The Death of Corinne (14 page)

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
pav
é
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, entirely 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.

Eleanor’s hands were shaking so badly now, she nearly dropped her binoculars, and she found it hard to hold back the tears that kept prickling at her eyes. At long last, she thought –
at long last
.

The older woman was dressed in purple and she was wearing black gloves. She held her torso erect and walked in a regally stiff manner. She looked extremely forbidding. Her face was lopsided, deformed. Her lower lip was longer and jutted out. That, combined with the turban she was wearing, put Eleanor in mind of the Ugly Duchess in
Alice
. . . Brought up as she was in the ‘English’ tradition, Eleanor started humming under her breath – ‘
A most unattractive
old thing
–
Tra-la
–
with a caricature of a face
. . .’

The woman had an air of immense authority about her – she might have been an ambassador representing some prosperous kingdom – but she lacked the serenity one associated with that sort of person. She kept reaching out for Corinne’s arm . . . Her eyes darted suspiciously around the room, as though expecting some kind of ambush. Who was she? Was that the Maître Maginot the tipsy
femme de
chambre
had mentioned on the phone? Was she – Corinne’s minder? ‘Well, she’d better mind her own business,’ Eleanor uttered in menacing tones. Eleanor’s gaze then fixed avidly on Corinne Coreille.

At long last.

Eleanor took in every little detail: the blue high-collared dress with the tiny bows – the cross around her neck – the thick dark fringe – the slightly upturned nose – the large eyes –

AT LONG LAST.

Eleanor experienced a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach. She gasped. She was overcome with dizziness – the circus wheel sensation again – and for a moment feared she might pass out. No, she mustn’t – not when she was so close to her goal! She leant forward and pressed her forehead against the glass wall.

Then, recovering, she once more raised the binoculars to her eyes. Corinne Coreille – from that distance at least – looked exactly as she had in the myriads of photographs she had seen of her on those old vinyls she had found in Griff’s room – as she had looked at the Palais de Congrès concert she and Griff had watched together seven years before. Not a day older.
Exactly
the same – younger, if that were possible. A fifty-five-year-old woman, looking like a young girl – like a blushing bride – like a virginal bride. It was scandalous – uncanny – wrong – obscene! How dared she remain the same, untouched by time, while – while all that was left of Griff was a handful of grey ashes?

‘Whore . . . bitch . . . witch,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘
Witch
. . . Yes. That’s what you get when you cross a whore and a bitch. Shameless . . . evil . . . sold her soul . . . sleeping with Satan . . .’

Eleanor pulled her scarf around her shoulders tightly. It was a Hermès scarf. She had spent some time in London looking for a Hermès scarf. No other scarf would have done. Hermes, after all, was the divinity that conducted the souls of the dead to Hades. Hades . . . That was where Corinne was going.

‘If only I had a sniper,’ Eleanor said.

Encompassed as the three women were within the french windows, Eleanor had the strange feeling that once more she was watching a television screen – an old-fashioned variety programme, with Corinne Coreille appearing between two eccentric elderly comediennes, one owlish, fat and jolly, not unlike the late Queen Juliana of the Netherlands, the other hideous, severe, displaying the camp stateliness of a drag queen . . . At one point Maître Maginot and Corinne made exactly the same gesture – as though the whole thing had been choreographed and rehearsed! Eleanor nearly expected Corinne to break into song – something outrageous and indescribably silly – something ambiguous and suggestive – ‘J’ai Deux Amours’? ‘Ladies of Lisbon’? And of course the two elder women would join in – this would be followed by the three of them linking arms and doing the cancan –

(
Où finit le théâtre? Où commence la vie?
)

Eleanor started giggling – her hands clutched at her stomach – she couldn’t help herself.