R Raichev - The Death of Corinne

Moments later she started walking down the street. The wind had dropped but the rain hadn’t let up for a second.

A thought popped into her head, like a jack in the box, for no particular reason, out of the void. The open wounds in Griff’s zurists had been like open mouths. She glanced down at her own wrists. That same second she was aware of a buzzing sound. It felt as though she had bees trapped in her head. Angry bees – was that some kind of warning? Was it wise for her to go anywhere near Chalfont Park? Well, all she wanted to do was take a little peep at the house and study the grounds. If Corinne was already there, she’d know it at once, she felt sure – she’d get one of those special feelings. She was a little psychic.

Buzz, buzz, Eleanor mouthed. She put her hand into her pocket and her fingers closed round her weapon. Buzz-buzz. She felt reassured – for a moment she had thought she might have left it in her hotel room. She had to protect herself, that’s why she needed it. In case Corinne Coreille didn’t like what she had to say to her and attacked her. Corinne was unpredictable, volatile, emotionally unstable, mad. It was disgraceful – scandalous – that she hadn’t been put away yet. They should banish her to Devil’s Island.

Uncle Nat’s words floated into her head. Kill or be killed. That’s what I told the soldiers under my command. There’s no third choice, boys.

‘I am really sorry but I had no choice, Inspector,’ Eleanor said aloud in her most genteel voice. ‘I did it in self-defence. She tried to kill me, you see.’

The end of the street. Now to the right from somewhere nearby came the mournful moo of a cow… a field… two men… farm labourers

… big and burly. One of them, the younger, looked like Owen. Perhaps it was Owen? Could Owen have followed her all the way from the US? Perhaps they had sent him to spy on her and bring her back? He might be acting on orders from Eleanor’s brother-in-law, who was a powerful man, or even the FBI. Owen would do anything for money. Griff, despite all his loyalty, had hinted as much. Or would the FBI employ a homosexual? They were very particular about that sort of thing – unlike the British secret service, which at one time had teemed with homosexuals. Perhaps Owen only pretended to be a homosexual? Perhaps the FBI used him as their hit-man and his brief was to eliminate homosexuals? Perhaps it was Owen who had killed Griff… It would have been so easy – as part of one of their ‘games’. He could have cut Griff’s wrists. Griff had liked pain.

Spotting a clump of crocuses under a tree, Eleanor was put in mind of a drawing Griff had done. The flower of unforgetting, he’d called it. Owen’s name had been traced out in a series of concentric circles, in green and scarlet, so that the whole composition seemed to be of some monstrous blossom in which the petals were still unfolding… If Owen got anywhere near her, he’d regret it! Eleanor pushed her hand into her pocket once more. She imagined she heard a branch snapping – the sound of somebody’s heavy breathing – and cast a glance over her shoulder. She gave a sigh of relief. No, it wasn’t Owen – it wasn’t a human being that was following her – only Abraxas. ‘Stop following me,’ she said in a low authoritative voice and she shook her forefinger at him. At once Abraxas started dissolving.

The grove. It was darker here, much darker. Quieter too. The only sound she could hear was the swoosh-swoosh murmur of her wet shoes. The trees met at the top and formed a tunnel. Hardly any rain fell here, just the odd drop. She took the torch out of her bag. A torch was essential… She was walking along a path with trees on both sides. It felt cosy – a pleasant mushroomy smell – like being inside a hollow, or inside a womb. Eleanor felt the irresistible urge to lie on the ground, curl up among the heaps of dry leaves, shut her eyes and have a little sleep…

The instant Eleanor emerged from the grove, the rain stopped. She saw that as a sign that all would be well, that her mission would be a great success. ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking up and blowing a kiss off the palm of her right hand… Griff was guiding her… And there, no more than ten minutes away, was the house! Chalfont Park. Not as grand as she had expected it to be – quite unlike the way she had seen it in her mind’s eye. She took out the binoculars and held them to her eyes. A once graceful residence fallen on hard times – paint peeling – the lawn was shockingly overgrown. No statues. No splashing fountains. No grandiloquent gates either. There had been a wall once, but it was in ruins now. Both house and garden had the dismal condition known as ‘reduced circumstances’ written all over them. ‘The superannuations of sunk realms,’ Eleanor murmured.

She started walking round, crab-like, keeping her distance, and eventually caught sight of the back of the house. Through her binoculars she saw a stone terrace and french windows. She looked in the opposite direction. What was that octagonal building made of wrought iron and glass? A disused air about it… A greenhouse?

‘The first requisite of any invading army is a base,’ she said and, without a moment’s hesitation, she made for the greenhouse. She walked carefully, warily, trying to make her feet kiss the ground, no more – she didn’t want to broadcast her presence! On reaching the greenhouse, she turned the door handle down. Unlocked – another sign! ‘Goody,’ she said.

She marched into the dim arboreal light, switched on the torch and stood looking round… Plants. Some in rather poor condition. They were still recognizable as what they had once been, but just about. Roses in urns on plinths, various creepers climbing up a trellis obelisk, ivy, ferns with curling fronds… There was a sweetish putrid smell in the air, but she didn’t mind. It was warm enough, dry too… Garden furniture. Two wooden chairs and benches painted battleship grey. An old tartan blanket. Some empty sacks on a stand in the corner. A bamboo table with a book and a magazine on it. Who’s Who in EastEnders and last August’s Vogue. The latter’s cover showed one of those super-thin female models, her golden hair matching her golden tan, cuddling an over-bred, absolutely vile-looking Siamese cat with a diamond choker around its neck. ‘Miaow,’ Eleanor said. Then she made an angry hissing noise. Beside the table stood a large glazed pot of a classical design – empty but for a number of cigarette ends. She picked one up – Sullivan Powell. She sniffed at it. Somebody had been smoking good quality cigarettes… The baroness? At one time Eleanor had smoked Sullivan Powell cigarettes herself. A rich tarry taste…

Eleanor came to a decision. She had no doubt in her mind it was the right decision. She wouldn’t go back to the motel. She would stay in the greenhouse and watch out for Corinne. She could sleep here tonight – on one of the benches. Those sacks would make a good pillow

… There was the blanket and her fur stole to cover herself with. It was far from the comfort and luxury she was used to, Sparta rather than the Savoy, but she would survive… She took out a scone and bit into it. No jam or cream, and the Marmite proved to taste foul, so some of it stuck in her throat. A frugal Calvinistic feast. She had bought a small bottle of mineral water but she must drink sparingly, she reminded herself.

Standing beside the glass-panelled wall, she held the binoculars to her eyes once more. She saw a fox standing among the laurel and rhododendron on the left of the lawn – tall and grey-coated – what they called a dog-fox, Eleanor imagined. The fox looked back at her unblinkingly… She wondered if the fox would like a scone… The fox couldn’t be Corinne, could it? Lady into Fox. Corinne was a witch and witches could transform themselves into anything they liked. Should she go and cut the fox’s throat? It wasn’t against British law to kill foxes, was it – though it might provoke the ire of the Society of Suppression of Savage Severances… Eleanor giggled… They had quaint things like that in England. Well, they need never know! As though reading her mind, the fox disappeared into the shrubbery.