‘Who is this man Jonson?’ Peverel asked. ‘Not from the National Trust, is he? Have the National Trust reconsidered their decision?’
‘Tell him to come in, Provost. We might as well see him now. The sooner he comes, the sooner he’ll go. I suppose we’ll have to give him tea.’ Lady Grylls sighed gustily. ‘Put the kettle on, will you?’
‘Yes, m’lady.’
‘Aunt Nellie, I forgot to tell you that I’m leaving for London early tomorrow morning,’ Peverel said.
‘Good,’ she said.
‘I am glad I’ll be spared the gross usurpation of Chalfont. I imagine Corinne Coreille will be the guest from hell . . . It will be like having Norma Desmond, Dorian Gray and the Phoenix bird rolled in one staying.’
‘Is that supposed to be clever? And must you eat all the cake?’ She regarded him balefully. ‘I don’t think there’ll be any left for Jonson.’
‘There’s a whole Madeira cake in the pantry.’
‘We can’t have a new one cut just for Jonson.’
’Just for Jonson! Really, darling,’ Peverel said. ‘Listening to you, one might think you were some suburban housewife and not the relict of the tenth Baron Grylls.’
Lady Grylls said that sometimes she wished she were a suburban housewife. Life would have been so much easier. For one thing she wouldn’t have had an eccentric super-rich chanteuse for a god-daughter who’d want to hide in her house. ‘Do you know, Antonia, I am fed up with this whole business before it’s even started. Do tell me that I am being selfish. Do tell me.’
‘In the circumstances I’d feel pretty much the same myself. I’d be absolutely terrified. But then,’ Antonia smiled, ‘I’ve been a suburban housewife for quite a while.’
‘Just for Jonson,’ Major Payne murmured. ‘Sounds like the title of a ’30s musical comedy.’
Lady Grylls slumped down in an armchair, making it creak. She took the last cigarette from the pack. ‘Age asks ease, as the poet put it. I don’t feel like seeing anyone. What I’d like to do is put my feet up, ask Provost to mix me a gin-and-tonic and watch the box. I hope I won’t have to miss EastEnders again. What happened last night?’ She shook her head. ‘Neither of you watches it, I keep forgetting. I don’t suppose Jonson watches it either. Private detectives are always busy following clues.’
‘Is Jonson a private detective? You can’t be serious.’ Peverel picked up a napkin and wiped his fingers. ‘Well, I hope he manages to rumble the author of the death threats before he carries them out.’
‘It may be a she,’ Antonia said, casting a covert glance at Lady Grylls and hating herself for it.
Peverel halted by the door. ‘Indeed it may . . . I don’t know why, but I have always had a weakness for the least likely suspect idea. Who is the least likely suspect in this affair? Do we know?’
‘We do . . . You,’ said Lady Grylls promptly. ‘The fact that you are going away just when the detective is about to appear and you don’t want to meet Corinne is damned suspicious.’
‘I am taking the Gothic prayer stool with me to London. You said I could, didn’t you, darling? The one with the unicorns?’
‘I did say you could, but I’ve changed my mind,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘You can’t take it with you. I need it here.’
‘Now be reasonable,’ Peverel drawled. ‘What do you need it for? It’s not as though you pray.’
‘I do pray.’
‘Not on a stool . . . Ridiculous.’
‘I need it to lean my rheumatic knee,’ Lady Grylls said firmly.
‘Since Peverel hasn’t ever met Corinne Coreille,’ Payne pointed out, ‘it would be a bit far-fetched to imagine that he should have any reason to want to send her death threats.’
Lady Grylls held her cigarette away from her eyes. ‘Wait a minute. Who said he didn’t meet her? He did meet her. In 1969 . . . You did meet her. I’m sure Amanda said you did.’ She turned towards Peverel. ‘I remember now. It was you who took Amanda to Corinne’s second concert!’
His hand on the doorknob, Peverel gave an indulgent smile. ‘What second concert, darling? You must have dreamt it.’
‘I didn’t dream it. It’s all coming back now. Hugh’s leave was over, so he had to go back to Sandhurst and that very same day you came down from Eton. Amanda wanted to go to Corinne’s second concert and I do remember her begging you to go with her. I was there. I heard her.’
