The kitten in the photograph…
She didn’t leave the study at once. She sat at Lord Grylls’s desk, in the revolving leather chair the inspector had occupied. She ran her hand across the desk surface… She liked the feel of the desk. It was the kind of desk she could write a novel on. She always wrote by hand first. She was funny about desks. Some desks simply didn’t feel right. There were desks that repelled her – stalled her creativity. Hadn’t Muriel Spark had a similar thing about pencils? Lady Grylls had asked her what she wanted for a wedding present – Antonia wondered whether she could ask for the desk?
Idly she reached out for one of Lord Grylls’s stamp albums and started leafing through it. A series of French stamps showing the face of Marianne in red, in white and in blue, drew her attention. Corinne’s face had been used as a model for Marianne in the ’70s. Once more she saw Corinne’s face, the way it had been in the photograph she had taken out of Jonson’s case – youthfully smooth -
But it wouldn’t have remained smooth if she had been stroking a kitten… Antonia nodded slowly… She had known all along there was something wrong about the photograph Jonson had brought with him to Chalfont Park. The kitten shouldn’t have been there. Her subconscious had registered the fact – but she had been distracted by the photograph of Peverel on Corinne’s dressing table.
Jonson of course knew. He hadn’t wanted them to see the photograph because he feared they might be able to deduce the truth.
28
A Case of Identity
It was two o’clock in the afternoon.
Major Payne and Antonia were in the library. They were standing by the window, watching as the police cars started leaving. The day had clouded over and once more it promised rain – but it had got milder. Payne opened the window a crack, to let in some fresh air. They heard what they believed to be a nightingale, but there was no final chug-chug-chug, so they decided it was a blackbird.
‘The Victorians maintained that a death without a death-bed was a horrid thing,’ Payne murmured.
‘Unless it took place on the field of battle – or in the missionary field.’
‘How does one die in the missionary field?’
‘Man-eating tigers – mosquito bites – snake bites.’
‘Cannibals?’
‘The police have gone,’ Antonia observed.
There was a pause. ‘Well, that’s that, my love,’ Payne said. ‘An open-and-shut case if ever there was one. Eleanor Merchant’s fingerprints on the gun. Cuttings from the International Herald Tribune in Eleanor’s bag. Aunt Nellie’s address and telephone number in Eleanor’s address book… She made a hash of it at the end when she lost her nerve and killed the wrong person. She must have been getting frustrated and desperate. She must have reached the state known as panic depression… What Arthur Machen, I believe, called “horror of the soul”… The police thought she must have spent at least one whole day in a confined space. She had had very little food and drink. She was cold. All that would have made her highly strung, jittery and trigger-happy. The police are perfectly satisfied.’
‘They are, aren’t they?’ Antonia said.
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘You are not?’
‘The address and the phone number. How did she manage to get them so easily? Then there’s the gun. How did Eleanor manage to obtain a gun? There was a knife in her bag. She might have been preparing to stab Corinne. She couldn’t have brought a gun with her on the plane from the United States. She couldn’t have got the gun in France and then boarded the Eurostar either. Not with the kind of security there is at the moment… OK. She might have bought the gun on the black market, after her arrival in London, but I am far from convinced.’
‘What other solution is there?’ Payne started filling his pipe. ‘Could Corinne have done the double shooting? It might have been her way of overthrowing the Maginot regime… Corinne’s plan might have been to make the Merchant look like the guilty party – but she lost her nerve and fled… Corinne might be much more devious and cunning than she appeared. Perhaps it was she who led the Merchant on, making sure she got Aunt Nellie’s address and phone number and so on?’
‘Well, somebody did lead Eleanor Merchant on,’ Antonia said.
‘Who? You don’t think it’s Jonson, do you? Maginot? No, can’t be Maginot – doesn’t make sense. Incidentally, what about our theory that Maginot is in fact Ruse? Where does it fit in precisely?’
‘It doesn’t fit anywhere.’
Payne had struck a match and was about to put it to his pipe. He looked at his wife across the tiny flame. ‘It doesn’t?’
‘It doesn’t. We were wrong. Maitre Maginot isn’t Ruse.’
‘What do you mean? We noticed the resemblance! Maginot is Corinne’s mother – it was confirmed by Jonson – remember the way he stood and stared?’
‘Only for a minute – his expression changed as soon as you said your aunt and Ruse had been debs together in pre-war London. He was right when he told us that we’d got the wrong end of the stick altogether.’
‘Maginot can’t be Ruse because… Corinne isn’t Corinne? No, that’s not it.’ Payne rubbed his forehead. ‘Impossible. I don’t know why I said it -’
‘It isn’t impossible. Far from it.’
There was a pause. ‘Corinne isn’t… Corinne?’ Payne repeated.
‘No. In that photograph – the photograph I found in Jonson’s case – Corinne is seen stroking a kitten – but she couldn’t have – it would have made her feel very ill – might even have killed her. Corinne suffered from an acute allergy to cats.’
Payne stared at her. ‘She came out in red blotches after sniffing a cat, Aunt Nellie said. Golly… Yes. The woman in the photo clearly had no problems with cats. Clever of you to notice. How did you -’
‘There was a magazine on the table in the greenhouse – Vogue – it had the picture of a model holding a cat on the cover,’ Antonia explained. ‘Nicholas is allergic to plants – he kept sneezing. The two things suddenly clicked in my mind.’
‘Jonson said nothing about a kitten. He mentioned a kipper – I did think it damned odd… Jonson knows the truth, doesn’t he?’ Major Payne said quietly.
‘He does. For some reason he is protecting that woman… He is either being paid hush money – or else he is in love with her.’
‘In love with la fausse Corinne… How jolly complicated. An impostor, eh? A woman who bears an uncanny resemblance to Corinne in her prime… Last night she wore lashings of slap, did you notice?’
‘Yes – for the wrong reason. It was the thick pancake variety – what ageing actresses put on to conceal deep wrinkles and other ravages of time, so that they can play the ingenue without provoking screams of derisive laughter. But her jaw-line is that of a young woman,’ Antonia pointed out. ‘She is youthfully slim. Her whole bearing is that of a young woman. Well, she is a young woman. I do believe that.’
‘What you mean, my love, is that we’ve been witnessing the oddest of double bluffs.’ Payne stroked his jaw with a thoughtful forefinger. ‘Or is it triple? A young woman… pretending to be an ageing diva
… who is doing her utmost to look young… Those creepy flesh-coloured gloves… The true reason again is not to conceal the fact that she has wrinkles but that she hasn’t got any. The same purpose, one imagines, is served by her high-necked dresses and those enormous bows?’
‘Correct. She doesn’t want it to be seen that her throat is in fact smooth and unlined… As for the wig, I think she wears it not because she is bald or in any way deformed, but because her hair’s a different colour and too short, and it would have been too much trouble if she’d had to grow it long, style it, keep colouring it and so on.’
‘But – I say – look here, old thing. This young woman’s features are very similar if not the same as Corinne Coreille’s. More importantly, her voice is the same as Corinne Coreille’s. You heard her sing last night. It would be madness to assume that there’s a young woman who is Corinne Coreille’s absolute double, or rather, younger version. Unless – ’ Major Payne broke off, the idea at last dawning on him, as Antonia had hoped it would. ‘Good lord. She isn’t Corinne’s daughter, is she?’