look, the guilty air – they had all left him. Disconcertingly, Jonson seemed to have relaxed. She saw a light spring into his eyes and a little smile, half amused, half scornful, appeared on his lips. It was as though Jonson had suddenly seen a large hole in his opponent’s reasoning. She nearly expected him to say, ‘Oh yes?’ but he merely resumed his blank expression. She didn’t quite know what to make of any of it.
Jonson said, ‘I see… Well, what are you going to do about it?’ His voice held a defiant note.
‘Haven’t decided yet… It would be interesting to know how you discovered that Maginot was Ruse.’
‘Ruse?’
‘Sorry. That’s her nickname. Ruse – short for Rosamund. Corinne’s mamma.’
‘Yes. Rosamund. That’s right,’ Jonson said. The flat voice again. Antonia frowned. He’s going to tell a lie, she thought. ‘Well, I found out who she was entirely by accident. It happened while I was in Paris – at their house – looking for the person who had been leaking stories about Corinne. I saw something – some papers.’
‘Is Ruse aware that you know her true identity?’
‘Yes.’
Payne looked at him. ‘You realize of course that Ruse has perpetrated several deeds that are punishable by law? She’s been accomplice to embezzlement and theft. She has assumed false identity, perpetrated impersonation and, very possibly, condoned double murder.’
‘What double murder?’
‘That of a Dutch couple in Africa – it was their bodies that were passed off as the bodies of Ruse and Francois-Enrique.’ There was a pause. Payne pushed his hands deep into his dressing-gown pockets. ‘You aren’t by any chance blackmailing her, are you? Or should I say “them”, since Corinne too is involved. I believe she’d do what her chere maman tells her… Corinne’s got oceans of dosh -’
Suddenly Jonson laughed. ‘No, I am not blackmailing them.’ He sounded genuinely amused and perfectly truthful. Antonia’s bewilderment deepened. ‘No,’ Jonson said again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the stick altogether. Goodnight.’
He turned round and, without another word, left the room. Antonia and Payne looked at each other. ‘I don’t know exactly how,’ Antonia said slowly, ‘but I think he is right – I do believe we’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Not only about the blackmail, but altogether.’
‘But he admitted they were mother and daughter!’
‘He did – and I don’t think he was bluffing. The whole thing is very confusing, I know.’ Antonia frowned. ‘I seem to have a glimmer of the truth… That photograph – the photograph I found in Jonson’s case. There was something in it – that shouldn’t have been there at all – I am sorry, I am too tired… Does that make sense?’
‘Not in the least.’ Major Payne yawned prodigiously. ‘I am terribly tired myself. Can hardly stand on my feet. Time for Bedfordshire, wouldn’t you say?’
22
The Rising of the Moon
Lady Grylls peered at her god-daughter through her thick bifocal glasses. ‘I just came to check if you have everything you need, Corinne. Are you comfortable? I’ve brought you a bottle of mineral water. Hope you don’t mind it’s Hildon and not Evian or Volvic. I always buy British.’
She had given her god-daughter the best room – the Cynthia Drake. Who Cynthia Drake was, or whether she had existed at all, Lady Grylls had no idea. The association was lost in the mists of time. She wondered whether it had been some old flame of Rory’s, but she doubted it. She looked round. Pale pink walls, thick cream carpet, silk lampshades, two little gilt chairs covered in ivory watered satin, a painted escritoire.
Her god-daughter was sitting on the bed. She had changed into a dark blue peignoir with white trimmings around the neck and cuffs. She held her hands clasped in her lap. Her fringe reached down to her eyes. She looked absurdly young and somewhat forlorn. Poor Corinne. She brought to mind a novice nun. Lady Grylls was filled with sudden pity.
‘Oh, thank you very much, Aunt Nellie. Everything’s perfect. Thank you for the snowdrops and the crocuses.’ Corinne pointed to the two tiny vases on the mantelpiece. ‘That was sweet of you… There is an owl somewhere outside. Can you hear it? It keeps hooting.’
