The Death of Corinne (22 page)

32

Love Story

They found Jonson in the drawing room, sitting in a chair beside the fireplace. He had a forlorn air about him. He rose to his feet as soon as he saw Lady Grylls who was leading the procession. He was extremely pale. On a small table beside the chair there lay a folded copy of the
International
Herald Tribune
.

‘Do sit down, Andrew,’ she boomed. ‘Sit down, everybody,’ she ordered. ‘What they have been trying to say –’ She gestured towards Payne and Antonia. ‘What they have been
suggesting
is that it was you who killed those two women in the greenhouse.’ She paused. ‘Did you kill them?’

‘No, I did not.’

Lady Grylls cast a triumphant glance at her nephew and niece-by-marriage. ‘What did I tell you?’

Antonia couldn’t help smiling. If only things could be resolved as simply as that! And yet, Jonson sounded nothing but truthful and sincere. He looked exactly as his future father-in-law had described him: a good and decent man. Was he, after all, a good actor – or was he a psychopath?

Peverel turned to Jonson. ‘They know practically everything. It’s none of their business, but there it is. They are suspicious of Monique because she inherits Corinne’s money. They are also suspicious of you because you are going to marry Monique. They say people have killed for less.’

‘I see,’ Jonson said.

‘When did you first know that Corinne was not Corinne but her daughter?’ Payne asked in conversational tones. ‘Or was it la Maginot’s cover that was blown first?’

‘It was the kitten in the photograph, wasn’t it?’ Antonia said gently. ‘You knew about Corinne’s allergy to cats?’

Jonson had seemed lost in thought but now he looked up. ‘No. I hadn’t discovered the photograph then. I learnt about the allergy later. Monique told me about it. Oh God –’ He broke off and passed his hand across his face. ‘All right. It was the third day of my investigation of the leaked stories. I had been going to Corinne Coreille’s Paris house every day. It was the afternoon of 7th December. I had left the house and was buying an English paper at a newsagent’s opposite Corinne’s house. I happened to look back and I saw a side door in the wall open and a girl leave. I thought I had seen everybody in the house, but this girl was completely unknown to me. I knew she was not one of the servants. She was very striking-looking. Very slim and fair, with short hair. She wore a silvery-grey belted raincoat. She started walking down the street and I found myself following her. She didn’t take the Métro but walked – all the way to the XVIth Arrondissement –’

‘The XVIth Arrondissement. Am I right in thinking that’s where the Cinémathèque Française is?’ Major Payne said. ‘That’s where I saw Billy Wilder’s
Fedora
,’ he added inconsequentially.

‘She didn’t hurry. I kept up with her. We passed by the Place du Trocadro with its illuminated fountains. There were groups of people there – they were watching a juggler – there was also an acrobat doing somersaults. It was only a fortnight to Christmas. A busker somewhere was playing the accordion – a sweet melody – “Plaisir d’amour” . . .’ Jonson paused. ‘At one point the girl stopped and bought a small packet of chestnuts, then she walked on. I continued to follow. She hadn’t noticed me.’

‘Being a detective must have helped,’ Antonia said.

‘Perhaps.’ Jonson managed a smile. ‘She was like someone who was enjoying their freedom, after a long period of incarceration. It was the way she raised her chin, shut her eyes and smelled the air – like a puppy. It was also the way she looked round, with delight and wonder. She finally sat down at a café – part of the monumental Palais de Chaillot, where the Cinémathèque is. I sat down at a table not far from hers. I heard her order a cup of Earl Grey tea. Eventually she looked down at her watch, paid her bill and got up. I followed. She went back exactly the same way, only this time she didn’t stop anywhere. When she reached Corinne Coreille’s house, she took out a key and let herself in through the door in the wall . . . It was clear she was an insider, though I had no idea who she could be.’

‘You didn’t recognize her?’ Antonia said. ‘I mean as Corinne Coreille?’

‘No. The idea never occurred to me. I had met Corinne Coreille only once – very briefly – in a darkish room. Her hair was dark and done in a fringe, and she had heavy make-up on. She was a completely different physical type . . . The next day I asked one of the gardeners if they knew whether a fair-haired girl worked at the house, or whether there was a visitor of that description, but he said no.’

‘You were interested in the gel? You found her attractive?’ Lady Grylls gave an approving nod.

