The Death of Corinne Page 12

  The instant Eleanor emerged from the grove, the rain stopped. She saw that as a sign that all would be well, that her mission would be a great success. ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking up and blowing a kiss off the palm of her right hand . . . Griff was guiding her . . . And there, no more than ten minutes away, was the house! Chalfont Park. Not as grand as she had expected it to be – quite unlike the way she had seen it in her mind’s eye. She took out the binoculars and held them to her eyes. A once graceful residence fallen on hard times – paint peeling – the lawn was shockingly overgrown. No statues. No splashing fountains. No grandiloquent gates either. There had been a wall once, but it was in ruins now. Both house and garden had the dismal condition known as ‘reduced circumstances’ written all over them. ‘The superannuations of sunk realms,’ Eleanor murmured.

  She started walking round, crab-like, keeping her distance, and eventually caught sight of the back of the house. Through her binoculars she saw a stone terrace and french windows. She looked in the opposite direction. What was that octagonal building made of wrought iron and glass? A disused air about it . . . A greenhouse?

  ‘The first requisite of any invading army is a base,’ she said and, without a moment’s hesitation, she made for the greenhouse. She walked carefully, warily, trying to make her feet kiss the ground, no more – she didn’t want to broadcast her presence! On reaching the greenhouse, she turned the door handle down. Unlocked – another sign! ‘Goody,’ she said.

  She marched into the dim arboreal light, switched on the torch and stood looking round . . . Plants. Some in rather poor condition. They were still recognizable as what they had once been, but just about. Roses in urns on plinths, various creepers climbing up a trellis obelisk, ivy, ferns with curling fronds . . . There was a sweetish putrid smell in the air, but she didn’t mind. It was warm enough, dry too . . . Garden furniture. Two wooden chairs and benches painted battleship grey. An old tartan blanket. Some empty sacks on a stand in the corner. A bamboo table with a book and a magazine on it. Who’s Who in EastEnders and last August’s Vogue. The latter’s cover showed one of those super-thin female models, her golden hair matching her golden tan, cuddling an over-bred, absolutely vile-looking Siamese cat with a diamond choker around its neck. ‘Miaow,’ Eleanor said. Then she made an angry hissing noise. Beside the table stood a large glazed pot of a classical design – empty but for a number of cigarette ends. She picked one up – Sullivan Powell. She sniffed at it. Somebody had been smoking good quality cigarettes . . . The baroness? At one time Eleanor had smoked Sullivan Powell cigarettes herself. A rich tarry taste . . .

  Eleanor came to a decision. She had no doubt in her mind it was the right decision. She wouldn’t go back to the motel. She would stay in the greenhouse and watch out for Corinne. She could sleep here tonight – on one of the benches. Those sacks would make a good pillow . . . There was the blanket and her fur stole to cover herself with. It was far from the comfort and luxury she was used to, Sparta rather than the Savoy, but she would survive . . . She took out a scone and bit into it. No jam or cream, and the Marmite proved to taste foul, so some of it stuck in her throat. A frugal Calvinistic feast. She had bought a small bottle of mineral water but she must drink sparingly, she reminded herself.

  Standing beside the glass-panelled wall, she held the binoculars to her eyes once more. She saw a fox standing among the laurel and rhododendron on the left of the lawn – tall and grey-coated – what they called a dog-fox, Eleanor imagined. The fox looked back at her unblinkingly . . . She wondered if the fox would like a scone . . . The fox couldn’t be Corinne, could it? Lady into Fox. Corinne was a witch and witches could transform themselves into anything they liked. Should she go and cut the fox’s throat? It wasn’t against British law to kill foxes, was it – though it might provoke the ire of the Society of Suppression of Savage Severances . . . Eleanor giggled . . . They had quaint things like that in England. Well, they need never know! As though reading her mind, the fox disappeared into the shrubbery.

  Keeping the binoculars close to her eyes Eleanor gazed in the direction of the house, at the french windows on the ground floor. No light, even though it was such a dark morning. She saw that on the outside the windows were festooned with climbers . . .

