as well as an air of reliability.
His voice, when he spoke, was well modulated, precise and hesitant, but there was nothing elderly or ‘dry’ about it either. Whatever had given Lady Grylls that impression?
‘Good afternoon.’ He stood looking round at each of them and focusing unmistakably on Antonia’s aunt by marriage. ‘Lady Grylls?’
Leaning back in her chair, she pushed her glasses up her nose and subjected him to one of her owlish stares. ‘Who are you?’
Disconcerted, he blinked. ‘Jonson… Andrew Jonson. I – ’
‘You aren’t. You can’t be.’
‘I phoned you earlier on – ’
‘You didn’t. Wrong voice.’
He turned a little pink – smiled – it was a particularly sweet smile, Antonia thought. ‘That was my telephone voice, Lady Grylls.’
‘What telephone voice?’
He cleared his throat and said again. ‘That was my telephone voice, Lady Grylls.’ This time he sounded quite different – strangulated and clipped. ‘I am calling on behalf of Mademoiselle Corinne Coreille, your god-daughter.’ It was an uncanny performance.
Lady Grylls gasped. ‘Goodness. What kind of ventriloquism is that? You make yourself sound perfectly ghastly, a cross between Mr Chips and – Perfectly ghastly. Why do you do it? Don’t tell me you believe that speaking like that inspires greater confidence in your clients?’
‘Well, that was the idea. It seems to go down well with the French. I – I don’t do it every time -’
‘I should hope not! Aren’t people filled with mistrust and suspicion the moment they clap eyes on you and see you are actually jolly nice and normal?’
‘It has happened. Then I show them my licence and everything’s fine.’
‘Well, I am glad to hear it,’ Lady Grylls said doubtfully. ‘I must say you are good.’
His smile was half sheepish, half pleased. He looked like a schoolboy who had pulled off a successful prank. He was an extremely likeable young man, Antonia decided. ‘My licence,’ he said. Taking a folded paper from an inside pocket, he handed it to Lady Grylls.
She glanced at it in a cursory manner, shrugged her shoulders and tossed it over for Antonia and Payne to inspect. ‘My nephew Hugh Payne and his wife Antonia,’ she introduced them with a wave of the hand. ‘Like you, they are detectives, so beware. They are terribly clever. They’re planning to open their own detective agency. Perhaps you could give them some tips?’
‘My aunt’s joking. This looks all right,’ Major Payne said.
‘It’s just a piece of paper… Jonson. Anyone can call themselves Jonson,’ Lady Grylls said sternly, but her eyes twinkled. She seemed to have taken to him, Antonia thought. ‘Do sit down. Ah, there you are, Provost. Do help yourself to some tea, Mr Jonson.’
Provost had wheeled in a trolley with a steaming pot of freshly brewed tea, a cake on a stand, a cup and a jug of milk.
‘The man I saw coming out of this room,’ Jonson said over his cup. ‘I think I’ve seen him before. In Paris.’
‘Really? That was my nephew Peverel. Paris, did you say? He travels a lot, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone said they’d bumped him off in Acapulco – I mean bumped into him – wishful thinking!’ Lady Grylls laughed. ‘Now then. The job you did for Corinne. I mean your previous commission. Last December, was it? Tell us about it. ’
It had been Maitre Maginot, Mademoisellle Coreille’s legal adviser, who had contacted his London office. Maitre Maginot had been very concerned about leaks to the press, to a gossipy illustrated magazine called Voici, of sensational stories concerning Corinne Coreille’s private life. Maitre Maginot suspected one of the staff they employed. In fact she was sure it was one of the staff – only she couldn’t tell which. She had wanted Jonson to find the person, so that she could dismiss them and sue them for breach of confidentiality.
Lady Grylls wanted to know more about the story which had been leaked to the press. Nothing about Corinne’s love life, she hoped? She had heard enough bosh about Corinne’s love life already.
Jonson shook his head. No – it hadn’t been that. (Antonia imagined there was a slight change in his expression at the mention of ‘love life’.) It was something completely different. The leak concerned Mademoiselle Coreille’s appearance – her hair, in particular.
‘Ah, the trademark fringe.’
The story that had found its way into the magazine was to the effect that Mademoiselle Coreille’s fringe was not her own – that she had lost all her hair in a fire – that she was completely bald and wore a wig.
‘Like in Ionesco,’ Payne murmured. ‘La Cantatrice Chauve… Am I right in thinking that the bald prima donna never actually appears?’
‘She doesn’t… Stop showing off,’ Antonia whispered.
‘I always imagined the famous fringe was insured for millions of francs,’ Lady Grylls said and she urged Jonson to eat. He must be famished after his drive. ’ Do have some cake. It’s awfully good, usually. Shall I cut you a slice?’ She picked up the knife. Antonia smiled. Lady Grylls was treating Jonson like a growing boy. He might have been the youngest of her nephews.
‘Thank you… There was also the more serious claim that Corinne Coreille had lost not only her hair, but her voice as well,’ Jonson went on. ‘It was alleged that she had only mimed to playback during her Osaka concert last November.’
Lady Grylls continued firing more questions at him. It was funny that it was she who was conducting an inquiry and not the other way round, Antonia thought, amused. Why had Corinne employed the services of an English private detective? Weren’t French detectives good enough?
‘Mademoiselle Coreille’s view was that the less her compatriots knew about her private life the better. Besides she did have the idea that English detectives were more efficient than French ones.’
‘Reading too many Sherlock Holmes stories, I expect.’ Lady Grylls went on to ask Jonson if he had known who Corinne Coreille was before she had employed his services.
‘No. I’d never heard about her before.’
Lady Grylls shook her head in a perplexed manner. ‘She is my god-daughter but she’s a bloody enigma. I can’t take the measure of her, really. Rather a strange character. The more I hear about her, the less I feel I know her… What did you make of her?’
Jonson’s face remained blank. He hadn’t had the chance to form an opinion, he said. He had seen Mademoiselle Coreille only twice. On both occasions she had been very pleasant to him. Very polite. His dealings had been mainly with Maitre Maginot.
‘And did you find Maitre Maginot “pleasant”?’ Lady Grylls boomed. ‘Would you say that she was a nice woman? Who is she anyway?’
‘Well, I can’t pretend I liked her, but, on the whole, she was perfectly civil to me… She is a former barrister of considerable standing. I believe she studied law at the Sorbonne as well as at Columbia University. She has all sorts of diplomas on her study walls. Accolades from various societies. Framed letters of thanks from Henry Kissinger, Elizabeth Taylor and the Sultan of Brunei.’
‘Ha!’ Lady Grylls said derisively.
There had been an odd flatness in Jonson’s voice, which puzzled Antonia; it hadn’t been there earlier on. Did he know something discreditable about Maitre Maginot? Antonia wondered what it might be. Were Maitre Maginot’s exalted diplomas perhaps forgeries? Could Maitre Maginot be an impostor?
‘She holds Mademoiselle Coreille’s power of attorney and the right to act as her spokesperson,’ Jonson went on. ‘She has complete control of Corinne Coreille’s estate, or so I gathered.’
‘How old is she?’
‘I don’t know. Um. Fifty-five -’
‘The same age as Corinne?’
‘No – I mean, she must be in her sixties – maybe older. I don’t know… I believe she’s had a stroke sometime in the past and suffered some kind of paralysis.’ Suddenly Jonson looked confused and very worried. ‘She has almost completely recovered – I don’t think her brain is at all affected – but she tends to lose her temper. Her face is an