‘Yes. I was interested in her. I also wanted to find out who she was. That afternoon I stationed myself some distance from the house and again I saw her come out – at exactly the same time – half past five. The same journey as the day before. She went on to the café next to the Cinémathèque and, again, she sat at a table by herself and ordered a cup of Earl Grey tea. This time, as luck would have it, most of the tables were occupied and I found myself standing beside her table, asking her if I could sit on the chair opposite her. It was then that it happened.’

‘You recognized her?’

‘No.’ Jonson smiled. ‘
She recognized me
. It was very disconcerting, the way she looked at me. She blinked and her eyes opened wide. She gasped. Her hand shook and she spilled some of her tea. I saw her hands clench into fists and she hid them under the table. As she told me later, she had been convinced that someone was paying me to expose her and her mother for the frauds they were. I sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. I couldn’t bear to see the girl looking so frightened. She was trembling, like a little bird. I kept my eyes on my coffee –’

‘You spoke to her?’ Payne said.

‘She spoke to me. She gave a little gasp and said,
Please,
tell no one
. She spoke like a child. I looked up – there was an expression of absolute terror on her face. She was staring at me. Her eyes looked imploring. I opened my mouth but I couldn’t say a thing. My mind had gone blank. Then, suddenly, I
knew
. The thought came into my head. It was her scent, I think. I’d smelled it when I’d met Corinne Coreille . . .
Violets
. . .’

‘That was the real Corinne’s scent,’ murmured Antonia.

‘I said nothing. I knew I was dealing with impersonation, but I was damned if I was going to do anything about it. I didn’t care . . . We remained sitting. We went on staring at each other. I don’t know for how long. Probably only for a minute or so, but it seemed much longer. She was trembling. It was then that I – I –’

‘Reached out and held her hand?’ Lady Grylls suggested. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve enjoyed a story more,’ she told Antonia as an aside. ‘I
am
a silly old romantic.’

‘Yes. I held her hand. She let me. Neither of us spoke . . . I can’t remember what exactly happened next. I think she blurted out the whole story.
I am Corinne
’
s daughter
. She told me what had happened – about the nuns and the video. She even told me about you.’ He turned to Peverel.

‘She had her father’s photograph on her dressing table,’ Antonia said.

‘Yes. We sat talking for a long time. I told her about my fiancée who had died five years ago in a car crash. She admitted that she’d never had a serious boyfriend. I can’t say how long we sat like that. Then suddenly her mobile phone rang. It was her mother, asking where she was and did she know what time it was. Then she had to run.’

‘You did see her again, didn’t you?’ Lady Grylls said.

‘Yes. The next day. That was when I found the photograph in Emilie’s locker. Maître Maginot – the real Corinne Coreille – was there of course, so we couldn’t talk at all. I handed over the photograph and the film. I had made a copy of the photo for myself – I wanted to have a photo of Monique. As she thanked me and shook my hand, Monique managed to slip me a piece of paper with her mobile phone number and her email address. I tried to arrange to meet her but it was impossible. We were never alone. Her mother was there all the time, hovering over her, watching . . . Her mother was extremely suspicious, Monique told me later. After she was late that night, Corinne stopped her from going out altogether.’

There was a pause. ‘Did you stay on in Paris?’ Antonia asked.

‘I wanted to but couldn’t. I had to come back to England. I had business commitments. I tried to ring Monique on her mobile on Christmas Day, but it was her mother who answered, so I rang off. Monique then sent me an email saying that we must be very careful. She told me more about her mother. Corinne’s behaviour was becoming more and more erratic. She had been making grandiose plans for more concerts abroad – for appearances on French television – for singing a song about Paris on top of the Eiffel Tower, then jumping off with a parachute . . . Corinne required total submission and the most rigid discipline from Monique. She controlled what Monique ate and drank. She insisted on regular workouts in the gym. Corinne had started monitoring all Monique’s movements round the clock.’

‘Poor gel,’ Lady Grylls wheezed.

‘Corinne was volatile, manic, frequently hysterical. When she realized that Monique had been in touch with her father – she had seen the photo on the dressing table – she accused Monique of betraying her. She ranted and raved for an hour, apparently. And it was worse when Monique brought the kitten into the house – this time her mother accused her of trying to kill her!’

‘I suppose visitors were discouraged?’ Payne said.

