R Raichev - The Death of Corinne

The wound was a terrible gaping black hole in the side of Maitre Maginot’s throat. It was evident she had bled profusely from it. Her clothes were saturated with blood and there was more blood on the ground around her. The blood was dry and was of a dark brownish hue. It was clear she had been dead for some time, several hours probably. Her mobile phone stuck out of a pocket in her breeches. A torch lay beside her right hand, which was gloved. Maitre Maginot’s left hand was bare and Antonia found herself staring at it, at the scarlet nails.

She noticed something very curious – a freakish detail, one might call it. She knew that was important – she couldn’t say how – in the same way as the absence of the kipper from Corinne’s dressing table was important… Was she thinking straight? She hoped she wasn’t losing her mind!

‘We must call the police,’ she said.

‘Dad’s gone back to the house,’ Nicholas said. ‘He’s gonna do it.’

Antonia looked round the greenhouse. She saw lots of potted plants, empty pots and blue-and-white Chinese containers and censers. Garden tools. A garden bench, a bamboo table and a chair. A mobile phone lay on the floor beside the chair. A second mobile?

The next moment she felt Nicholas tugging at her arm. ‘Miss – look! There’s a leg over there. Look. Over there. It’s another body!’

Antonia started up, though not too violently. She was getting anaesthetized, she supposed. Her first thought was that the boy had imagined it, but when she followed his pointing finger, she saw he hadn’t. There was a leg there all right, exactly as he had said – a woman’s leg in a torn stocking – the foot in a flat shoe. The leg was sticking from behind two large potted palms. There was a woman’s body lying there all right. Nicholas started walking towards it, but sneezed twice in quick succession and went back. ‘Fuck,’ he said.

Antonia moved like one in a trance. Inside the greenhouse it was freezing cold, colder than outside. For obvious reasons, it made her think of a mortuary. Morgue, in French. Les cadavres sont dans la morgue. No French grammar book would include a sentence like that. She imagined that there was a metallic smell of blood in the air… She stumbled on something – the niblick. Maitre Maginot had been brandishing the niblick the night before – when Antonia and Hugh had met her on the stairs. Maitre Maginot had been on her way out – she had intended to check the grounds. She had been on her own – unwisely, as it turned out – it had cost her her life -

Antonia’s eyes were fixed on the leg in the flat shoe. Her next thoughts ran as follows: Corinne – so they got her after all – poor Corinne – Corinne and Ruse – mother and daughter – both dead – is there a new pattern emerging?

But it wasn’t Corinne Coreille’s body that lay behind the palms.

It was the body of a stranger: a middle-aged woman in an extremely dirty mink stole, wearing yellow gloves. She too lay on her back, in a pool of frozen blood, and, like Maitre Maginot, she had been shot. Antonia gasped. This was much worse than the wound inflicted on Maginot! Part of the woman’s head, just above the right temple, was missing – it had been blasted off. The woman’s mouth was covered in bright red lipstick and it was gaping open. Her eyes were open too; they were round and glassy and staring. Rather foolish, Antonia thought. No, not foolish – demented.

The next moment Antonia noticed the gun. The gun was clutched in the woman’s right hand. She bent over and looked at it without touching. A Colt. 357 Magnum. The gun’s muzzle was pointing upwards. It nearly touched the woman’s chin. It looked as though she had done it herself – as though she had blown her brains out on purpose, of her own free will, in one final act of desperation.

An expensive-looking handbag made of crocodile skin lay beside the body. It had burst open and most of its contents were scattered around. It seemed the woman had been searching for something in a frantic manner. (The gun?) Antonia saw banknotes and tissues, a handkerchief, a powder compact, a carving knife, a purse, some newspaper cuttings, a passport -

She heard Nicholas call out, ‘Is the gun there?’

‘Yes.’ The gun had a silencer, she noticed.

Antonia picked up the passport gingerly, holding it at the corner between her thumb and index finger. She knew she shouldn’t have done it, yet had been unable to help herself.

It was an American passport, as Antonia had known it would be. Opening it, she saw a folded plane ticket… Boston – Paris… One way… Hadn’t she intended to go back? The face that stared back at her from the photograph was interesting; it could even be called pretty, in a freakish kind of way – blonde hair swept back – light blue eyes open wide in a parody of earnestness – lips curved up in a knowing smile.

Antonia read the name without any particular surprise: Eleanor Merchant.

Vous Qui Passez Sans Me Voir

Jonson and Major Payne appeared at the door. Neither of them spoke. Jonson was fully dressed. Payne was wearing his trousers, pyjama top and dressing gown.

Antonia’s eyes fixed on Jonson. He looked unwell – troubled. His face was extremely pale and a little puffy, with dark circles round his eyes. His hair was uncombed. He seemed to have aged overnight. She saw him shut and open his eyes several times, then shake his head, the way people did when they imagined they might be dreaming. He then spoke and made it clear to the boy Nicholas that he wanted him out of the greenhouse that very minute. At first Nicholas pretended he hadn’t understood, but eventually he obeyed, though with sulky ill grace.

For several moments Hugh and Jonson stood silently, looking down at the bodies of the two women. The scene could be described as terrifying, yet with every second that elapsed, it seemed more and more unreal… Antonia was put in mind of the time they had done The Duchess of Malfi back at school and the fun they had had, splashing red paint about and over each other.

She showed them the passport.

It was Payne who broke the silence. ‘The Merchant. Incredible. So she did manage to get here after all!’

Jonson passed his hand over his face and Antonia heard him take a deep breath. ‘Yes… It is – incredible…’

‘It looks as though Maginot found the Merchant lurking here and the Merchant shot her,’ Payne said. ‘After which she proceeded to blow her own brains out… Maginot intended to check all the outbuildings last night, didn’t she?’ He turned towards Jonson. ‘Did you know Maginot was coming to the greenhouse?’

‘Not to the greenhouse, specifically. I knew she was checking the grounds. I did insist I do the outside and she the inside, but she said no.’ Jonson spoke haltingly. ‘She asked me to go around the house – check all the rooms… The lofts and the cellars… It – it should have been the other way round, but she wouldn’t be swayed – she got angry when I suggested it.’

‘She looked exalted,’ Payne murmured. ‘Unstoppable. Bursting with confidence. Dangerously bellicose – ’

‘Vive la guerre,’ Antonia said.

‘Quite – the way she brandished Uncle Rory’s niblick. Not that it helped her -’

Antonia reflected that no one was pretending to be in any way saddened by the deaths. Shocked and unsettled and sickened, yes, but no more than that. They had never known Eleanor Merchant, but the picture that had emerged from her letters gave one a strong dose of the shudders. Maitre Maginot, while alive, hadn’t invited any warm feelings either. Contrary to what John Donne wrote, not every death diminishes us – there are deaths that simply don’t, Antonia thought.

She saw her husband’s eyes travel from the gun clutched in Eleanor Merchant’s hand to the torch that lay beside Eleanor’s body. He then looked at Maitre Maginot’s body and back at Eleanor’s. He seemed to be trying to estimate the distance between the two bodies. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, it does look as though Maginot discovered the skulking Merchant, who panicked, whipped out her gun and shot her. I don’t suppose the Merchant had any idea as to who it was she had shot -’