The Death of Corinne

by R. T. Raichev

  Bâtir tes cathédrales

  Dans les matins sans brume

  Mais ne me fais plus mal . . .

  When the song was over, Maître Maginot asked for the player to be turned off. She said, ‘Corinne, ma chère, would you sing that last bit for us again?’ And Corinne smiled – and did. Although the song wasn’t my cup of tea, I have to admit that her voice is as beautiful and powerful as it is fresh. Any suspicions that Corinne might have mimed to playback at her Japanese concert were dispelled in an instant. That, I believe, was Maître Maginot’s secret intention – to show us, in case we harboured any doubts.

  We were having coffee in the drawing room when Provost came in to say that someone had rung, a Miss Tricia Swindon, an American lady. She wanted to speak to Miss Coreille. Corinne didn’t stir. Maître Maginot rose to her feet. ‘I’ll speak to her. I have no idea who she is. It might be the other one, the crazy American woman, don’t you think?’ Her eyes flashed angrily at Jonson. ‘However did she manage to get this number?’

  As Maître Maginot left the room, I noticed something very strange. Corinne tilted her head to one side, in a movement that was an exact replica of the one made by la Maginot.

  When Maître Maginot returned, she said, ‘It was most peculiar. The woman rang off the moment she heard my voice. Didn’t say a word, apart from asking if I was Corinne Coreille. Have you had any other such similar calls?’

  She cast an inquiring glance at Jonson, who – after a moment’s hesitation – told her about the anonymous calls. ‘But this is terrible!’ Maître Maginot cried. ‘It must be that crazy American woman. I am afraid we’ll have to inform the police first thing tomorrow morning. We have no option. I am sorry, ma petite.’ She looked towards Corinne who hadn’t stirred but continued sitting passively, blank-faced. ‘For the time being we rely on you to protect us, Mr Jonson. I am sure you will do your best to justify your fee.’

  I saw Lady Grylls pushing up her glasses and squinting at Maître Maginot’s turban, at the place where it had been fastened by the silver bird brooch. The turban folds having got a bit loose, more of the brooch was revealed now. I could see that it was in fact not one but two birds standing back to back, linked by their tails, Siamese-twins fashion.

  Two ostriches.

  I believe I experienced something of a shock when I realized where I’d seen that very same brooch before. It would be too much of a coincidence if there existed two such brooches.

  It was Ruse, Corinne’s mother, who wore the brooch in one of the photographs pasted in Aunt Nellie’s scrapbook.

  20

  Put on by Cunning

  They discussed the matter later in their bedroom.

  ‘It’s a fantastic idea. Not impossible though,’ Payne said.

  ‘We were right,’ Antonia said.

  ‘Mother and daughter, eh? Well, now that you mention it, their eyes are quite similar, if not identical. Deep-set, light-brown, almond-shaped. That’s one of the first things I noticed about la Maginot and I thought that perhaps she had been a good-looking woman once, before her stroke. Then I convinced myself I’d imagined the resemblance since in every other respect they couldn’t have been more different, but now that you mention the ostrich brooch –’ He broke off. ‘We were right!’

  ‘Yes. It makes perfect sense when you think about it,’ Antonia said. ‘Le falcon steals half a million from his clients. He is under investigation. He and Ruse think of a way out. They hit on a cunning scheme that combines keeping the money, cheating the law and getting rid of media attention once and for all. A triple whammy. They are gamblers. They are reckless – have ingenious minds. They are ruthless operators. They go to Kenya and contrive to get in touch with the leader of a dangerous local gang. They strike a deal with him – they pay him a handsome sum and in return he provides two dead bodies. Man and woman.’

  ‘The Dutch couple?’

  ‘The Dutch couple. The Coreilles supply the gang with their clothes, personal effects and passports to plant on the bodies. They themselves disappear. They already have forged passports in different names – possibly in a different nationality. A ransom note is left at the hotel . . . The bodies are abandoned in the open – the lions do the rest.’