There was a little pause, then Peverel drawled, ‘Well, she did beg me, but I didn’t feel like going. I thought it would be a bore. So I didn’t go.’ He left the room.
A moment later the door opened once more. ‘Mr Jonson,’ Provost announced.
11
Sleuth
Much to Antonia’s surprise, Jonson was not at all like the portrait painted of him by Lady Grylls. She had described him as a dry-as-a-biscuit elderly duffer of the retired public schoolmaster or family solicitor variety – but he was nothing of the sort. He was most certainly not of retirement age – no more than thirty-eight, if that, Antonia decided. He had the physique of a rugby player who had started going to pot somewhat. He was wearing a grey sports jacket of goodish quality, a blue open-neck polo shirt and black corduroy trousers. Driving gloves stuck out of his pocket and he was carrying a briefcase. He had short fair hair, and that, combined with his fresh unlined face, gave him a boyish look. Despite the fact that his nose had been broken, in a scrum, one assumed, he wasn’t bad-looking. He gave the impression of toughness, yet there was something curiously gentle and vulnerable about him – as well as an air of reliability.
His voice, when he spoke, was well modulated, precise and hesitant, but there was nothing elderly or ‘dry’ about it either. Whatever had given Lady Grylls that impression?
‘Good afternoon.’ He stood looking round at each of them and focusing unmistakably on Antonia’s aunt by marriage. ‘Lady Grylls?’
Leaning back in her chair, she pushed her glasses up her nose and subjected him to one of her owlish stares. ‘Who are you?’
Disconcerted, he blinked. ‘Jonson . . . Andrew Jonson. I –’
‘You aren’t. You can’t be.’
‘I phoned you earlier on –’
‘You didn’t. Wrong voice.’
He turned a little pink – smiled – it was a particularly sweet smile, Antonia thought. ‘That was my telephone voice, Lady Grylls.’
‘What telephone voice?’
He cleared his throat and said again. ‘That was my telephone voice, Lady Grylls.’ This time he sounded quite different – strangulated and clipped. ‘I am calling on behalf of Mademoiselle Corinne Coreille, your god-daughter.’ It was an uncanny performance.
Lady Grylls gasped. ‘Goodness. What kind of ventriloquism is that? You make yourself sound perfectly ghastly, a cross between Mr Chips and – Perfectly ghastly. Why do you do it? Don’t tell me you believe that speaking like that inspires greater confidence in your clients?’
‘Well, that was the idea. It seems to go down well with the French. I – I don’t do it every time –’
‘I should hope not! Aren’t people filled with mistrust and suspicion the moment they clap eyes on you and see you are actually jolly nice and normal?’
‘It has happened. Then I show them my licence and everything’s fine.’
‘Well, I am glad to hear it,’ Lady Grylls said doubtfully. ‘I must say you are good.’
His smile was half sheepish, half pleased. He looked like a schoolboy who had pulled off a successful prank. He was an extremely likeable young man, Antonia decided. ‘My licence,’ he said. Taking a folded paper from an inside pocket, he handed it to Lady Grylls.
She glanced at it in a cursory manner, shrugged her shoulders and tossed it over for Antonia and Payne to inspect. ‘My nephew Hugh Payne and his wife Antonia,’ she introduced them with a wave of the hand. ‘Like you, they are detectives, so beware. They are terribly clever. They’re planning to open their own detective agency. Perhaps you could give them some tips?’
> ‘My aunt’s joking. This looks all right,’ Major Payne said.
‘It’s just a piece of paper . . . Jonson. Anyone can call themselves Jonson,’ Lady Grylls said sternly, but her eyes twinkled. She seemed to have taken to him, Antonia thought. ‘Do sit down. Ah, there you are, Provost. Do help yourself to some tea, Mr Jonson.’
Provost had wheeled in a trolley with a steaming pot of freshly brewed tea, a cake on a stand, a cup and a jug of milk.
‘The man I saw coming out of this room,’ Jonson said over his cup. ‘I think I’ve seen him before. In Paris.’