‘They never had any visitors. Monique had to wear the Corinne make-up at all times even when there were only the two of them, and the make-up had to be flawless. Her mother checked it several times a day and always managed to find some fault with it. Monique was made to watch recordings of old Corinne Coreille programmes again and again in order to perfect her act . . . Corinne was becoming more and more paranoid . . . Only young people were employed for fear that anyone older might in some way recognize Corinne in Maginot or alternatively tumble to the fact that Monique was not Corinne. After the Emilie incident, Corinne started changing the maids every month. She mistrusted the maids and had rows with them, though, unaccountably, the latest maid, a Filipina called Imelda, was allowed to stay on, and Corinne had been showering her with gifts – bottles of scent, boxes of chocolate, sweet liqueurs and dresses –’

‘Did you say Imelda?’ Lady Grylls interrupted. ‘I heard Maginot phone someone called Imelda yesterday evening, soon after they arrived here. On her mobile phone. I remember the name because it made me think about the other one – the famous one – the Marcos woman. I read somewhere that she was down to her last billion. You know – the one with the shoes . . . Don’t suppose it’s the same one?’ Lady Grylls guffawed.

An accomplice, Antonia thought. Yes . . . Would she remember?

‘Monique gave Imelda as an example of her mother’s increasingly strange behaviour,’ Jonson went on. ‘Monique had started hating the whole thing. She felt trapped. Singing in these circumstances was no longer fun. She hated her mother – she was scared of her.’

‘Why didn’t you tell her to get out and go off with you?’ Lady Grylls asked.

‘I did. She said she’d think about it. She – she – needed time. She still felt some kind of obligation. She said she didn’t want to let her mother down. She had enjoyed the singing part of the arrangement and that she owed to her mother. We – we made tentative plans. Then – then something happened. A bolt out of the blue.’

Antonia said, ‘The death threats?’

‘Eleanor Merchant’s letters, followed by the death threats, yes.’ Jonson paused. ‘Monique was very upset. She contacted me at once – she threw all caution to the winds – she emailed me – phoned. But,’ Jonson went on, ‘something good seemed to come of it. I received a phone call from Paris, from Maître Maginot. She said she wanted to employ my services once more urgently – as Corinne’s bodyguard and protector. It was going to be another commission. She sounded extremely pleasant and friendly and I did believe that she knew nothing about me and Monique. She said they’d be coming to England, to a place called Chalfont Park. She wanted me to join them. I couldn’t believe my luck. I was going to see Monique! That was all I could think about, that was all that seemed to matter. I was delighted – delirious.’

‘You were not worried about the death threats?’

‘No. Not really. I couldn’t see how Eleanor Merchant would possibly be able to find this place,’ Jonson said. ‘I thought it a virtual impossibility –’

‘Eleanor Merchant was
meant
to come here,’ Antonia interrupted. ‘She was given the Chalfont address and phone number.’ She looked at Jonson. ‘It was all part of the plan.’

‘Sorry, old thing, but I’ve got to ask my aunt a very important question.’ Major Payne leant towards Lady Grylls. ‘Aunt Nellie, did you hear exactly what Maître Maginot – I mean Corinne – said to her maid when she phoned her?’

Lady Grylls blinked behind her glasses. ‘What Maginot said to her maid? I have absolutely no idea.’

‘I am sure you have. Your French is perfect.’

‘You aren’t suggesting I eavesdropped?’

‘You know you always do, darling, especially if you are curious about the person.’

‘It’s important,’ Antonia said. ‘Extremely important.’

‘Oh nonsense. It wasn’t in the least important.’ Lady Grylls stared. ‘Goodness, Antonia, you can’t possibly know what Hugh means, can you?’

‘I can – I was about to ask you the very same question.’

‘You were? Goodness. One of those telepathic thingies, eh? All right. Let me see . . . Maginot spoke in French. I had shown her to her room and I was back in the corridor. The door was ajar. I didn’t mean to listen, you understand, but I couldn’t help overhearing. It was something exceedingly trivial. Maginot said,
Imelda, c
’
est toi?
Then she asked whether there had been any phone calls for them. Then she said,
When was that? And you gave her both? Good girl
. Words to that effect. She said it all in French of course. She seemed jolly pleased with Imelda’s answers . . . Oh yes, she also said she would cover Imelda in gold, or words to that effect, which I took to be a jocular exaggeration. Well, that was it.’