The Death of Corinne (13 page)

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 orders 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 . . .

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.