R Raichev - The Death of Corinne

Antonia looked round the table and asked, ‘Is there a song called “Vous Qui Passez Sans Me Voir”?’

‘You who pass without seeing me?’ Payne translated. ‘Not one of Corinne’s, is it?’

‘I don’t know. I believe I dreamt about it.’ Antonia smiled. ‘It would be very odd if no such song existed.’

Jonson cleared his throat. ‘I think it’s an old song. One of Jean Sablon’s,’ he said, going red. ’Jean Sablon was a crooner. France’s answer to Bing Crosby -‘ He broke off, aware of their eyes on him. ’I like French songs. I developed a taste after – um – after I heard Corinne Coreille sing.’

‘About that photo you found in Emilie’s locker, old boy. The photo of Corinne sitting in front of her mirror, putting on her make-up. With the kipper in front of her and so on. I don’t suppose you have it here, have you?’ Payne said. The night before he had told Antonia that he found the kipper business damned odd. ‘I’d like to take a squint at it, if possible. I’ve been wondering what Corinne looks like these days.’

Antonia was watching Jonson and she was convinced that there was an infinitesimal pause – a flicker of the eyelids – before he shook his head. No, he didn’t have the photo. He had handed it over to Mademoiselle Coreille – together with the negative – and the film.

He was lying. This time there was no doubt about it. He wasn’t used to telling lies. He was a decent man and, like most decent men, a bad liar. That’s why he kept giving himself away. For some reason he had kept the photograph. No – had a copy made. Why had he done that? For his records? She saw him cast his eyes upwards, at the ceiling, and look down at once. His hands were on the table – she saw them clench and unclench… Not only did he have a copy of the photograph, but for some reason he had brought it to Chalfont with him! Antonia felt great excitement surge through her. Yes. The photograph was in his room – in his briefcase, most probably. Antonia had caught sight of several files and manila envelopes when Jonson had taken Eleanor Merchant’s letters and the death threats out of it… For some reason Jonson didn’t want them to see the photo.

It would be interesting to know why. Extremely interesting… Why had he brought the photo with him? That case was over, finished. Was it to remind himself of his past triumph? As proof of it? He didn’t look the type who did that sort of thing… Why do people carry photos with them? For sentimental reasons? For blackmailing purposes? Now that was an interesting line of thought… There was something in that photo Jonson didn’t want them to see. What was it? She needed to find out. She must find out.

She was going to ask Hugh to keep Jonson occupied while she went up to his room and looked inside his briefcase… When should she do it? Antonia glanced at the rain-bespattered windows. Well, no better time than the present.

The conversation at the breakfast table had turned to billiards. Jonson was saying that he rather enjoyed playing whenever he got the chance. As a matter of fact, so did he, Payne said. There was a billiard room at Chalfont, did Jonson know? Yes, he had been in it the night before, briefly, Jonson said, during the ‘checks’.

‘Rory and I used to have the odd game. He always accused me of cheating. Why don’t you two boys have a game?’ Lady Grylls urged and she offered to keep the score for them.

‘Yes, why don’t you?’ Antonia said casually. ‘The perfect solution for a wet day.’

Rear Window

She should stop doing it, Eleanor Merchant told herself.

She was gaining nothing, phoning like that. Nothing at all. It was careless of her. Well, she hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d got the idea that Corinne Coreille might have arrived earlier, that she might be at Chalfont Park already. Eleanor had hoped she might hear French speech somewhere in the background. She had even imagined that Corinne Coreille might pick up the phone herself! To hear that voice saying, ‘Allo? Allo? Oui, c’est moi, Corinne-’

Why not? It wasn’t impossible. If Corinne happened to be passing by the phone, she might pick it up – what if it wasn’t her house? – people did that sort of thing instinctively… The thought that she might have heard Corinne Coreille’s voice sent shivers down Eleanor’s spine.

No more phone calls, Eleanor decided. Why imperil the whole enterprise? Lady Grylls might be put on the alert and call the police! It would be so easy for the police to find Eleanor. She seemed to be the only stranger wandering the two main streets of Chalfont Parva under the falling rain. With her mink stole, badly bespattered with mud, yellow gloves and striped golf umbrella, she must stand out a mile… No, she mustn’t imperil the enterprise.

(What enterprise? Experiencing a sudden, if short-lived, return of her sanity, Eleanor stood frowning in a puzzled manner. She had absolutely no idea why she had come all this way. What was she doing here, in this dump? What was it she intended to do? Pursue and harry an elusive chanteuse to the death, as though she were the Quorn and Pytchley and Corinne a fox? The thought made her smile and shake her head. That was the kind of thing only a nutcase would do!)

The few drab village shops had unattractive displays in their dim windows. It was a depressing place. What a dump, she said in her best Bette Davis voice. (That had been another of her and Griff’s catch-phrases.) What a dump. So much for the greatly vaunted charm of the English countryside! Eleanor had been buying things she didn’t need. She opened her bag and inspected her purchases. Sweets, rock cakes, a couple of scones and a jar of something rather intriguing called Marmite. She had also bought a local paper – all about some agricultural show, a church fete and a man called Markham who had a sow for sale. She had wanted to get some peanut butter cookies but there weren’t any. The locals had been staring at her ghoulishly and she had heard them commenting on her American accent, which was odd considering that she did not have an American accent. Eventually she changed her hat to a silk scarf, which had been another of her London purchases, together with the umbrella, an electric torch and a pair of powerful binoculars.

There was one more day to go. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow… She had left London quite early in the morning, at half past five. She had been eager to get up and go. She had gulped down her tea and scalded her tongue. It still hurt – felt swollen. The cab, on the other hand, had been fast enough, though the driver, to start with, had had no idea where Chalfont Parva was – he’d had to consult her map. Anyhow, the journey itself had taken less than three hours. Eleanor had booked herself into a motel outside Chalfont Parva and she could have stayed there, in her room, lain in bed, caught up on her sleep or watched television. She had caught a glimpse of The Haunting on TNT as she flicked through the channels, but she had felt extremely restless and impatient.

What if Corinne Coreille had arrived and was already there, at Chalfont Park? What if that woman who’d answered the phone in Paris, the servant, had said the second of April, not the third? Eleanor might have got the date wrong. She might have misheard. Sometimes, she had to admit, her brain didn’t function properly.

She had found where Chalfont Park was easily enough. It was a property belonging to Lady Grylls who was a baroness, she had been told by the postmistress, who had spoken in tones of hushed reverence. There was a large map in the post office window, which showed the whole of Chalfont Parva. Chalfont Park was only half a mile away. Eleanor stood under her umbrella, tracing very carefully the route from the village to Chalfont Park with a forefinger. Map reading is an art, girlie, Uncle Nat had said.