The Death of Corinne (2 page)

‘He probably can, darling,’ Payne said. ‘He can even find you a cheap gardener on the net –’

‘But you must try to be nice to him first,’ Antonia added with a smile.

Lady Grylls suddenly looked fascinated. ‘Goodness –
you actually
fi
nish each other
’
s sentences
. That doesn’t happen often, you know, that kind of affinity between husband and wife.’

‘How tedious that makes us sound.’

‘Not at all, my dear. A good marriage is not to be sneezed at, especially in this day and age. Yours is clearly one of those that’s been made in heaven. Second marriages are more successful than first ones, or so they say.’

‘We like it.’ Payne poured himself more tea. ‘Maître Maginot – is that spelled like the line? Who is he anyway?’

‘It’s a she. Some terrible dragon of a woman, by the sound of it. A legal adviser-cum-mentor to Corinne. She seems to have taken over after Mr Lark died. I get the impression she hasn’t been with Corinne that long. She was there as Corinne talked to me, breathing down her neck. I could hear her hissing in the background, prompting. Corinne kept referring to her . . . Maître Maginot considered Chalfont Park as a place of refuge
une bonne
id
é
. Maître Maginot doubted whether the death threats were really serious, but wanted to avoid any unnecessary risks. Poor Corinne sounded like a schoolgirl – all timid and halting. Well, I suspect Maître Maginot of monumental control-freakery. I’ve got to smoke. Where are my cigarettes?’ Lady Grylls peered round the table. ‘It doesn’t help that I am as blind as a bat.’

‘Your hearing should be exceptionally sharp then.’

‘It isn’t. That’s a popular myth . . . Thank you,’ she said as her nephew struck a match for her. ‘So glad you are a smoker, Hughie. Makes
such
a difference. Can’t stand it when Peverel looks down his nose each time I light up. What a self-righteous bore he is. Won’t you join me? Where’s that fragrant pipe of yours?’

Payne obligingly produced his pipe and started filling it out of his pouch. His aunt nodded in an approving manner. ‘Now the idea of Maître Maginot doesn’t seem so repellent. I can see how people turn to drugs – can you?’ She blew smoke out of her nostrils. ‘Mr Jonson described Maître Maginot as a
femme formidable
. Don’t you think it tiresome when people pepper their speech with frog?’

‘Terribly tiresome,’ Payne agreed. ‘Apart from being
de
trop
. Unless they are French, that is. Then they can’t help it.’

‘From the way he pontificated, Jonson put me in mind of some sort of superior public schoolmaster – or a family solicitor. You know the type. Dry as a biscuit – omniscient godlike manner – the most annoying little cough. Absolute utter drears. I hope he won’t overstay his welcome. He said he wanted to look around. Does he imagine he might find Corinne’s madman at Chalfont, skulking behind an arras, clutching a knife? D’you think he suspects me of some sort of collusion?’

‘Well, he might have got it into his head the madman is your secret lover,’ Payne said. ‘Gentlewomen of a certain age are notorious for that sort of thing.’

‘Are they?’ Antonia frowned. Hugh did talk awful rot sometimes. ‘Do you mean gentlewomen of a certain age keep secret lovers or that they have a predilection for madmen?’ She was amazed to see Lady Grylls nod.

‘Apparently madmen make jolly good lovers. No inhibitions and oodles of untapped energy.’ Lady Grylls held her cigarette at what in her youth must have been considered a modish angle. ‘I did read about it somewhere.’

‘Might be a madwoman,’ Antonia said. ‘I mean the person behind the death threats.’ Madwomen were always greater fun than madmen – in books and films at least.

More terrifying, for some reason . . .
A Single White Male
wouldn’t be quite the same thing as
A Single White Female
. The madwoman in the attic . . . The female of the species deadlier than the male – ‘More tea?’ Lady Grylls said and she rang for Provost.

