Now that was an interesting line of thought… There was something in that photo Jonson didn’t want them to see. What was it? She needed to find out. She must find out.
She was going to ask Hugh to keep Jonson occupied while she went up to his room and looked inside his briefcase… When should she do it? Antonia glanced at the rain-bespattered windows. Well, no better time than the present.
The conversation at the breakfast table had turned to billiards. Jonson was saying that he rather enjoyed playing whenever he got the chance. As a matter of fact, so did he, Payne said. There was a billiard room at Chalfont, did Jonson know? Yes, he had been in it the night before, briefly, Jonson said, during the ‘checks’.
‘Rory and I used to have the odd game. He always accused me of cheating. Why don’t you two boys have a game?’ Lady Grylls urged and she offered to keep the score for them.
‘Yes, why don’t you?’ Antonia said casually. ‘The perfect solution for a wet day.’
16
Rear Window
She should stop doing it, Eleanor Merchant told herself.
She was gaining nothing, phoning like that. Nothing at all. It was careless of her. Well, she hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d got the idea that Corinne Coreille might have arrived earlier, that she might be at Chalfont Park already. Eleanor had hoped she might hear French speech somewhere in the background. She had even imagined that Corinne Coreille might pick up the phone herself! To hear that voice saying, ‘Allo? Allo? Oui, c’est moi, Corinne-’
Why not? It wasn’t impossible. If Corinne happened to be passing by the phone, she might pick it up – what if it wasn’t her house? – people did that sort of thing instinctively… The thought that she might have heard Corinne Coreille’s voice sent shivers down Eleanor’s spine.
No more phone calls, Eleanor decided. Why imperil the whole enterprise? Lady Grylls might be put on the alert and call the police! It would be so easy for the police to find Eleanor. She seemed to be the only stranger wandering the two main streets of Chalfont Parva under the falling rain. With her mink stole, badly bespattered with mud, yellow gloves and striped golf umbrella, she must stand out a mile… No, she mustn’t imperil the enterprise.
(What enterprise? Experiencing a sudden, if short-lived, return of her sanity, Eleanor stood frowning in a puzzled manner. She had absolutely no idea why she had come all this way. What was she doing here, in this dump? What was it she intended to do? Pursue and harry an elusive chanteuse to the death, as though she were the Quorn and Pytchley and Corinne a fox? The thought made her smile and shake her head. That was the kind of thing only a nutcase would do!)
The few drab village shops had unattractive displays in their dim windows. It was a depressing place. What a dump, she said in her best Bette Davis voice. (That had been another of her and Griff’s catch-phrases.) What a dump. So much for the greatly vaunted charm of the English countryside! Eleanor had been buying things she didn’t need. She opened her bag and inspected her purchases. Sweets, rock cakes, a couple of scones and a jar of something rather intriguing called Marmite. She had also bought a local paper – all about some agricultural show, a church fete and a man called Markham who had a sow for sale. She had wanted to get some peanut butter cookies but there weren’t any. The locals had been staring at her ghoulishly and she had heard them commenting on her American accent, which was odd considering that she did not have an American accent. Eventually she changed her hat to a silk scarf, which had been another of her London purchases, together with the umbrella, an electric torch and a pair of powerful binoculars.
There was one more day to go. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow… She had left London quite early in the morning, at half past five. She had been eager to get up and go. She had gulped down her tea and scalded her tongue. It still hurt – felt swollen. The cab, on the other hand, had been fast enough, though the driver, to start with, had had no idea where Chalfont Parva was – he’d had to consult her map. Anyhow, the journey itself had taken less than three hours. Eleanor had booked herself into a motel outside Chalfont Parva and she could have stayed there, in her room, lain in bed, caught up on her sleep or watched television. She had caught a glimpse of The Haunting on TNT as she flicked through the channels, but she had felt extremely restless and impatient.