  Her attention was suddenly drawn to a window on the first floor of the house. Somebody had entered the room and turned on the electric light. The curtains weren’t drawn across that window and she could see perfectly. A woman. Late forties? An oval face, short brown hair – olive-green dress – pleasant, intelligent – keen look – rather a flushed face. The woman stood there, as if on an illuminated stage. How easy it would have been to take a shot at her, if one had a gun and felt the inclination. One couldn’t possibly miss. Eleanor twisted her head to one side, shut her left eye and pretended to take aim. She made a popping sound with her lips.

  The woman had started moving around the room. Something furtive and guilty about her manner. What was it she felt so guilty about? It wasn’t her room. Of course. Eleanor’s interest increased greatly with this discovery. The woman was a stranger but Eleanor could identify with her – she knew how she must feel. We are both trespassers, she thought – we’d be in trouble were we to get caught . . . It felt as though she were in a box at the theatre, watching a play. She brought the binoculars closer to her eyes. Would the woman see Eleanor’s white blob of a face staring up at her if she were to glance out of the window? Unlikely . . . At any rate the woman was walking away from the window – in the direction of a desk in the corner . . . She was opening the briefcase that lay on top of the desk. She took out a folder, then another one – she seemed to be looking for something.

  Quick, quick, Eleanor urged her, beating her palm against the glass panel, infected by the woman’s frenzy. She trembled with excitement and dread. Make haste, girl, or they’ll catch you! Somebody may come in any moment! Eleanor felt the urge to cross over to the house, throw a pebble at the window, draw the woman’s attention, talk to her, confide in her, seek her counsel – feminine counsel had its special place in times of turmoil – impossible of course –

  The woman seemed to have found what she was looking for. Eleanor saw her lips part. An object inside the case – what was it? Some document? A letter? No, a photograph – yes. The woman was looking down at a photograph. Eleanor saw her eyes widen in recognition. (She was sure it was recognition.) What a shame she couldn’t see what was in the photograph! How frustrating! Eleanor beat the pane with her fist . . .

  It must be something quite astonishing.

  17

  The Fool of Love

  Antonia entered the billiard room, doing her best to appear as calm and normal as possible. She watched her husband play a shot and miss rather an easy cannon off the red. Major Payne made an impatient gesture and grumbled that it was too damned hot in the room, didn’t they think? Impossible to concentrate. His face was very red and he had an expression like thunder. Antonia guessed that he had been losing game after game to Jonson . . . Hugh was not a particularly gracious loser. The squabbles they had over Scrabble! He seemed bent on revenge. Both men were in their shirtsleeves, facing each other across the billiard table, holding up their cues, scowling – like duellists en garde, Antonia thought.

  Lady Grylls was sunk in one of the two dark leather button-backed chairs by the fireplace. She had a black silk Chinese shawl embroidered with dragons around her shoulders. She was eating chocolates out of a circular box embellished with mauve orchids and lavender silk ribbons, sipping brandy from a balloon glass and smoking through a long jet-black holder. A gold ribbed cigarette case with pavé sapphires lay on the round table beside her chair. She had a stately and somewhat decadent air about her – rather as if she taught etiquette on a pirate ship, Antonia thought.

  Lady Grylls had been telling her nephew and Jonson how she could have become Princess Philip of Greece. That was back in 1946, the year before Philip had married the Queen. Lady Grylls hadn’t been married either –
she’d been a mere Hon. They had met during an extremely dull shooting party. Philip had been jolly keen, but she hadn’t reciprocated his ardour. Still, she had been fascinated by his turbulent family history and strange genetic heritage. His grandfather had been assassinated, his father exiled, his mother had become a nun and had then been consigned to a lunatic asylum, at least one of his sisters had married a Nazi. ‘When we met again a couple of years ago he thought I was somebody else.’ Lady Grylls sighed.

  It was quarter past eleven. They had been having coffee – a tray with three ultra-thin porcelain cups, red with gold borders, and a silver pot stood on a side table. Antonia had heard Lady Grylls describe the new brand of coffee her suppliers sent her as ‘rich and dark as the Aga Khan’, which, she gathered, had been a non-PC advertising slogan from Lady Grylls’s youth.

  ‘Hugh, I’d like a word.’ Antonia tried to smile. ‘I do apologize, but it’s important.’

