Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

‘What about upstairs?’

‘What about it?’

‘Aren’t there alarms?’

‘You know there are.’

‘Then they’ll have to be tested, won’t they?’

She marched off, with Charlie close behind, enjoying the bum movement beneath the skirt. Whoever followed Jane Williams up the stairs in different circumstances was a lucky sod, he decided. She turned abruptly and Charlie tried to clear his face of expression.

‘Something the matter?’ she said.

‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘Nothing.’

They went first to the guest bedrooms. Sash bolts stopped the windows from opening more than six inches: the air conditioning made sense, Charlie realized. It seemed a great deal of trouble to go to, just for the pleasure of wearing shiny stones.

‘Now the master bedrooms,’ said Charlie.

‘It seems an intrusion.’

‘That’s what burglars do,’ said Charlie. ‘Intrude.’

For a moment her control slipped, her face clouding. Quickly she recovered and said, ‘Which one?’

‘Your choice,’ said Charlie, careless of the annoyance he was causing her. It was clear that in the staff social structure Jane Williams put him somewhere around the rank of boot black.

There were two doors at the head of the staircase and she went to the one at the right. ‘Sir Hector’s,’ she said.

Charlie stopped just beyond the threshold. The furniture was heavy and masculine, appearing oddly out of place in a villa in the sun, wardrobes as well as the bureau and bed fashioned from solid, black teak. Near the dressing table there was a bust of a man whom Charlie presumed to be the ambassador, mounted on a slender marble plinth and to the side was a spotlight, angled to illuminate it. Above the bureau and continuing around the walls were framed diplomas of Billington’s progress in life and there were a lot of photographs, from school group pictures, up through childhood to adolescence. There were several of a youth in shorts and cap, with a racing boat behind. Directly above the bureau a rack held the sawn-off blades of oars. Charlie moved closer. There were several groups with the sculls in the foreground and the crews with their arms around each other with the tactile need of sportsmen.

Jane Williams said, ‘Sir Hector got a blue for rowing at Oxford.’

Charlie nodded towards the plinth. ‘Shouldn’t there be a laurel wreath?’

‘It was sculpted by Sir Mortimer Wheeler,’ she said.

‘Gosh!’ said Charlie.

Her face twitched at the mockery. ‘The windows are there,’ she said, pointing.

One set opened onto a verandah with a spectacular view of the sea. Chairs were arranged around a canopied table on which lay some binoculars. There were breaker points, similar to those on the floor below, and under-carpet pads again. The four other windows in the room were small; two had securing fixtures and two breaker alarms. He tested each one and every time the bells clanged out.

‘There’s a dressing room, where the safe is,’ said Charlie, remembering the plans he’d studied with Willoughby.

Jane Williams went across the room to a linking door. The dressing room was strictly functional and predominantly feminine. Two walls were occupied entirely by cupboards, except for a small bureau, and along the third had been fitted an elaborate dressing table, complete with a light-surrounded mirror. Brushes, combs and hand mirrors were set out in an orderly pattern and the jars of creams and lotions were grouped together, like cuckoo’s eggs in a nest.

In front of the only window was a chaise longue and a small table. Charlie moved around and raised the Venetian blind. The glass was reinforced solidly into the frame, not to be opened. Charlie tugged at the cord to lower the blind and turned apologetically. ‘I never can make these things work,’ he said.

Sighing she jerked at the string, releasing it first time.

‘Must be a knack,’ said Charlie, enjoying her closeness.

She stepped back hurriedly.

‘Now I suppose you’d like to see the safe?’ she said.

‘I’m going to need Lady Billington for that,’ said Charlie.

‘What!’

‘The jewellery check has to be completed with the owner.’

‘But that’s not convenient.’

‘Neither is losing it.’

‘Lady Billington has an appointment in Rome in…’ She hesitated, glancing at her watch. ‘… just under two hours. How long will it take to go through the list?’

‘As long as it takes,’ said Charlie unhelpfully. ‘Certainly longer than two hours.’

‘This really is most inconvenient.’

‘She couldn’t cancel Rome?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then I’ll have to come back.’ Charlie wasn’t upset at the prospect. It had taken a year for Willoughby to consider using him again and, like a child saving the strawberry in the pudding until last, he was in no hurry to rush it.

‘I’ll see what can be arranged,’ said the secretary.

‘We haven’t examined Lady Billington’s bedroom yet,’ reminded Charlie.

Jane Williams opened the door, letting him precede her into a pink and white room of silk festoon blinds and tufted carpet. There was a four-poster bed, draped with Venetian lace and haltered at each corner by wide bands of pink silk. The walls were lined with silk too.

‘It’s like walking across the top of a wedding cake,’ said Charlie. As he crossed towards the windows he was conscious again of photographs – a montage of Lady Billington, as a young child, in a horse-drawn carriage before a house large enough to be a palace, and then, older, on a ski slope with a villa behind her. There were pictures of her in yachts, cars, boarding aeroplanes and at receptions with the famous. Charlie recognized the Kennedys and the Rainiers. Why was it that the rich needed so many reminders of their privilege?

‘Quite an album,’ he said.

Jane Williams didn’t reply.

There was a verandah matching that of the other bedroom, with a set of windows opening onto it. The protection was the same and the bells sounded the moment they were tested. The two additional windows had restricted opening.

‘Satisfied?’

‘You mentioned sherry,’ said Charlie.

She looked at her watch again. ‘I don’t imagine Lady Billington expected it to take this long.’

‘Why don’t we see?’

The stairs were wide enough for them to walk abreast and this time she kept level, unwilling for him to follow her. All the way down the corridor she stayed in step with Charlie, until they reached a leather-padded recessed door. She knocked but didn’t bother to wait for an answer.

‘The insurance man,’ she announced and Charlie conceded victory to her. The one who’d called every week on his mother in Manchester for the penny policy was flat-capped, bicycle-clipped and always had his hand ready for a tip.

Lady Billington smiled a smile that didn’t falter at Charlie’s crumpled appearance.

‘How nice of you to come,’ she said, as if he’d accepted a late invitation to make up a dinner number. Charlie guessed Lady Billington was about fifty but she didn’t look it. She was heavy-busted, which was unfortunate because it unbalanced the slimness of her figure. She was brave enough to leave the slight greyness in her auburn hair, which was long and looped to her shoulders. And she didn’t make the mistake of too much make-up. She wore a plainly cut dress, silk, which seemed to be her favourite material, and from the list that Willoughby had given him Charlie knew the pearls, which were matched to perfection, had been valued a year earlier at?17,000. The diamond brooch was real too:?10,000. Charlie was conscious of movement around her feet and saw two fluff-balls of cats. Angora, he thought. No, that was rabbits. Persian perhaps. He felt the irritation begin at the back of his throat.