course not. Other husbands sat beside their wives’ beds in the maternity ward and held and caressed their hands – but not Lyndon. Lyndon had never been there for her. It had been an incredibly difficult birth. Eleanor had been in labour for forty-eight hours and she had become convinced that Griff didn’t really want to be born. She wondered now whether Griff had struck some sort of a deal, so that he wouldn’t have to stay long on this earth.
But perhaps Griff hadn’t meant to kill himself? That haunting invidious voice might have induced a particularly hopeless mood in him
… Eleanor wondered what Corinne Coreille would have to say in her defence.
She opened her eyes. ‘Chalfont Park, Chalfont Parva, Shropshire, England,’ she said aloud. She was going to Chalfont Park. Some grand house, by the sound of it, what in England they called a manor house. It shouldn’t be too hard to find. Did it belong to Corinne? Or was Corinne going there on a visit? A thought struck her. Could Corinne be running away from her? That suggested not only guilty conscience but fear of retribution! Well, she won’t be able to run away from me, Eleanor thought, and she nodded to herself grimly.
The widow Saverini, she thought. I am the widow Saverini.
It had been quite incredible, the way she had obtained the Chalfont Park address.
She had arrived in Paris, intent on tracking down Corinne Coreille. Of course Corinne Coreille wasn’t listed in the phone book. Eleanor hadn’t expected her to be, really, but an idea had already formed itself in her mind. Sitting in her overheated room at the overpriced Hotel Constantinople, she reached out for the telephone and called Corinne’s record company, Fabiola, whose number zuas in the book. Substituting her genteel English accent for a brasher American one – not that it would have mattered either way – she asked to speak to somebody in the publicity department. A young man – he had sounded like a young man, extremely pleasant as well as flustered, clearly inexperienced – answered and yes, he spoke English. (Most French people operating in the excessive and reality-detached world of le showbiz did.) In the most casual manner imaginable Eleanor had introduced herself as Tricia Swindon, an American chat-show hostess, and had asked for Corinne Coreille’s contact number. For good measure, she had been chewing gum. She had made herself sound ingenuous to the point of naivety – wasn’t that how the French imagined Americans to be?
She had explained that it was a matter of great urgency. She needed to speak to Corinne Coreille in person. She had her own TV show in the USA and she wanted to invite Corinne to appear on it. Corinne Coreille had a great following in the USA. Americans still remembered Corinne Coreille’s concerts at Carnegie Hall in 1974 and 1982. People still talked about her duets with Danny Kaye and Dean Martin. Ah – ‘Amore’! She had babbled on.
She had expected to be referred to Corinne’s agent or somebody, and she couldn’t believe her ears when the young man started dictating Corinne’s home phone number to her. Just like that. Eleanor had been flabbergasted – she had suspected some kind of chicanery, some trick, or indeed a trap… Could the police be monitoring her movements? Had she been given the number of the Surete perhaps?
After some hesitation, Eleanor had rung the number and almost at once a woman’s voice had answered. A maid of some sort, speaking in a very loud voice and with an accent that wasn’t French… Tipsy, by the sound of it… Yes, I speak Ee-nglish. Yes, this is Mademoiselle Coreille’s residence. You want to speak to Mademoiselle Coreille? Oh, but she is away, madame! Mademoisellle Coreille and Maitre Maginot, they leave together for the airport. They leave for England. A contact address? Mademoiselle Coreille, she stays at French embassy in London tonight and tomorrow, then she arrives at Chalfont Park on the evening of 3rd April. Cltalfont Park, that is correct. Eet eez a big house in England… Chalfont Park, Chalfont Parva, Shropshire, England. That is correct. And there was a phone number also, yes.
The phone number followed.
There must be something wrong, surely? It was a trick – must be! Or perhaps not. Oversights did happen. Deliberate misunderstandings, too. Eleanor had suffered at the hands of unreliable – as well as of vengeful – maids, so she knew how it could be. Maids with a grudge were the devil… Yes, the maid might have done just the opposite to what she had been instructed.
