How interesting. How could you tell?’

  ‘I don’t know, m’lady.’

  ‘Breathing like a woman . . . Breathing like a man . . . Do women breathe differently from men? Oh well. Never mind. The world’s full of crackpots,’ Lady Grylls declared cheerfully and poured herself more coffee. ‘I loved that puzzle you told us last night, Hughie. About the dead man in the middle of the field with the square package beside him. I don’t suppose you know any more like that?’

  ‘Oh, no – no more puzzles, please,’ Antonia said.

  ‘As a matter of fact I do.’ Payne pushed The Times to one side. ‘Did I tell you the one about the woman kissing a stranger?’

  ‘No – but I rather like the sound of it.’

  ‘Very well. A woman is walking in the street. Suddenly she rushes towards a man and gives him a long kiss on the lips that attracts everybody’s attention. She has no idea who the man is. Why should she want to kiss him?’

  ‘And I suppose he is not madly attractive? No. Well, she knows her husband’s following her and she wants to make him jealous? That’s what I would have done, if Rory had been the least bit jealous, which he wasn’t.’ Lady Grylls paused wistfully. ‘That’s not the correct answer, is it?’

  ‘No. The man’s had a fit and is lying on the ground. She gives him the kiss of life.’

  Lady Grylls looked enchanted. ‘A fit! Oh, you are so frightfully clever! A fit!’

  A tinkling crash on the terrace betokened the fall of yet another tile from the roof. There was a pause. Major Payne said, ‘Could that have been the Merchant? I mean the person who keeps phoning.’

  ‘Don’t call her the Merchant, Hugh . . . How could she possibly know this number?’ Antonia looked at Jonson.

  He shook his head. ‘She couldn’t. Maître Maginot said nobody knew it, apart from her and Corinne. She couldn’t know the address either.’

  ‘Ah, but you are forgetting that people of a lunatic cast of mind like the Merchant are terribly cunning,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘Method in their madness and all that . . . Does anyone want more toast?’

  Antonia looked round the table and asked, ‘Is there a song called “Vous Qui Passez Sans Me Voir”?’

  ‘You who pass without seeing me?’ Payne translated. ‘Not one of Corinne’s, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I believe I dreamt about it.’ Antonia smiled. ‘It would be very odd if no such song existed.’

  Jonson cleared his throat. ‘I think it’s an old song. One of Jean Sablon’s,’ he said, going red. ‘Jean Sablon was a crooner. France’s answer to Bing Crosby –’ He broke off, aware of their eyes on him. ‘I like French songs. I developed a taste after – um – after I heard Corinne Coreille sing.’

  ‘About that photo you found in Emilie’s locker, old boy. The photo of Corinne sitting in front of her mirror, putting on her make-up. With the kipper in front of her and so on. I don’t suppose you have it here, have you?’ Payne said. The night before he had told Antonia that he found the kipper business damned odd. ‘I’d like to take a squint at it, if possible. I’ve been wondering what Corinne looks like these days.’

  Antonia was watching Jonson and she was convinced that there was an infinitesimal pause – a flicker of the eyelids – before he shook his head. No, he didn’t have the photo. He had handed it over to Mademoiselle Coreille – together with the negative – and the film.

  He was lying. Thi
s time there was no doubt about it. He wasn’t used to telling lies. He was a decent man and, like most decent men, a bad liar. That’s why he kept giving himself away. For some reason he had kept the photograph. No – had a copy made. Why had he done that? For his records? She saw him cast his eyes upwards, at the ceiling, and look down at once. His hands were on the table – she saw them clench and unclench . . . Not only did he have a copy of the photograph, but for some reason he had brought it to Chalfont with him! Antonia felt great excitement surge through her. Yes. The photograph was in his room – in his briefcase, most probably. Antonia had caught sight of several files and manila envelopes when Jonson had taken Eleanor Merchant’s letters and the death threats out of it . . . For some reason Jonson didn’t want them to see the photo.