  ‘Ah, the little secrets of the newly-weds . . . A chocolate, my dear? The violet creams are particularly heavenly.’ Lady Grylls proffered the box but Antonia declined. ‘You are on a diet, admit it!’ Lady Grylls cried gleefully.

  Payne put down his cue. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy. I haven’t finished with you yet,’ he told Jonson. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked Antonia.

  ‘Wait,’ she mouthed.

  Up in their room she said, ‘I found it. The photograph. It was in Jonson’s case. He did bring it with him.’

  Major Payne looked scandalized. ‘You ransacked Jon-son’s room?’

  ‘I didn’t ransack his room. The photo was in his case. You won’t believe this –’

  ‘You don’t think it’s Corinne? Is that why you are so excited?’

  ‘No . . . It’s her all right. At least it looks like her. She has very short hair and a wig can be seen on her dressing table – it’s exactly as Jonson said.’ Antonia frowned as though for a moment something bothered her, then waved her hand. ‘That’s not it. There is a photograph on Corinne’s dressing table. A framed photograph –’

  ‘A photograph within the photograph? A double-edged clue, eh? Who’s in it?’

  She told him. He stared at her. ‘Fancy now . . . A framed photograph on Corinne’s dressing table suggests a degree of intimacy. Are you sure?’

  ‘I am sure, yes.’ Antonia paused. ‘He looks younger but it’s him all right . . . When did they meet?’ The next moment she gasped. ‘Of course. The second concert. So he did tell a lie!’

  ‘Yes. Let’s make assurance doubly sure.’ Payne turned round and made for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Going to phone my sister. She will tell us . . . Amanda’s always at home these days – ever since she got divorced and became an agony aunt to the great and the good.’

  There was nobody in the hall. Payne walked across the parquet floor that had been recently polished by Nicholas. The portrait of the eighth Baron Grylls stared down at him disapprovingly from its momentous place at the foot of the staircase, as though to say, No scandals in our family, but Payne ignored him. His eyes fixed momentarily on the glass case above the massive fireplace, which contained a grotesquely large stuffed salmon that had been caught by the ninth Baron in the Spey in 1920, pinkish but dull, its body’s dance and sheen long gone. He walked up to the small table, where the ancient black telephone made of Bakelite stood beside a Waterford bowl filled with rose petals, and dialled his sister’s Park Lane number.

  ‘That you, Amanda?’

  ‘Hugh? Good lord. Where are you phoning from – Cap Ferrat? Shropshire? At Chalfont – nothing wrong, is there? Is Aunt Nellie all right? She hasn’t had her cataract operation yet, has she? I hope Antonia’s well – Sorry? Do I remember –? What an odd question! Of course I remember Corinne Coreille and the Albert Hall . . . 1969. We went together, didn’t we, me, you and Aunt Nellie . . . What? The second concert? Yes, I did go . . . Speak up, would you? Yes, it was with him – he didn’t want to go but I persuaded him . . . He had come down from Eton – he was staying with his parents in Kensington . . . Yes, we did go to see Corinne Coreille in her dressing room afterwards . . . Did anything happen? What do you mean? What in heaven’s name are all these questions for?’

  ‘Did they talk?’

  ‘Of course they talked. It would have been odd if they didn’t.’ A cautious note had crept into Amanda’s voice. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I have my reasons. Did anything happen? Come on, Amanda. As a matter of fact, I know something happened, I only want you to confirm it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told me,’ Payne said, giving Antonia a wink. ‘I didn’t believe him, that’s why I am asking you. Thought he was boasting.’

  ‘He told you? He swore me to absolute secrecy!’

  ‘Well, he said it no longer mattered – it was all such a long time ago. More than thirty years. We sat drinking last night and he suddenly came out with it. You know the way these things happen – chaps together,’ Payne went on improvising.

  ‘Is he at Chalfont too? He’s gone now? Oh very well.’ Amanda paused. ‘He took a wild fancy to Corinne – one of those instant things. I could tell, despite his cool exterior. He asked her out . . . No, Mr Lark wasn’t there. It had to be kept secret from him. He was extremely protective of Corinne, yes. I don’t know whether Mr Lark too fancied Corinne – he was a great number of years older than her – maybe he did, though it was her career he said he cared about.’