Provost was a faded, sandy-haired man in his mid-forties. In the normal course of things he appeared wearing a comfortable cardigan but, presumably on account of Mr Jonson’s visit, he had changed into a black alpaca coat, stiff shirt, winged collar, black tie and striped trousers and looked every inch the stage butler. He was rather a gloomy individual; however, his face lit up the moment Lady Grylls spoke to him. A look of complicity passed between them. She murmured something that to Antonia’s ears sounded like, ‘On with the show!’ – causing Provost actually to smile. It was clear he adored her. Who said the feudal spirit was dead?

‘The Prince of Wales has Debo Devonshire. Provost has me. I am his confidante,’ Lady Grylls declared after he left the room. ‘He says only I understand him. Something in that.’

The tea was brought by Provost’s son Nicholas, a deadly pale, truculent-looking boy of sixteen, with spiked-up hair and a ‘sleeper’ in his right ear. He had left school the year before and come to live with his father. He had been caught sniffing glue and, apparently, was interested in magic. ‘Pull up your trousers, Nicholas,’ Lady Grylls ordered in a stentorian voice. ‘
Not
at half mast when I am around, I’ve told you hundreds of times . . . How’s the invisible hat doing?’

‘It’s an invisibility cloak, actually,’ he said with a hurt air.

‘He’s mad about those ridiculous children’s books
everybody
seems to be reading on overcrowded trains,’ she explained later. ‘
And
he talks of something called “wacky-baccy” . . . Poor souls. Is that some sort of spell?’

Payne cleared his throat. ‘Not quite.’

Provost, it turned out, was what was known as a ‘single parent’. Lady Grylls pronounced the phrase slowly and doubtfully as though it belonged to some foreign tongue. She went on to explain that Mrs Provost – Shirley – had also been in her employment, but she had left her husband six months earlier – for a black man, a bouncer called C.C.J. Hawkshaw, with whom she now lived in London’s Docklands.

‘They came on a visit last month. They meant well, no hard feelings and all that, but it was a mistake. Provost has clearly neither forgotten nor forgiven. He walked about handing round drinks, saying nothing, looking shell-shocked – acted as though he had no idea who they were. The boy ran off and shut himself in the potting shed and wouldn’t come out. I think I smelled pot, but I may be wrong. Nicholas did behave oddly
afterwards
. Poor souls,’ Lady Grylls said again.

‘Why don’t you raise their wages, if you pity them so much?’ Major Payne said as he stirred his tea.

‘Can’t afford to. Shirley was unrecognizable. She’s shaved her head and she and C.C.J. sported identical tattoos on their arms. It was fairly obvious she was preggers as well,’ Lady Grylls went on. ‘We always got on well – sex-mad, of course – and I thought her new consort a pet. His full name is Clive Junior, but for some reason he hates being called that. He wouldn’t say what the second C stands for either. He’s terribly sensitive about it.’

Antonia asked, ‘Hasn’t Corinne got any idea as to who might be sending her the death threats?’

‘If she has, she didn’t tell me. All she said was “anonymous notes” . . . So annoying, isn’t it? Who do you think it is, my dear? You are the expert.’

‘I am nothing of the sort.’ Antonia said.

‘Poor Corinne reminds me of the man who walks on a lonesome road in fear and dread,’ Lady Grylls said.

‘
Because he knows a frightful
fi
end doth close behind him
tread
. . .’ Payne murmured.

‘Is that
The Ancient Mariner
? Awfully gruesome . . . Hate poetical effusions.’ Lady Grylls paused. ‘Who
could
it be?’

Major Payne stroked his jaw with a thoughtful fore-finger. ‘It could be someone from Corinne’s past.’

‘Corinne hasn’t got a past! Not in the sense I think you mean. All she’s ever done is sing.
La chanson, c
’
est moi
. That’s Corinne’s motto. She’s had it embroidered on her sofa cushions and handkerchiefs and things. I don’t think Corinne’s ever had time for a private life.’

‘Could the death threats have something to do with Corinne’s singing then?’ Antonia frowned. ‘No – that’s silly.’ We must talk about something else, she thought.

‘Shall we explore possibilities?’ Lady Grylls looked round. ‘Such fun. Do let’s.’