  Payne stroked his jaw with his forefinger. ‘Yes . . . Madame Coreille then “identifies” the bodies. She of course is acting in cahoots with her son and daughter-in-law. Her cooperation is essential. She has been in on it from the start. She too receives money – she needs it for her pet project – the clinic. The Coreilles, in their new identities, disappear – to a part of the world where they do not stand a chance of being recognized. They settle down and live happily for the next forty years.’ Payne paused. ‘When François-Enrique dies, Ruse returns to France. She contacts her famous daughter – manages to meet her. Ruse tells Corinne who she is and what she has done.’

  ‘Or they might have been in touch already?’

  ‘It’s possible. Either way, they must have hit it off. One suspects Ruse is completely amoral while Corinne’s moral sense is probably undeveloped. Corinne’s career has been showing signs of flagging and Ruse, enterprising as ever, believes she can help. She is unrecognizable after a stroke. She assumes yet another identity – she becomes “Maître Maginot”, Corinne’s legal adviser and protector. She moves in with Corinne and takes complete control of her affairs. Her intention is to revive her daughter’s career and make even more money for her – for both of them – and she manages to do it. The Osaka concert is a spectacular success.’

  ‘However –’

  ‘However, somebody starts sending death threats to Corinne. Ruse decides on England and Chalfont Park as a retreat. Chalfont is pitched very much in a rural solitude. She has no fear of her girlhood friend Nellie recognizing her, not after all these years – besides, she knows that Nellie’s eyesight has always been bad . . .’

  * * *

  It had been the old trout who had come to the phone. The Frenchwoman with the Frankenstein face. Corinne’s minder.

  Eleanor stared dully before her. She couldn’t say what she had been hoping to achieve with that phone call. She had had very little sleep the night before. It had been freezing cold, which, together with the wailing wind, the drumming of the raindrops on the greenhouse roof and the hooting of owls, had given her a horrible headache. In the morning there had been the dolorous cooing of doves. To her ears it had sounded like a bored or half-hearted keening for the dead . . . Her head was feeling very funny now. There was again the buzzing sound in her ears . . . She felt feverish . . . She hadn’t taken her pills – she couldn’t find them . . .

  Eleanor admitted to herself that she had acted rashly, with little reason. She had no use for the Tricia Swindon ploy, not any more. How could she have forgotten? There would be no point in trying to persuade Corinne Coreille to agree to a meeting. Corinne Coreille would never agree to a meeting.

  What could she have said to Corinne anyway, if Corinne had come to the phone? I am the mother of one of your victims – I am outside, in the greenhouse – come alone – you won’t like what I’ve got to say to you, but we must talk nevertheless. I’d like to warn you that I won’t really be responsible for my actions. The idea suddenly struck her as so hilarious that Eleanor started laughing. She couldn’t help herself. I won’t really be responsible for my actions. She shook with laughter. Sweet Jesus! She had to stuff her handkerchief into her mouth, that was the only way to stop herself. Then, of course, she started crying.

  She was ‘cyclothymic’. That was what her shrink had said. She went up – she went down. Pie in the sky – down in the dumps. Up, then down. Then up again. Like one of those yo-yos. She had been given medication for it. Those little pink pills – where were they? Like a pie in the sky! Eleanor’s cheeks distended and she exploded once more into the rudest of noises. She clapped her hand over her mouth. She felt so guilty for being amused, for laughing while Griff’s ashes were trying to break out of that marble urn, that she became quite h
ysterical with grief. ‘My boy, my child, please forgive me,’ she sobbed, falling to her knees and bowing her head.

  She didn’t know how long she had remained kneeling but eventually she struggled up and stood silently by the glass panel once more.

  The rain had stopped. It was very quiet. The night sky was clear and the moon had emerged – the enormous moon of antiquity – pale and mysterious and, oh so close! Eleanor held out her hands towards it yearningly. By its light she observed somebody leave the house on a bicycle and go down the drive. That boy with the sickly face, spiky hair and the single earring, which she now saw flashing in the moonlight. She had seen him earlier on. One of the servants, she guessed. The boy who does the boots. Where was that from? Belloc? For a couple of moments Eleanor toyed with the idea of running up to the drive, ambushing the boy and offering him money, a lot of money – all her money – in return for his assistance.