‘Really? That was my nephew Peverel. Paris, did you say? He travels a lot, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone said they’d bumped him off in Acapulco – I mean bumped into him – wishful thinking!’ Lady Grylls laughed. ‘Now then. The job you did for Corinne. I mean your previous commission. Last December, was it? Tell us about it.‘
It had been Maître Maginot, Mademoisellle Coreille’s legal adviser, who had contacted his London office. Maître Maginot had been very concerned about leaks to the press, to a gossipy illustrated magazine called Voici, of sensational stories concerning Corinne Coreille’s private life. Maître Maginot suspected one of the staff they employed. In fact she was sure it was one of the staff – only she couldn’t tell which. She had wanted Jonson to find the person, so that she could dismiss them and sue them for breach of confidentiality.
Lady Grylls wanted to know more about the story which had been leaked to the press. Nothing about Corinne’s love life, she hoped? She had heard enough bosh about Corinne’s love life already.
Jonson shook his head. No – it hadn’t been that. (Antonia imagined there was a slight change in his expression at the mention of ‘love life’.) It was something completely different. The leak concerned Mademoiselle Coreille’s appearance – her hair, in particular.
‘Ah, the trademark fringe.’
The story that had found its way into the magazine was to the effect that Mademoiselle Coreille’s fringe was not her own – that she had lost all her hair in a fire – that she was completely bald and wore a wig.
‘Like in Ionesco,’ Payne murmured. ‘La Cantatrice Chauve . . . Am I right in thinking that the bald prima donna never actually appears?’
‘She doesn’t . . . Stop showing off,’ Antonia whispered.
‘I always imagined the famous fringe was insured for millions of francs,’ Lady Grylls said and she urged Jonson to eat. He must be famished after his drive. ‘ Do have some cake. It’s awfully good, usually. Shall I cut you a slice?’ She picked up the knife. Antonia smiled. Lady Grylls was treating Jonson like a growing boy. He might have been the youngest of her nephews.
‘Thank you . . . There was also the more serious claim that Corinne Coreille had lost not only her hair, but her voice as well,’ Jonson went on. ‘It was alleged that she had only mimed to playback during her Osaka concert last November.’
Lady Grylls continued firing more questions at him. It was funny that it was she who was conducting an inquiry and not the other way round, Antonia thought, amused. Why had Corinne employed the services of an English private detective? Weren’t French detectives good enough?
‘Mademoiselle Coreille’s view was that the less her compatriots knew about her private life the better. Besides she did have the idea that English detectives were more efficient than French ones.’
‘Reading too many Sherlock Holmes stories, I expect.’ Lady Grylls went on to ask Jonson if he had known who Corinne Coreille was before she had employed his services.
‘No. I’d never heard about her before.’
Lady Grylls shook her head in a perplexed manner. ‘She is my god-daughter but she’s a bloody enigma. I can’t take the measure of her, really. Rather a strange character. The more I hear about her, the less I feel I know her . . . What did you make of her?’
Jonson’s face remained blank. He hadn’t had the chance to form an opinion, he said. He had seen Mademoiselle Coreille only twice. On both occasions she had been very pleasant to him. Very polite. His dealings had been mainly with Maître Maginot.
‘And did you find Maître Maginot “pleasant”?’ Lady Grylls boomed. ‘Would you say that she was a nice woman? Who is she anyway?’
’Well, I can’t pretend I liked her, but, on the whole, she was perfectly civil to me . . . She is a former barrister of considerable standing. I believe she studied law at the Sorbonne as well as at Columbia University. She has all sorts of diplomas on her study walls. Accolades from various societies. Framed letters of thanks from Henry Kissinger, Elizabeth Taylor and the Sultan of Brunei.’
‘Ha!’ Lady Grylls said derisively.
There had been an odd flatness in Jonson’s voice, which puzzled Antonia; it hadn’t been there earlier on. Did he know something discreditable about Maître Maginot? Antonia wondered what it might be. Were Maître Maginot’s exalted diplomas perhaps forgeries? Could Maître Maginot be an impostor?
‘She holds Mademoiselle Coreille’s power of attorney and the right to act as her spokesperson,’ Jonson went on. ‘She has complete control of Corinne Coreille’s estate, or so I gathered.’
‘How old is she?’
‘I don’t know. Um. Fifty-five –’
‘The same age as Corinne?’