2

Look to the Lady

‘Well, the whole thing might turn out to be something silly and trivial,’ Antonia said after a pause. ‘The death threats may have been written by a fan whose request for an autograph Corinne ignored.’

‘Or it might be something really twisted and diabolical,’ said Payne. ‘The Machiavellian Maginot may have done it in order to tighten the screws on Corinne – to increase Corinne’s dependence on her?’

‘The Machiavellian Maginot, that’s right.’ Lady Grylls nodded approvingly over her cup of tea. ‘I like it when an unsympathetic character turns out to have done it. Maginot strikes me as exactly the type . . . Have you ever hated someone without ever having clapped eyes on them?’

‘Corinne might have written the letters herself,’ Antonia went on. ‘She might be obsessed with death, as her interest in funeral wreaths suggests . . . Some kind of death-wish. Or the death threats might be a publicity stunt – aimed to revive public interest in her – an ageing, self-dramatizing diva’s attention-seeking ploy.’

‘What a splendid idea,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘I adore ploys. Such fun, having you here. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come. I really don’t. I would have been bored to sobs.’

‘The death threats might turn out to be the work of a rival diva. Somebody who’s still jealous of Corinne,’ Payne suggested. ‘One of those legendary cat-fights that go back a long way?’

‘The dilemma . . . of the deadly diva?’ Lady Grylls shot a sly look at Antonia.

Antonia bit her lip. We are being damned insensitive, she thought, treating this as though it were some sort of parlour game. We are providing entertainment for a bored baroness – like the court jesters of old . . . Corinne Coreille, despite all her oddities and great riches, was a human being, at the moment no doubt a terribly frightened one. Were they so incapable of understanding, empathy and simple compassion?

‘The death threats might turn out to be what is known as a “cry for help”,’ Major Payne was saying. ‘Corinne may be mired in misery – on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She may feel her career is on the skids – she may be convinced that she has reached the end of the line.’

Lady Grylls said she was sure Antonia could make any of these theories work if she were writing Corinne’s story up in a book – the plot would be one of those complicated clockwork affairs with a hundred moving parts and interdependence absolute – she could, couldn’t she? Lady Grylls had always maintained that detective story writers were terribly clever.

‘Not necessarily. Anyone with basic writing skills, a devious mind and amateur knowledge of psychology can do it.’ Antonia hoped she didn’t sound too terse. She knew there was more to detective story writing than that but she was annoyed. They should talk about something else, really. ‘Who is Bobo Markham?’ she asked.

Lady Grylls laughed. It was Major Payne who enlightened her.

‘Sir Robert Markham is a widowed baronet who considers himself a good catch. Markham Manor is on the other side of Chalfont Parva,’ he explained. ‘Old Markham’s been trying to get Aunt Nellie to marry him. He’s been after you for a long time, hasn’t he, darling?’

‘Oh dear, yes . . . Heart of gold, but such an old bore. He’s nearly eighty,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘A man who continually asks a woman to marry him and can’t make her change her mind, is a man who secretly enjoys devotion to lost causes.’

‘He had a good war, apparently,’ Payne said. ‘He told me he excelled at Dunkirk.’

‘I daresay the Charge of the Light Brigade would have suited Bobo much better! I know I am being awfully unkind. I am
not
a good person. Bobo’s a splendid old boy, actually, but if I ever married again at my age, it would be to a younger man. Somebody of, say, sixty-four.’

‘Darling – a toy-boy,’ Payne murmured.

‘And he must on no account breed pigs.’

‘Does Sir Robert Markham breed pigs?’ Antonia was not in the least interested, but she was glad to have managed to steer the conversation in a different direction.

‘Listen to this. Corinne might be planning to get rid of the overbearing Maginot who has some hold over her.’ Payne paused thoughtfully. ‘It is Maginot who will die violently. Corinne is the killer and she has been making it appear as though she is the intended victim . . . It’s going to be one of those cases where it looks but only
looks
as though the killer has made a mistake.’