  She needed a collaborator, somebody from the house. Somebody who could persuade Corinne to come out on some pretext – who would lure her into the garden. The boy could cosh Corinne when there was no one around, then drag her out and deliver her inside the greenhouse. Why, he could even kill Corinne for her, if she told him to! Some people would do anything for money. Teenage boys in particular. Boys were notoriously greedy, reckless, violent. Boys indulged in cruelty for cruelty’s sake. They would smash a puppy’s head with a piece of brick without thinking twice about it. Eleanor would gladly give every dollar she had in the bank for the joy of seeing Corinne Coreille lying prostrate among the dead plants, or on her knees begging for mercy . . . That boy would do the job. Get him, Eleanor told herself, and she might have carried out the idea but by the time she reached the door, the boy with the bike had disappeared into the night . . . She needed to think of something else . . . . Could she set some kind of trap?

  J’ai vu son visage tout au long de ma vie. It was earlier on, as she opened the greenhouse door to get some fresh air, that she had heard Corinne sing in the house and now she couldn’t get the song out of her head . . . Corinne had been giving a live performance . . . J’ai vu son visage –

  Eleanor rubbed her temples. ‘Go away,’ she said and she made a pushing movement with her hands. ‘Go away.’

  She remembered reading an article in which Corinne Coreille was mockingly referred to as la grande anesthésiste. Something about her sentimental songs having a softening effect on people – like meat that was being tenderized. Had she anaesthetized Griff as well? Perhaps Griff didn’t feel anything at all?

  The blood – that bath – Griff’s face –

  She needed to strike soon. Tonight. She glanced up at the full moon. Her solitary vigil had lasted long enough . . . She couldn’t stay holed up in the greenhouse for ever . . . ‘I think my days at Grey Gardens are limited,’ she said, sounding exactly like ‘Little’ Edie Bouvier. ‘I need to strike soon . . .’ Yes. It had to be tonight. Tomorrow it would be too late . . . Forget domani . . . Perhaps she could set the house on fire? And strike as Corinne Coreille ran out in her nightdress, like a rabbit that had been smoked out of its warren? She had her knife in her bag . . . That white throat, so smooth and supple! She could hear Corinne’s screams – her sobs – her pleas that she be spared. The thought excited her. There’d be no mercy . . . Blood called out for blood . . . There would be no point talking to her, really.

  Eleanor consulted her watch: twenty to eleven . . . The moon grew larger and brighter . . . She saw Abraxas cross the lawn, his evil chanticleer’s head once more turned towards her, his serpent’s tail zigzagging behind him. He was coming from the direction of the house. She was not in the least surprised . . . When she looked at her watch next, it was five minutes past eleven.

  She needed to set herself a deadline. Midnight? Yes. Corinne must die before midnight. Only that was easier said than done. How could she do it? The idea of setting the house on fire was fine, but she didn’t have any matches . . . Break into the house when everybody was asleep – find her way to Corinne’s bedroom? There might be a window left open somewhere on the ground floor, but which one was Corinne’s bedroom?

  Ten past eleven . . . Suddenly her mobile phone started ringing. Eleanor gasped and for a moment she stood very still. She then took her phone out of her bag with a trembling hand and stared down at it. Who could it be? No one knew her number. She flashed her torch at the display – Unknown number. She put the phone to her ear and pressed the button.

  ‘Hello?’ she said tentatively. She heard terrible crackling noises. ‘Hello? Who is it?’

  A voice spoke – extremely muffled – it sounded as though it was coming from some great distance. ‘At last! I’ve been trying to – ‘ It was a young man’s voice – breathless – speaking with an American accent.

  ‘Who is this?’ Eleanor’s throat had gone extremely dry.

  ‘Mother?’

  No – no. It couldn’t be. She felt the torch slip from her hand. She saw it go out as it hit the ground. ‘Griff?’

  I am not ready, she thought in a panic. I look terrible. I need a mirror. I need to put on my lipstick. Griff hates it when I am without my lipstick.

  ‘Mother? I can see you now. Very clearly. I can see inside your head. Every thought. It is like looking into a crystal ball. All your thoughts are scarlet.’