What if Corinne Coreille had arrived and was already there, at Chalfont Park? What if that woman who’d answered the phone in Paris, the servant, had said the second of April, not the third? Eleanor might have got the date wrong. She might have misheard. Sometimes, she had to admit, her brain didn’t function properly.
She had found where Chalfont Park was easily enough. It was a property belonging to Lady Grylls who was a baroness, she had been told by the postmistress, who had spoken in tones of hushed reverence. There was a large map in the post office window, which showed the whole of Chalfont Parva. Chalfont Park was only half a mile away. Eleanor stood under her umbrella, tracing very carefully the route from the village to Chalfont Park with a forefinger. Map reading is an art, girlie, Uncle Nat had said.
Moments later she started walking down the street. The wind had dropped but the rain hadn’t let up for a second.
A thought popped into her head, like a jack in the box, for no particular reason, out of the void. The open wounds in Griff’s zurists had been like open mouths. She glanced down at her own wrists. That same second she was aware of a buzzing sound. It felt as though she had bees trapped in her head. Angry bees – was that some kind of warning? Was it wise for her to go anywhere near Chalfont Park? Well, all she wanted to do was take a little peep at the house and study the grounds. If Corinne was already there, she’d know it at once, she felt sure – she’d get one of those special feelings. She was a little psychic.
Buzz, buzz, Eleanor mouthed. She put her hand into her pocket and her fingers closed round her weapon. Buzz-buzz. She felt reassured – for a moment she had thought she might have left it in her hotel room. She had to protect herself, that’s why she needed it. In case Corinne Coreille didn’t like what she had to say to her and attacked her. Corinne was unpredictable, volatile, emotionally unstable, mad. It was disgraceful – scandalous – that she hadn’t been put away yet. They should banish her to Devil’s Island.
Uncle Nat’s words floated into her head. Kill or be killed. That’s what I told the soldiers under my command. There’s no third choice, boys.
‘I am really sorry but I had no choice, Inspector,’ Eleanor said aloud in her most genteel voice. ‘I did it in self-defence. She tried to kill me, you see.’
The end of the street. Now to the right from somewhere nearby came the mournful moo of a cow… a field… two men… farm labourers
… big and burly. One of them, the younger, looked like Owen. Perhaps it was Owen? Could Owen have followed her all the way from the US? Perhaps they had sent him to spy on her and bring her back? He might be acting on orders from Eleanor’s brother-in-law, who was a powerful man, or even the FBI. Owen would do anything for money. Griff, despite all his loyalty, had hinted as much. Or would the FBI employ a homosexual? They were very particular about that sort of thing – unlike the British secret service, which at one time had teemed with homosexuals. Perhaps Owen only pretended to be a homosexual? Perhaps the FBI used him as their hit-man and his brief was to eliminate homosexuals? Perhaps it was Owen who had killed Griff… It would have been so easy – as part of one of their ‘games’. He could have cut Griff’s wrists. Griff had liked pain.
Spotting a clump of crocuses under a tree, Eleanor was put in mind of a drawing Griff had done. The flower of unforgetting, he’d called it. Owen’s name had been traced out in a series of concentric circles, in green and scarlet, so that the whole composition seemed to be of some monstrous blossom in which the petals were still unfolding… If Owen got anywhere near her, he’d regret it! Eleanor pushed her hand into her pocket once more. She imagined she heard a branch snapping – the sound of somebody’s heavy breathing – and cast a glance over her shoulder. She gave a sigh of relief. No, it wasn’t Owen – it wasn’t a human being that was following her – only Abraxas. ‘Stop following me,’ she said in a low authoritative voice and she shook her forefinger at him. At once Abraxas started dissolving.
The grove. It was darker here, much darker. Quieter too. The only sound she could hear was the swoosh- swoosh murmur of her wet shoes. The trees met at the top and formed a tunnel. Hardly any rain fell here, just the odd drop. She took the torch out of her bag. A torch was essential… She was walking along a path with trees on