‘And I’d lay you long odds it’s Jonson who’s behind the death threats,’ Lady Grylls wheezed. ‘Jonson’s agency is going bankrupt. He needs money desperately.’ Lady Grylls pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘The first time Corinne employed him, she paid him a fortune in fees, so he sees her as the goose that lays golden eggs. He conceives of a scheme – he sends her threatening letters in the hope that she’ll employ his services – which she does!’

There was a pause. Well, we seem to have exhausted all possibilities, Antonia reflected – and felt cheered by the thought. Whatever happened now, there’d be no surprises . . .

‘Do you and Corinne speak in French?’ she asked.

‘No – English. Corinne speaks English like one of us, on account of Ruse – I mean her mamma. Her mamma was English.
Le falcon
– her father – was French. That’s Franglais.’ Lady Grylls fumbled with the pack and lit another cigarette. ‘
Le falcon
,’ she repeated.

There was another pause. An unaccountable change had come over Lady Grylls, Antonia noticed with surprise. Lady Grylls had ceased looking jolly. There was a faraway expression on her face. Her eyes had narrowed – her lips trembled slightly. Antonia was visited by an idea –

There was one fantastical possibility they hadn’t considered. Had they perhaps been persuaded to look at the case . . . the wrong way up?

Lady Grylls sat smoking in silence. Her eyes seemed to be fixed on the mantelpiece – was she looking at the photos of Corinne – or at the Riff knife whose point was pressed against one of them? Hugh said something, but she didn’t seem to hear.

Antonia tried to arrange her ideas logically. They had been told that Corinne Coreille was coming because she believed Chalfont would provide her with a safe haven from an unknown enemy – but they only had Lady Grylls’s word for it. They hadn’t been there when Lady Grylls took the phone call from Paris. What if that story was a fabrication? What if it was Lady Grylls who had phoned Corinne Coreille and invited her to Chalfont? What if Lady Grylls had made up the story of the death threats? What if Corinne were to die
before the
truth came out
?

Was it possible that Lady Grylls was . . . laying a trap? Her eyesight might not be as bad as she claimed . . . Lady Grylls, by her own admission and contrary to all appearances, was
not
a nice person. She could be ruthless all right. Antonia remembered Hugh telling her how at some shooting party his aunt had gone round with one of those sticks with a hammer at the end, clouting half-dead pheasants on the head, finishing them off . . . Lady Grylls adored ploys . . . She must be acting in cahoots with Maître Maginot, whom she professed to detest without ever having seen her . . . Extravagant animosity between two characters was always suspect . . . That might be a mere charade, an essential part of the deadly deception that was being played out . . . Antonia nodded to herself. What about Mr Jonson, the private detective? Well, he would simply . . . fail to materialize. Yes . . .
Mr Jonson did not exist
. They hadn’t witnessed that phone call either. Mr Jonson was a figment of Lady Grylls’s imagination – the kind of corroborative detail that gives verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative . . . Lady Grylls had prepared the ground and was now getting ready to go for the kill.

What reason could Lady Grylls possibly have to want to kill her god-daughter, though? Well, the reason went back a long way . . . It was something to do with Corinne’s parents . . . Yes. Corinne’s death would be the price for something absolutely terrible her parents had done to Lady Grylls – or to a member of Lady Grylls’s family . . . Corinne’s father in particular seemed to be implicated. That was when the change had come over Lady Grylls.
Le
falcon
, she had reiterated. Corinne’s father had been French. A nation of dashing lovers, the French – reputed to be the best lovers in the world. A popular myth, no doubt, but Antonia found herself changing tack . . . Lady Grylls and
le falcon
had had an affair. More than that – they had been secretly married. Corinne was . . . not Lady Grylls’s god-daughter, but her
daughter
. . . That was quite an ingenious theory, actually, though it needed to be thought through carefully . . . Lady Grylls kept complaining of a lack of funds. Corinne, on the other hand, was as rich as Croesus. When Corinne died, Lady Grylls – as her mother – would inherit Corinne’s millions – and then she would be in a position to have Chalfont Park renovated!

This is
not
a detective story, Antonia reminded herself. Really, I should be ashamed of myself.