  ‘Did they really start seeing each other?’

  ‘All right. They did. He kept going to Paris. She gave him her grandmother’s phone number. She did like him too, obviously. It was so funny – the way they stood looking at each other – he so English, she so French . . . Did they –? All right. Pretty intimate, yes. He told me later – boasted about it. Her very first. His first too.’

  ‘It all came to nothing, apparently?’

  ‘Yes . . . So sad . . . Her career took off and the protective net around her became impenetrable. That’s why he joined the diplomatic corps and then the trend-spotting thing – to be able to travel because of her. She was travelling an awful lot, but it was no joy . . . Yes, he did tell me all that himself. I am very good at receiving confidences and giving advice, you know . . . He was devastated when –’ Amanda broke off.

  ‘When what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Come on, Amanda.’

  There was a pause. ‘He didn’t tell you that – all right – there were developments – it was all rather distressing –’

  Payne listened. His brows went up. Soon after he rang off.

  ‘Not only did they have a relationship,’ he told Antonia, ‘but Corinne became pregnant by him. Sadly, the child was born prematurely and died. She couldn’t have any more children after that, apparently. It was all kept hush-hush. He was extremely cut up about it. You wouldn’t have thought it of him, would you? That’s why he never married. He always blamed her for having given in to Mr Lark’s bullying – for being Mr Lark’s puppet. Amanda doesn’t think they have been in touch since, but of course she may be wrong.’

  ‘The fact that she still keeps his photo on her dressing table suggests she probably still has feelings for him,’ Antonia said thoughtfully. ‘Jonson must have recognized him when he bumped into him here. He clearly didn’t like to be reminded.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a moment’s silence, then Payne continued, ‘Must be in the blood. I mean not one but two de Brokes succumbing to the fatal charms of the French.’

  Antonia said, ‘Poor Peverel.’

  18

  They Came to Chalfont

  Corinne Coreille and Maître Maginot arrived the following day, 3rd April, at six o’clock in the afternoon. It was an extremely low-key event, with no pomp or circumstance and not a modicum of showbiz glamour. A non-event, in fact. There had been no jet and, much to Lady Grylls’s relief, there was no entourage. The two women, travelling unobtrusively, incognito, e
ntirely on their own, had taken a plane from Charles de Gaulle airport to Heathrow. It was only as the taxi which brought them left London that Maître Maginot phoned Lady Grylls from her mobile and told her to expect them.

  ‘She sounded exhausted,’ Lady Grylls commented to Payne and Antonia in gleeful tones. ‘Rather subdued too. I expected to be hectored! The first thing she asked was if the central heating at Chalfont was working, then if I kept any cats and I said no. She perked up even more when I told her Andrew was actually staying at the house. She was pleased about it, I could tell. She asked who else was here and didn’t like it when I told her that I had my nephew and niece-by-marriage staying with me. Not at all happy. Oh well, she’ll have to lump it.’ Lady Grylls laughed. ‘Showed her true nature then – flared up. I rang off. The battle lines have been drawn, my dears. So, like all good scouts, be prepared.’

  * * *

  As the taxi drove up the alley towards the house in the gloom, under pelting rain that was turning to sleet, Eleanor Merchant stood inside the greenhouse in her mink stole, pressed her nose against the glass panel and watched. Her picture hat was back on her head, but it now resembled a squashed cabbage leaf. It had got colder and her teeth chattered. Her breath came out in swirls, causing the pane to mist over. She wiped it off frantically with her gloved hands. She had to see.

  The lights were on in the room beyond the terrace – the drawing room, as she had gathered. And this time, luckily, they had omitted to draw the white damask curtains across the french windows. Eleanor held the binoculars to her eyes. She could see that the curtains were still tied with their heavy black loops . . . She had an excellent view of the room . . . Etruscan red walls with a touch of orange. Fireplace of blood-red speckled marble in what, she imagined, was the Directoire Egyptian style. Two rows of pictures in gilded frames . . . Grey chairs with rather faded green stripes . . .

  After a wait that seemed interminable, but must have been no more than five minutes, Eleanor saw the two women enter the drawing room, first the older, then the younger, followed by the fat elderly woman with the thick glasses she had seen earlier on – Lady Grylls.