R Raichev - The Death of Corinne

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.

The Man Who Knew Too Much

When they bumped into her on the landing, Maitre 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.

Maitre 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 Maitre 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 Maitre 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?’

Jonson gave a polite smile. ‘I am sorry, sir, but I must go.’

‘This is actually jolly important, old boy -’

‘I’m afraid I can’t stay long,’ Jonson said uncertainly, looking back at the door, then at his watch. His hand went up to his chest where there was a slight bulge. His mobile phone, Antonia guessed, was in his inside pocket. Was he expecting a call?

‘I am sure you can. Festina lente and all that. Didn’t they teach it to you at school? Wouldn’t you care for a snifter?’ Payne gestured hospitably towards the whisky decanter and siphon on the side table. ‘A nightcap? No? Sure? Not while carrying out your duties – same as the police, what? Golly. Had no idea you abided by the same rules. Antonia? No? I’ll have one m’self, if you don’t mind.’ After he had poured himself a whisky into a cut-crystal glass, he took a sip and said, ‘Look here, old boy. We are going to put our cards on the table. You are a decent sort of chap – we have no doubt about that, do we, my love?’

Antonia smiled and gave a nod of mock solemnity. She never failed to be amused when her husband struck one of his Blimpish poses. If he had had a moustache, he would have stroked it with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It was an act he put on. No one took the Blimp seriously. People’s lips twitched into smiles, they relaxed their guard and then they could be tricked into blurting out things heedlessly, into giving themselves away through their disparaging attitude – and when they did, he pounced on them – figuratively, of course.

‘We’ve been ferreting things out, you see, but there are a couple of loose ends we’re a bit puzzled about… I had a talk with my sister earlier on,’ Payne went on, ‘and she happened to mention that my cousin Peverel had an affair with Corinne Coreille back in the early ’70s. Is that what you told him yesterday? That you knew about it?’

There was a pause. ‘I had no idea your cousin had had an affair with Mademoiselle Coreille. I told him that I had seen his photograph on her dressing table, that’s all,’ Jonson said. ‘I realized that I hadn’t met him in person, only seen his photograph. I could see he was startled. It was clear he didn’t like to be reminded… I don’t think that has anything to do with the death threats.’

‘Hasn’t it? Perhaps not. It’s good to eliminate the irrelevant and the superfluous, clear away the tangle of extraneous bushes from the main path of inquiry, as they say – so that we can concentrate on what really matters, wouldn’t you agree? What about that other business – the blood bond between la Maginot and Corinne? Isn’t that relevant to your investigation?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The bond of blood, old boy. The tie that bindeth. The old DNA… Maitre Maginot and Corinne Coreille are mother and daughter, aren’t they?’

There was another pause, a longer one this time. Antonia was watching Jonson and she saw the blood drain slowly from his face. He remained standing by the door, stock-still, his arms hanging at his sides. Payne, whose eyes too had been fixed on Jonson, nodded in a satisfied manner. ‘They are. Thank you. You may be an excellent detective and a first-rate mimic, but you aren’t a terribly good actor. You wear your heart on your sleeve. A most endearing characteristic.’

Jonson ran his tongue over his lips. ‘How did you find out?’

‘Well, we noticed the resemblance. They have the same eyes. They make the same gestures – the way they tilt their heads to one side in particular. Then there is the brooch.’

‘The brooch?’

‘Maitre Maginot’s brooch, yes – or rather, the brooch the woman calling herself Maitre Maginot is wearing at this very moment. I did mention it earlier. Two silver ostriches linked together by their tails. Rather whimsical and dashed memorable. You see, m’wife and I happen to be jolly observant. We rarely miss a trick. We had seen the brooch in a photograph – it’s in one of my aunt’s scrapbooks. Maitre Maginot wore the brooch pinned to her turban at dinner first, then to her beret. She is clearly attached to it. That was jolly careless of her. She didn’t seem to think that Aunt Nellie would notice – or remember.‘ Payne paused. ‘You see, the brooch was given to Corinne’s mamma by my aunt when they were debs together in post-war London.’