The Death of Corinne

by R. T. Raichev

‘Thank you, Hughie . . . Well, it’s an extraordinary story, you’ve got to agree . . . No, leave the glass. I haven’t finished . . . Leave it, I said . . . At first I thought that Nicholas must have had a drug-induced mirage of some sort,’ Lady Grylls went on. ‘Heaven knows what substances he took last night. Now you wouldn’t believe this, but my second thought was that the young man was that American woman’s son. Eleanor’s son. She expected him to appear, didn’t she? That’s what she wrote in one of her letters.’

  ‘You thought the young man with the car was Griff?’

  ‘I imagined his ghost might have come back from the dead, yes.’ Lady Grylls shook her head. ‘This is all terribly embarrassing. Totally unlike me . . . Nicholas said he saw the car moving but he didn’t hear a sound . . . You see, Corinne and I talked about ghosts last night – Cynthia Drake and so on – that’s what must have put ghosts into my head . . . Incidentally, who was Cynthia Drake?’

  ‘The Hon. Cynthia Drake? The social editor of Weekend Whirlwind – a magazine now defunct,’ Payne said. ‘Back in the ’50s, I think.’

  ‘All those satin chairs . . . How peculiar. I wonder whether Rory – Anyhow. There are no ghosts. It’s obvious what happened. He – that young man, whoever he is – must have turned off the engine. The drive slopes – from the house to the gates, what’s left of them, it’s all downhill. He clearly didn’t want anyone in the house to hear him, so he pushed the car and jumped in.’

  ‘That makes perfect sense,’ Antonia agreed. ‘ Who could this young man be?’

  Payne had gone to the window and was standing beside it, looking out. ‘Jonson’s car is gone. Do you know where it is? He’s still here, isn’t he?’

  ‘Andrew? He is here, yes,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘Saw him a minute ago, in the hall, talking to someone on his mobile. He was looking terribly worried, poor boy.’

  Payne turned round slowly. ‘Terribly worried, eh?’

  Peverel cleared his throat. ‘The “girlie” young man Nicholas saw last night was in fact a girl. It was Monique. She was in Andrew’s car. Andrew let her use it. Monique’s hair is very fair and she’s had it closely cropped, she told me. It makes it easier to put on the wig. Without her makeup and wig she’d be unrecognizable. She looks bleached, almost. Not unlike Jean Seberg in Bout de Souffle. Remember her?’ He smiled. ‘I imagine she’d look like a delicate boy in the moonlight. And I believe she was crying – that’s why her eyes “gleamed”.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Lady Grylls asked. ‘Who is Monique? I believe that was the name of the person Andrew was talking to on the phone. He walked into the drawing room as soon as he saw me. Didn’t want me to overhear, clearly.’

  Payne was looking at his cousin. ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘To London. To Andrew’s Maida Vale flat.’

  ‘In the middle of the night?’

  ‘She couldn’t face the police, I told you.’

  ‘Who is Monique?’ Lady Grylls asked.

  There was a pause. Major Payne said, ‘It’s been assumed that the Merchant shot Maginot in her panic, having no idea who she was, but what if she killed her because she somehow knew that Maginot was Corinne? What if she did manage to take her revenge? Could somebody have told her? Somebody who knew –’

  ‘Jonson knew,’ Antonia said.

  ‘What d’you mean, Maginot was Corinne? Is this some game?’ Lady Grylls said, looking round. ‘Or have all of you lost your marbles?’

  ‘Jonson was well aware of the impersonation,’ Antonia said. ‘I personally don’t think Eleanor killed anybody . . . How did Monique know that her mother had been killed?’ Antonia turned to Peverel. ‘You said she phoned you in the small hours of the morning . . . Was she perhaps in the greenhouse, when it happened? Or did her husband-to-be tell her about it?’

  ‘She wasn’t in the greenhouse –’ Peverel broke off. There was a silence.

  ‘Does Monique inherit her mother’s fabulous fortune?’ Payne asked his cousin.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Peverel said. ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘Corinne Coreille was an extremely rich woman . . . A fabulous fortune, yes . . . An outlandish wallop,’ Payne went on in a thoughtful voice, ‘to be shared by Monique and her husband-to-be. Do forgive me the old cliché, old boy, but people have killed for less.’

  ‘You are being a bore, Hugh,’ Peverel drawled. ‘Are you suggesting that Monique killed her mother?’

  ‘She might have – or he might have. I mean Jonson. They had a good motive. I mean, they both stand to gain by her death. It isn’t as though either of them was particularly fond of the good Maître.’

  ‘You are being a terrible bore, Hugh.’

  ‘Eleanor Merchant brought a knife with her,’ Antonia said slowly. ‘I doubt if she ever had a gun in her bag –’

  ‘So much like Cluedo, isn’t it?’ Peverel interrupted in mocking tones. ‘Mrs Merchant, the mad American widow, with a knife.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ Payne said, ‘Mr Jonson, the English private detective, could easily have obtained a gun and brought it with him from London. One with a silencer.’

  ‘Andrew has nothing to do with the murder. Nothing at all. Better get that notion out of your thick head. Andrew is a good and decent man.’ Peverel sounded exasperated.

  ‘He knew about the impersonation. He was well aware of Corinne and Monique’s secret, and yet he kept it carefully. He colluded with them.’ Payne paused. ‘Why didn’t he expose them as frauds? If he is indeed, as you say, a good and decent man?’

  ‘He is in love with my daughter, that’s why he kept her secret. Why are you acting like an oaf, Hugh? Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Peverel raised his voice. ‘They are getting married. Andrew knew it would cause Monique great distress if their secret became known. He was afraid that it might get her into trouble.’

  Payne nodded. ‘I can certainly see why he should have her interests at heart . . . What about Corinne? Are you suggesting she wasn’t aware that he knew their secret?’

  ‘Corinne had no idea that he knew their secret –’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Peverel looked as though he regretted having uttered them.

  ‘Corinne didn’t know that he knew?’ Antonia said. ‘So Jonson and Monique –’

  Lady Grylls cut her short. ‘I don’t know what this is all about – it all sounds totally potty to me, but you seem to be trying to cook up some ridiculous rigmarole against Andrew! Now then, if you’ve got it into your heads that he is a killer – that he shot that American woman in my greenhouse, and then shot Maginot, who, you say, is Corinne – you couldn’t be more wrong.’ She glared at Payne and Antonia. ‘For once I am on Peverel’s side . . . Peverel, you can have that damned Pugin stool, if you still want it . . . You only have to look at Andrew. He is not a killer. I think you should go and talk to him. Put a straight question to him and I am sure you will get a straight answer. Don’t give me such condescending looks, Hughie. I am not drunk.’ Pushing her glasses up her nose, she started heaving herself out of the armchair. ‘No, I don’t need any help . . . Let’s go and find him.’

  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 not
hing 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 o
n 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.’