Who was Maitre Maginot? Eleanor’s eyelids flickered – closed. For some reason she felt exhausted. She hadn’t yet managed to recover from the jet lag, and now she was on a train, which had never happened before – she hated trains – but she wouldn’t have had it any other way. She wouldn’t have wanted to be like the sage who said, Re imperfecte mortuus sum. Eleanor frowned, suddenly struck by a thought. I died with my purpose unachieved? How could he have said it if he was dead? Was he speaking from the nether world perhaps?
It would be no good going to the French embassy in London and asking to see Corinne Coreille, but Chalfont Park would be a different thing. An isolated manor house… perfect. If she could get there first and see how the land lay… She felt an odd thrill, at the thought of the isolated house. She remembered the tales her uncle, the General, had told her about his experiences in the Korean war, and an image promptly grew in her mind.
Eleanor saw herself in combat gear, a grenade in her hand, a slim army knife held between her teeth, her face smeared in mud, her body close to the ground as she crawled towards the house… She’d need to find out where exactly Chalfont Parva was situated. Some small village, by the sound of it, in the county of Shropshire… A map. She would need to get a map… She would arrive at Waterloo. Then a cab. No, not another train, thank you very much – a cab. She hated trains. Money was no object -
Eleanor could hear the raindrops tapping on the window-pane, like so many fingers telling her something in Morse… Why, it was Morse! As it happened, Eleanor knew the Morse alphabet. She inclined her head towards the window and listened… Sounded like a message of some sort. The… third… of… April? That was the date of Corinne Coreille’s arrival at Chalfont Park – of course!
The third of April. Do not forget. The third of April. Do not forget. The third of -
Who was sending the coded message? Was it… Griff?
6
Murder on Safari
‘Good lord,’ Major Payne said, remembering. ‘Corinne’s parents died some horrid death, didn’t they?’
Lady Grylls agreed that indeed it had been horrid. It wasn’t the kind of end one would have wished to one’s bitterest enemies. Too horrid for words.
‘What happened?’ Antonia asked again.
Lady Grylls started lighting another cigarette. Her hand shook a little and her face became mottled. Well, Ruse and le falcon had been killed in Africa… Killed, yes… Killed and mutilated. They had gone to Kenya on a safari. That had been surprising since neither of them was a great traveller, Ruse always said she was no good in the heat, and it wasn’t as though Africa was famous for its casinos, was it? Lady Grylls would have understood it, if they’d gone to Las Vegas or some such place… Thank God they hadn’t taken Corinne with them. They had ignored the warnings about the notorious criminal gang operating in the area where they had chosen to stay. In their second or third week they had left the hotel in a hired jeep.
‘They were never seen alive again. There was a search and their bodies were found, or rather what was left of them. It seems wild beasts had devoured most of them. They had been terribly mangled, unrecognizable, or so they said… Don’t let’s talk about it.’
There was a pause. Neither of them was a great traveller… Ruse always said she was no good in the heat… Curious, Antonia thought. Or am I being ridiculously fanciful? Why do I always notice things like that? ‘Who identified them?’ she asked.
‘Who identified them? Goodness, my dear – you don’t think -’ Lady Grylls shook her head. ‘They were identified by Madame Coreille. Le falcon’s mother. She flew over to Kenya. She was a tough old bird, one of the leading psychoanalysts in France at the time, but what she saw shook her up. She told me about it later. She decided to have the mortal remains buried there, in Kenya. I do hope it was a bullet or a knife that killed them first.’ Lady Grylls paused. ‘The news found its way into the British press. I believe I collected every scrap of information there was about the case.’
Antonia asked, ‘Have you kept your scrapbooks?’
Lady Grylls pushed her glasses up her nose and said she was not sure. ‘I may have thrown them away. I burnt an awful lot of stuff over Christmas. Had a big bonfire made… So much rubbish everywhere… Or they are lying