‘No – I mean, she must be in her sixties – maybe older. I don’t know . . . I believe she’s had a stroke sometime in the past and suffered some kind of paralysis.’ Suddenly Jonson looked confused and very worried. ‘She has almost completely recovered – I don’t think her brain is at all affected – but she tends to lose her temper. Her face is an odd shape – her mouth is slightly twisted to one side.’
Lady Grylls smiled and she clapped her hands. ‘A gorgon – in more ways than one! She bullies Corinne, doesn’t she? ‘
‘Really, Lady Grylls, I can’t possibly –’
‘You don’t think she imposes Nazi-style diktats on my god-daughter? Oh very well – you are being tiresome. Do go on with your story. Wait – let me give you another slice of cake. So. Did you rumble the scumbag who’d been feeding canards to the press?’
‘I did. It was one of the chambermaids. A girl from Normandy named Emilie,’ Jonson explained as he munched. ‘I discovered a photograph she’d taken of Mademoiselle Coreille hidden under another, larger, photograph, of some young heart-throb of an actor. The two photos were pinned inside Emilie’s locker.’
‘What does Corinne do in the photo?’ Lady Grylls leant back in her chair. ‘Details, please. I love details. Unless it’s a compromising photo – I don’t want to hear if it’s anything salacious!’
‘No, nothing like that . . . Well, Mademoiselle Coreille is sitting at her dressing table, putting on her make-up. The way the light falls on her head, it does make her look as though she has no hair. It is only a trick of the light. Her face is covered in make-up and she is admiring the effect.’
His voice was softer now, Antonia noticed – gentler. She was struck by a thought: had Jonson fallen in love with Corinne Coreille? She must be – what? Twenty years older than him – still, these things did happen.
‘There is a ki –’ He broke off. ‘There is a kipper – um – on a plate on the dressing table.’
He had flushed deep red. Had he been about to say something else? Antonia wondered.
‘A kipper! Goodness. Is Corinne fond of kippers?’ Lady Grylls exclaimed. ‘Are you sure? Must remember to order some for her breakfast . . . What else?’
‘A wig can be seen on a dummy’s head on the table beside her. Maître Maginot explained that Mademoiselle Coreille did not lose her hair, merely had it cropped very short for a while as part of some special treatment aimed at strengthening her scalp. Mademoiselle Coreille apparently has two wigs, both of them identical, which she uses in emergencies.’
‘Did that gel – the maid – make a clean breast of how she’d taken the photo, or did she put up a fight?’
‘Emilie denied taking the photograph at first,
but I pointed out that actually her reflection could be seen in the photo – that it had been caught in the lower left corner of the mirror. I said she could be seen with the camera held up to her face.’ He grinned. ‘I bluffed – but it did the trick. Emilie broke down and admitted she had taken the picture through the bedroom door, which had been left ajar. Maître Maginot then dismissed her and that was where the matter rested. Maître Maginot didn’t carry out her threat to take the girl to court, no. She explained she did it out of consideration for Corinne. She felt that a court case would have brought a great deal of unwelcome, lurid and inaccurate publicity at a time Corinne Coreille was making a come-back.’
Major Payne cleared his throat. ‘About this business of the death threats, Jonson. Your present commission. Have you any ideas as to who might have been sending them?’
‘There’s nothing conclusive but at this stage, sir, there is one person who seems to be – indicated. An American woman called Eleanor Merchant. It’s a very peculiar story –’
‘Her son committed suicide as he listened to a recording of a Corinne Coreille song?’
He stared at Antonia. ‘Yes. How – how did you know about it?’
‘I told you they were terribly good!’ Lady Grylls cried.
‘Eleanor Merchant has written three letters to Corinne Coreille. She seems to believe that her son wouldn’t have killed himself, if he hadn’t been listening to Corinne Coreille singing. It looks as if she’s got quite a bee in her bonnet about it. She implies that it was Corinne Coreille’s voice that “killed” Griff.’
‘Have you got the letters with you?’ Lady Grylls asked.
‘Yes. Maître Maginot faxed them to me together with the death threats. The letters are handwritten and signed with Eleanor Merchant’s name . . . The death threats are unsigned. I established that each one of them was constructed with letters cut out of the International Herald Tribune.’
The Death of Corinne Page 8