  It would be interesting to know why. Extremely interesting . . . Why had he brought the photo with him? That case was over, finished. Was it to remind himself of his past triumph? As proof of it? He didn’t look the type who did that sort of thing . . . Why do people carry photos with them? For sentimental reasons? For blackmailing purposes? Now that was an interesting line of thought . . . There was something in that photo Jonson didn’t want them to see. What was it? She needed to find out. She must find out.

  She was going to ask Hugh to keep Jonson occupied while she went up to his room and looked inside his briefcase . . . When should she do it? Antonia glanced at the rain-bespattered windows. Well, no better time than the present.

  The conversation at the breakfast table had turned to billiards. Jonson was saying that he rather enjoyed playing whenever he got the chance. As a matter of fact, so did he, Payne said. There was a billiard room at Chalfont, did Jonson know? Yes, he had been in it the night before, briefly, Jonson said, during the ‘checks’.

  ‘Rory and I used to have the odd game. He always accused me of cheating. Why don’t you two boys have a game?’ Lady Grylls urged and she offered to keep the score for them.

  ‘Yes, why don’t you?’ Antonia said casually. ‘The perfect solution for a wet day.’

  16

  Rear Window

  She should stop doing it, Eleanor Merchant told herself.

  She was gaining nothing, phoning like that. Nothing at all. It was careless of her. Well, she hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d got the idea that Corinne Coreille might have arrived earlier, that she might be at Chalfont Park already. Eleanor had hoped she might hear French speech somewhere in the background. She had even imagined that Corinne Coreille might pick up the phone herself! To hear that voice saying, ‘Allo? Allo? Oui, c’est moi, Corinne –’

  Why not? It wasn’t impossible. If Corinne happened to be passing by the phone, she might pick it up – what if it wasn’t her house? – people did that sort of thing instinctively . . . The thought that she might have heard Corinne Coreille’s voice sent shivers down Eleanor’s spine.

  No more phone calls, Eleanor decided. Why imperil the whole enterprise? Lady Grylls might be put on the alert and call the police! It would be so easy for the police to find Eleanor. She seemed to be the only stranger wandering the two main streets of Chalfont Parva under the falling rain. With her mink stole, badly bespattered with mud, yellow gloves and striped golf umbrella, she must stand out a mile . . . No, she mustn’t imperil the enterprise.

  (What enterprise? Experiencing a sudden, if short-lived, return of her sanity, Eleanor stood frowning in a puzzled manner. She had absolutely no idea why she had come all this way. What was she doing here, in this dump? What was it she intended to do? Pursue and harry an elusive chanteuse to the death, as though she were the Quorn and Pytchley and Corinne a fox? The thought made her smile and shake her head. That was the kind of thing only a nutcase would do!)

  The few drab village shops had unattractive displays in their dim windows. It was a depressing place. What a dump, she said in her best Bette Davis voice. (That had been another of her and Griff’s catch-phrases.) What a dump. So much for the greatly vaunted charm of the English countryside! Eleanor had been buying things she didn’t need. She opened her bag and inspected her purchases. Sweets, rock cakes, a couple of scones and a jar of something rather intriguing called Marmite. She had also bought a local paper – all about some agricultural show, a church fête and a man called Markham who had a sow for sale. She had wanted to get some peanut butter cookies but there weren’t any. The locals had been staring at her ghoulishly and she had heard them commenting on her American accent, which was odd considering that she did not have an American accent. Eventually she changed her hat to a silk scarf, which had been another of her London purchases, together with the umbrella, an electric torch and a pair of powerful binoculars.

  There was one more day to go. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . . She had left London quite early in the morning, at half past five. She had been eager to get up and go. She had gulped down her tea and scalded her tongue. It still hurt – felt swollen. The cab, on the other hand, had been fast enough, though the driver, to start with, had had no idea where Chalfont Parva was – he’d had to consult her map. Anyhow, the journey itself had taken less than three hours. Eleanor had booked herself into a motel outside Chalfont Parva and she could have stayed there, in her room, lain in bed, caught up on her sleep or watched television. She had caught a glimpse of The Haunting on TNT as she flicked through the channels, but she had felt extremely restless and impatient.

  What if Corinne Coreille had arrived and was already there, at Chalfont Park? What if that woman who’d answered the phone in Paris, the servant, had said the second of April, not the third? Eleanor might have got the date wrong. She might have misheard. Sometimes, she had to admit, her brain didn’t function properly.