‘Perhaps that’s his way of keeping himself warm. Don’t worry, my dear.’ I should stop talking to her as though she were a child, really, Lady Grylls thought. ‘So cold, isn’t it? Or is it just me? Would you like a hot-water bottle in your bed?’
‘No, thank you. It’s not too cold. I think when the owl hoots, it means he’s trying to mesmerize little birds and mice, so that he can find easy prey… There it is again… It sounds almost human.’
‘It does, doesn’t it? Easy prey, that must be the reason, yes.’
‘The door, it does not lock. Is there a key?’
Lady Grylls squinted down at the lock. ‘Goodness, you are right. The key’s gone. The way things disappear in this house! We had a problem with keys disappearing some time ago. Nicholas thinks it’s a poltergeist, but don’t worry – it isn’t. You aren’t nervous, are you?’
She received a pale smile. ‘A little… Is Chalfont haunted?’
‘No. Of course not. That stupid boy claims there is a chilly patch on one of the landings, but he doesn’t know what he is talking about. I’ve never felt anything myself. A poltergeist indeed. Ridiculous. He says all sorts of things – he even claimed he’d seen Cynthia Drake!’ Lady Grylls guffawed.
‘The fantome of Cynthia Drake?’
‘All bosh. Forget I said it. Don’t worry. Nicholas is interested in magic and things like that. He takes dope. I should report him to Social Services, really, but I understand they are absolute pests, so I won’t. Besides, it would mean getting Provost in the soup. That’s Nicholas’s papa. I am sure Nicholas will grow out of it.’
‘I keep thinking about those letters,’ Corinne said with a sigh. ‘The American woman who wrote to me… I do feel sorry for her and her son.’
‘Yes, yes. All terribly morbid. Better not brood on it. Mad as a hatter. Not your fault,’ Lady Grylls delivered in brisk tones. ‘I can have you moved to another room, if you like? Where the door locks properly.’
‘No, thank you. It’s very late. I can always put that chest of drawers against the door, if that’s all right?’
‘Goodness. Yes – by all means. I am a terrible hostess, I know. The trouble is I don’t get visitors often these days – apart from my nephews. They don’t seem to mind when things go wrong, but the truth is the house is going to the dogs… The last time we had proper visitors was more than twenty-five years ago – the Alec Douglas-Homes. Such sweet, unassuming people. So terribly unworldly. No trouble at all. Not a word of complaint… The curtains – you want them drawn, don’t you?’
Lady Grylls started walking across to the window. Passing the dressing table she stole a glance at the array of bottles and pots and tubes and a little box or two that constituted Corinne’s ‘clamjampherie’ – that was the word Lady Grylls’s Scottish nanny had been wont to use. Amidst it all Lady Grylls was startled to see a pair of human hands lying side by side. It was gloves, of course, flesh-coloured, made of some delicate material, the nails painted in. Like discarded snakeskin, she thought, and she squirmed internally at the idea. For some reason she remembered that Eleanor Merchant had called Corinne a witch in her letter.
‘Full moon,’ she heard Corinne say. ‘I can see it from here.’
‘Full moon, yes.’ Lady Grylls stood gazing out of the window. ‘Your mamma hated full moons. Said they made her feel tense and fearful and heavy – as though somebody was sitting on her chest – like in that nightmare picture – you know the one with the squatting succubus and the mare’s head? No, I don’t think “succubus” is right – succubi are female, aren’t they? Ruse said she couldn’t sleep properly when there was a full moon. Full moons gave her nightmares. She always had the feeling of impending disaster. Isn’t that when people are supposed to go berserk?’
Enough nonsense – but what did one talk to Corinne about? She couldn’t possibly ask her how she had kept herself so young-looking – or why she had given Ruse’s brooch to Maginot. Or, for that matter, what Maginot’s first name was. For some reason Lady Grylls felt curious… One couldn’t imagine Maginot being called Bernadette or Francoise or Cecile or Mireille. Women like Maginot didn’t seem to have a first name. One couldn’t imagine them ever having been young – or ever having been in love. The idea of Maginot in love seemed grotesque. Had Maginot
