The Death of Corinne by R.T. Raichev

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 Maître Maginot, Mademoisellle Coreille’s legal adviser, who had contacted his London office. Maître 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. Maître 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