  She had found where Chalfont Park was easily enough. It was a property belonging to Lady Grylls who was a baroness, she had been told by the postmistress, who had spoken in tones of hushed reverence. There was a large map in the post office window, which showed the whole of Chalfont Parva. Chalfont Park was only half a mile away. Eleanor stood under her umbrella, tracing very carefully the route from the village to Chalfont Park with a fore-finger. Map reading is an art, girlie, Uncle Nat had said.

  Moments later she started walking down the street. The wind had dropped but the rain hadn’t let up for a second.

  A thought popped into her head, like a jack in the box, for no particular reason, out of the void. The open wounds in Griff’s wrists had been like open mouths. She glanced down at her own wrists. That same second she was aware of a buzzing sound. It felt as though she had bees trapped in her head. Angry bees – was that some kind of warning? Was it wise for her to go anywhere near Chalfont Park? Well, all she wanted to do was take a little peep at the house and study the grounds. If Corinne was already there, she’d know it at once, she felt sure – she’d get one of those special feelings. She was a little psychic.

  Buzz, buzz, Eleanor mouthed. She put her hand into her pocket and her fingers closed round her weapon. Buzz-buzz. She felt reassured – for a moment she had thought she might have left it in her hotel room. She had to protect herself, that’s why she needed it. In case Corinne Coreille didn’t like what she had to say to her and attacked her. Corinne was unpredictable, volatile, emotionally unstable, mad. It was disgraceful – scandalous – that she hadn’t been put away yet. They should banish her to Devil’s Island.

  Uncle Nat’s words floated into her head. Kill or be killed. That’s what I told the soldiers under my command. There’s no third choice, boys.

  ‘I am really sorry but I had no choice, Inspector,’ Eleanor said aloud in her most genteel voice. ‘I did it in self-defence. She tried to kill me, you see.’

  The end of the street. Now to the right from somewhere nearby came the mournful moo of a cow . . . a field . . . two men . . . farm labourers . . . big and burly. One of them, the younger, looked like Owen. Perhaps it was Owen? Could Owen have followed her all the way from the US? Perhaps they had sent him to spy on her and bring her back? He might be acting on or
ders from Eleanor’s brother-in-law, who was a powerful man, or even the FBI. Owen would do anything for money. Griff, despite all his loyalty, had hinted as much. Or would the FBI employ a homosexual? They were very particular about that sort of thing – unlike the British secret service, which at one time had teemed with homosexuals. Perhaps Owen only pretended to be a homosexual? Perhaps the FBI used him as their hit-man and his brief was to eliminate homosexuals? Perhaps it was Owen who had killed Griff . . . It would have been so easy – as part of one of their ‘games’. He could have cut Griff’s wrists. Griff had liked pain.

  Spotting a clump of crocuses under a tree, Eleanor was put in mind of a drawing Griff had done. The flower of unforgetting, he’d called it. Owen’s name had been traced out in a series of concentric circles, in green and scarlet, so that the whole composition seemed to be of some monstrous blossom in which the petals were still unfolding . . . If Owen got anywhere near her, he’d regret it! Eleanor pushed her hand into her pocket once more. She imagined she heard a branch snapping – the sound of somebody’s heavy breathing – and cast a glance over her shoulder. She gave a sigh of relief. No, it wasn’t Owen – it wasn’t a human being that was following her – only Abraxas. ‘Stop following me,’ she said in a low authoritative voice and she shook her forefinger at him. At once Abraxas started dissolving.

  The grove. It was darker here, much darker. Quieter too. The only sound she could hear was the swoosh-swoosh murmur of her wet shoes. The trees met at the top and formed a tunnel. Hardly any rain fell here, just the odd drop. She took the torch out of her bag. A torch was essential . . . She was walking along a path with trees on both sides. It felt cosy – a pleasant mushroomy smell – like being inside a hollow, or inside a womb. Eleanor felt the irresistible urge to lie on the ground, curl up among the heaps of dry leaves, shut her eyes and have a little sleep . . .