  Eleanor gasped again. Her thoughts were scarlet. Griff knew what she was planning to do! Of course he did. The dead had special powers. Though of course Griff was not dead – not any more. He had come back. She looked frantically around – peered outside at the lawn bathed in moonlight – glanced up towards the sky – she thought she might see him descending slowly, his hand raised in greeting, but there was no one. She thought she felt a draught, a sudden gust of cold air. She found she was shaking. She realized she felt extremely frightened. ‘Mother? Are you there?’ she heard Griff say.

  She was witnessing a miracle – and the miraculous was always frightening. Witnesses to the resurrection of Lazarus must have been terrified.

  ‘Griff? Oh my God. Is that really you?’ Her voice sounded very hoarse. ‘Where are you? Are you really at Chalfont?’

  ‘I can see you,’ he said again in a sing-song voice, a rising ‘see’, a falling ‘you’. ‘Can’t you see me?’

  ‘Oh my God. Are you – in the greenhouse? I can’t find my torch – Where are you?’ Eleanor screamed. ‘Where? Griff?’

  She heard a screeching sound, like a soul in great torment being sucked into hell, then the line went dead. ‘Griff – Griff!’ Eleanor cried, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Oh Griff – please, speak to me.’

  But the phone remained silent.

  So shaken was she by the experience that it never occurred to her that Griff had always called her Eleanor – never Mother.

  21

  The Man Who Knew Too Much

  When they bumped into her on the landing, Maître Maginot had changed into a short black jacket trimmed with fur, jodhpurs, shining leather boots and a black beret, and she wore black gloves. The kind of outfit that might have been supplied by the French version of the Norfolk Hunt Club, Major Payne whispered, making Antonia giggle – if they had any such thing in France – or perhaps la Maginot was striving after the resistance fighter look circa 1940? What was it they called themselves? The maquis? All she was lacking was a fuming cheroot sticking out of the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face extremely flushed – it showed purple under the white powder. She bared her teeth at them in what might have been a smile, and she shook her fist above her head in some kind of revolutionary salute. Too much wine, Antonia thought.

  Maître Maginot appeared to be in a state of considerable excitement and, despite the latish hour, bursting with energy. She looked determined – in a dangerous mood. In her right hand she held an ancient golf club, which Payne recognized as one belonging to his late uncle, though it was unlikely that she was on her way to practise shots on the lawn. Payne said later he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d come
up with something on the lines of ‘Vive la guerre!’

  It was twenty-five minutes past eleven.

  * * *

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Who is it?’ Antonia looked up. She was sitting at the desk in their bedroom, pen in hand. She had been writing her diary.

  ‘Jonson . . . Andrew Jonson.’

  ‘Oh, come in.’

  As Jonson entered the room, the door to the en suite bathroom opened and Payne appeared in his pyjamas and dressing gown. ‘Hello, old boy,’ he said. ‘How’s tricks?’

  Jonson had changed into a V-neck pullover, a striped scarf and slacks. Something of the boy prefect about him, Antonia thought. He looked worried. He said, ‘Nothing much. Terribly sorry to bother you like this. Um. Checking the house once more –’

  ‘Gosh, yes, the checks. We’d completely forgotten.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Jonson looked round the room.

  ‘Yes, shipshape and Bristol fashion. Would you like to look under the beds? Inside the wardrobe?’ Payne suggested in serio-comical tones.

  ‘I know it’s silly. No one could have got into the house. All the downstairs doors and windows are locked and bolted, but these are Maître Maginot’s instructions. She’s gone out to check the grounds.’ Jonson looked slightly sheepish.

  ‘Was that where she was heading? The grounds . . . It’s a beautiful night. We bumped into her on the stairs. Made me think of those hurricanes to which women’s names are given. Incidentally, what is Maître Maginot’s first name?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’

  ‘I assume she has one? Does she really believe she might come across the Merchant?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . Probably not . . . She just wants to make sure . . .’

  Major Payne cleared his throat. ‘We were rather intrigued by the birdie brooch she had pinned to her beret. Earlier on it was on her turban. I am sure you noticed?’

  Jonson looked blank.

  ‘She doesn’t seem to want to be parted from it,’ Payne went on. ‘Is that another talisman? To protect her against the evil eye perhaps?’